𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈: 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐄𝐧𝐯𝐲

You squirmed from Eren's hold. "Stop it," you said.

"What selfish reasons?" Jean jabbed further.

"Same reason he promised her our tickets," Eren answered.

"Promised us," you corrected.

Jean ignored you. "Elaborate, Yeager"

"Colt Grice wants to see whether Y/n wears straight-hemmed or lace-trimmed drawers."

"Eren!" you gasped.

Armin gasped, too. "Did he say that? Outloud?"

"He didn't need to," Eren said. "His eyes said everything his stuttering mouth couldn't."

"You can't say things like that publicly," you chastised in a clenched-tooth whisper.

"Why not?"

"Because!"

"Should we not attend this game then?" Armin asked.

Eren scoffed with a smug smirk. "No, we're still going. Just because a man is a dog doesn't mean I won't take the birds he brings."

"Just stop it," you warned. "You're twisting the truth to suit your preconceived notions. He seemed nothing but harmless yesterday."

"Oh? I'll tell them what little we know about Colt, and they can decide how harmless he is..."

Eren went on about Colt Grice through the streets, into the carriage, and up forty of the eighty blocks separating you and the destination. He hit every point, from Colt's poor attention as a brother, to his jellied spine when scolded, to the small looks and awkward conversation he shared with you. Eventually, Armin steered the conversation toward the weather rather than the man who gifted you tickets. From then on, Eren mostly forgot his peculiar hatred toward Colt Grice.

It was a long half-hour of jabbering.

But it felt even longer with Jean silently stewing beside you. He was so quiet–so relaxed. It was awfully eerie. You contemplated apologizing for Eren's instigatory nonsense, but that would only be another excuse. Father always warned you as a girl not to accept gifts from strange men, yet you had done it all the same. Father was assuredly rolling in his grave.

You dared not face Jean's expression. The idea of seeing your scarred face in blazing, honeyed mirrors terrified you. The ghost of his hand dug your sleeves as Father's shame burned through carriage curtains in distorted sunbeams. They both came with a terrible ache that shackled your throat in compulsory silence.

Each bump in the crumbling cobblestone brought a more profound sense of dread. Every shake of the rickety coach door pounded louder than the parlor's grandfather clock. Any clopping from the horses ratcheted your anxieties until your mouth scorched in dry damnation. The sinking set in. Further and further, you melted into cushions with such a lousy posture. Sit straight, your mind screamed, but your heart wanted to disappear in stained linens.

And then the carriage came to an abrupt halt.

"Are we here already?" Armin asked.

The driver opened the door before anyone could answer. He ushered all from his wagon and worked on finding new passengers the moment Armin handed over payment. You were barely off the steps before new people stepped in, and the carriage was gone before anyone knew up from down.

The green oasis of a park stretched down the left side of the road for miles, creating one massive hole in the climbing skyline. A lake simmered on the closest edge. Waterfowl cruised through rippling, green waters. Their small wakes reminded you so much of home.