𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗𝐕𝐈 : 𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐝

"I'm... I see. Well, you'll be glad to know you won't have to do these things for me anymore. I've handled everything myself."

"Handled?"

"Handled. Mr. Ackerman is–"

"Levi is Mr. Ackerman." Eren corrected. "You were meeting with the Ripper. A hitman. A murderer."

"I'm not here to debate semantics. I... I just want you to take care of yourself from now on. Everything will be over in two weeks, and it'll be like nothing ever happened."

Eren waited to respond. Even though you could barely make out the changes in his features, you felt him trace your figure. He closed the gap until you saw the moonlight in his eyes. You caught every shade of green that existed that night, and each different hue made you more anxious than the last.

"What did you do?" Eren asked, but his eyes already knew the answer. "You told me you didn't remember anything... that Floch didn't help you. Why did you lie to me? We're supposed to be friends. No, family."

"You have to trust me, Eren."

"How can I trust you when you keep playing games? We aren't kids anymore; life isn't Whist or Old Maid. You do realize that. Don't you?"

Guilt swept through you with the breeze. An apology was in order, wasn't it? After all the worrying you had caused, you should give Eren at least that much. He deserved that much, didn't he?

"I... I'm..." You tried to speak, but the words never flowed.

You never were gifted in the art of apologizing.

You wanted to be different for Eren, but you stayed the same.

Heavy footsteps grew closer, and a shadow approached. Jean stepped up to Eren with a basket in one arm, silently offering to usher your best friend inside with the other. Eren shoved the hand off as quickly as they reached for him.

"I don't need you to carry me," Eren whined. "I'm not some lame moron that can't fend for myself. Just... get her home, see Armin, and come here before Mother wakes. I'm not getting scolded again because you can't rise before the sun."

Eren's back cloaked itself in the night's curtain. Just like that, he was gone. You cursed yourself for being too weak to stop him.

"Come. It is late," Jean told you, but his eyes directed themselves into Voiltaire's hair.

A nasty frown tugged your lips as you vaulted onto his back. Before you could reach the reins, Jean took hold of them and forced that basket into your lap.

"It's best if you stay here for the night. You need rest," you said.

"You expect me to let you travel alone?" he asked.

"I'd prefer to be alone. I'm capable enough to handle the journey."

"And look where that belief has brought us." Jean ignored your requests for privacy and pulled the leather straps to lead Voltaire home.

A little voice stirred your flurried mind. You peered at the basket to find moving cloth covering its contents. A furry shadow appeared at the bottom. Your dear Lucy blinked up at you with reflecting eyes, and she would have to serve as your only source of warmth during your ride.

It would be so easy to tap the stallion with your boot and get him trotting free of Jean's grip to run away with your sweet baby, but you chose to observe the kitten's father from your heightened position instead.

The longer you traced every inch of your lover-turned-obstacle, the colder your glare turned. There was no hiding the sourness of your lips or the disdain tightening your temples. And for every minute you spent staring, Jean's eyes darted elsewhere. The distant road, the shadowed forest, and the open fields were a much more appealing sight than you.