𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐈 : 𝐕𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐬 *

Your life had quickly become nothing more than a series of fluctuations between extremes: anticipation or dread; dreams or nightmares; alive or dead. Did everyone live as you did–swinging steadily on the proverbial Pendulum of Fate? Praying that the next day would be better; hoping that things would go their way; wishing that Fate would play in their favor just this one time and that all things good would outweigh the bad.

Most people must feel this way at least once in their life. To desire a favorable conclusion and fear what wrongs had yet to pass was nothing more than a parasol shielding the human condition. Some had it far worse, some had it far better, and some had it just the same, but everyone felt the rain or sunshine at some point.

Sunbeams filtered onto your face, and you found comfort in knowing that everyone could look at that same light and share similar hopes and reservations regarding what it meant when light reflected off their nose.

And today, you swung between the extremes.

For all your worrying, you had been fortunate thus far. Of course, there were some little things you would have liked to tweak had the Fates been that of your design, but most memories had been satisfying as of late. Promises of the same tomorrows you feared lit hopeful fires in your chest. This day, or rather this night, you might enjoy some hours without anger or tears. It was foolish to be optimistic, given the life you led, but another strengthened yours through his entwining.

However, even under the glow of romanticism, you could not dam that guilty feeling from flooding your good spirits. You thought of what Jean might be wondering for himself only a few miles down the road. Did he fear hurting you by accidentally recreating your previous afflictions? Did he concern himself too greatly with where he would put his hands? Did he secretly curse you for pushing him too far despite his admitted self-frustrations before he sent you to bed?

"Just this one time," you begged whoever might hear you, "Let us have this one time, and I will ask for nothing more."

At first, the Universe stayed mum about your request. You knew no true answer would come, but you still hoped to see a butterfly flutter outside your window or a ladybug crawl up the pane. It wasn't until the man that needed to hear your plea more than anyone answered with a knock at your door that unease broke your prayer.

"Y/n," Niccolo's muffled voice startled you. "You have a visitor waiting in the parlor. Straighten yourself up and come entertain her."

His footsteps echoed down the hall while you lay in bed, entirely confused.

Who would come to your house just to wait for you in the parlor? Not to mention, the visitor was a her. Hitch would run straight upstairs without a second thought, as would Sunny. Mrs. Yeager or Mrs. Springer would eventually find their way up independently. So who was here?

Could it be the Segreant's wife? Was Mrs. Gross the visitor? Would Niccolo welcome her in so readily without a sufficient warning?

So there it was: your reason for dread after hoping too much. How could Fate be so cruel?

After slipping into something respectable and creeping down the stairs in ghostly grays, you prepared yourself for the worst. Each step felt like the edge of a cliff, and your buzzing brain swarmed with waspy lies. Suddenly, you knew nothing; saw nothing; felt nothing. Lies would line a tight, breathless voice until you were free again.

You hit the bottom step, and wide eyes scanned the parlor but did not see a woman. It was a girl with inky black hair tied in neat ribbons waiting patiently on the sofa under a pile of clothes.

"Good morning! Or, maybe I should say, 'good afternoon,' seeing as the sun is already so high in the sky." Miss Mina laughed at her correction with as much awkwardness as there was sweetness. She cleared her voice gently while you calmed your racing mind. "Miss Klarrisa sent me the clothes that needed stitching. She said she paid in advance, so I didn't bring anything else. I hope that's alright."

You nodded with a stiff smile and stepped over to steal the fabrics. Counting piece by piece, there was a dress, three nightgowns, and two pairs of drawers. Although your fingers trembled as you picked up each article and searched for its frays, it would be easy to finish before lunch.

"Very well," you said with a failing voice. "I'll have it done before the end of the day, and I can send someone to drop them back tomorrow—"

Mina cut you off, "Actually, I was hoping I could... Well... If it isn't too much of a burden, I wanted to watch you mend them. I completely understand if you are too busy for a sewing lesson, but I remembered you offered to teach me, and since I'm already here, I just thought..." The girl paused to breathe and shook her head. "I'm sorry. I ramble when nervous, and I can tell you weren't expecting me with how startled you look... And I didn't even bring money to pay you for lessons!" Mina smacked her hand to her forehead. "Stupid, Mina. So stupid. You can't just expect things like this. I'll...leave you to it!"

She stood up to leave, but you stopped her before she could get far.

"You can stay, Mina."

"... Really? But I didn't–"

"Of course. I'm only startled because I expected someone else. That's all."

"But I didn't bring any–"

"Consider it a gift for keeping your silence regarding our first meeting," you whispered. "You can follow me up the stairs. My sewing room is up there."

The girl tailed you carefully as if, should you be reminded of her presence, you might toss her back out the door. You opened the sewing room door for her, inviting her in with an extended arm and a gentle smile. Mina mirrored your expression as her eyes flew around the room. Brown burned bright when they landed on the expensive, gifted fabric fastened to your dress form, and she rushed over to the garment hanging on the bodice.

"Did you make this?" she asked, pointing at cascading red waves.

"I did," you answered.

"By yourself?!" And you hummed to confirm Mina's question. "Oh, that is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen! Have you worn it out yet?"

"I'm afraid it's not finished."

"Not finished? You're playing! It looks finished to me! If I could make something half as beautiful as this, I'd have a husband in a week! Maybe even a day! Oh, I would love to see it on you! I'm sure you are an absolute beauty in red! Not that you aren't beautiful now! What I meant to say is..."

Mina continued overexplaining herself while you stared blankly at the scarlet fabric. Eyes dove through sheeny ripples and shadowy lace, and the longer you stared, the thicker and hotter your saliva turned until lava flowed over your tongue.

The dress.

The dress designed from a place of tenderness–stitched together with Father's hand and Connie's gift. The dress that forced you to see how broken you had become and warned of how low you would fall. The dress that ignited your rage in fiery splendor until only black soot remained. The dress that waited unfinished in the corner–surviving only as a manifestation of your pain; your anger; your death.

That dress.

"Once it's finished, I'll show you," you breathed. "But for now, I'll teach you the basics so you can make something much more beautiful soon enough."

Nervous nodding followed your acquiescence, and before long, you sat the rambling girl down and pushed a needle, thread, and sewing hoop into her hands.

Niccolo visited with lunch early into the lesson but was quick to make himself scarce. What should have been no more than an hour of work stretched into three. Over lunch and lemonade, Mina listened as you over-explained every stitch. She replicated the example on her isolated hooped cotton as soon as you finished demonstrating. You spilled every familial secret onto frayed fabric. Even your particular pattern for adding embroidered vines and flowers over healing seams became common knowledge. Never before would you have opened up so easily to someone else–especially a stranger—regarding something as sacred as Father's talents, but lips and fingers moved of their own accord without consulting your once-guarded heart.

On Miss Klarrisa's last nightgown, you tasked Mina with inserting the mending stitches independently. Mistakes were corrected with a gentle academic finger you had stolen from Mr. Ackerman's years of tutelage. Mina took to guidance well, and although her first line was far from perfect, she was infinitely better than Hitch already.

She was a proper student: eager to learn; eager to fail; eager to try again.

"Very good. You have quite an aptitude for learning," you praised as Mina finished her final backstitch.

"It helps to have a good teacher. You're much more patient than my mother ever was."

She passed back the gown, and you prepared the covering embellishments by mentally marking where to form symmetrical patterns on the other side. It wouldn't be perfect, but it was close enough.

"Mothers can be overly demanding," you told her, "But only because they want the best for us. It's their nature to correct us from making similar mistakes, even if their ways are harsh."

"Maybe your mother does, but not mine. If she cared even the slightest about my well-being, I never would have come here..." Mina caught her drooping head and panicked. "Not that I don't like spending time with you, of course! I enjoyed this afternoon, I swear! I mean that... Well, that I would... That my father never would have sent me away, and—"

"I understand what you meant. I shouldn't have assumed the nature of you and your mother's relationship. For that, I apologize," you answered softly.

Mina puffed out a relieved sigh, although so much nervousness was behind it. "Thank you for being so understanding. It's nice having a real friend in this town."

A friend. It was nice to have a new friend. To think: after years of only having your small circle, you added three newcomers in less than a year. First Marlowe, then Armin, and Mina. There was another addition, but to call him a friend insulted your closeness and affections.

Comfortable silence filled the room as you shared space with a new friend. While you tidied up the final lines, Niccolo quietly slipped into the sewing room to clear plates and glasses.

"You girls having fun?" he asked.

Mina answered readily, "Oh, yes, Sir! You have such a lovely home, and the sandwiches were delicious!"

"I can see that." Niccolo let out a chuckle as he picked up her plate. "You've hardly left so much as a crumb. Would you like seconds?"

"Oh, no, I shouldn't."

"But you can have another if you are still hungry. There's plenty more in the kitchen."

"Thank you, but I'm full enough as is, and I have to walk back home after this. Can't risk getting a stitch!"

"Y/n? Seconds?" Niccolo asked, and you shook your head. "Very well. I'll leave you both to your embroidering. Holler if you need anything else."

Glancing across the small space, you noticed how closely Mina watched Niccolo come and go. A sadness lurked underneath muddy mirrors, but it was not your place to inquire.

"Your father is very kind," she dolefully noted once footsteps no longer echoed through the stairwell.

"He isn't my... You're right. Niccolo can be very kind when his mood permits."

"You call your father by his first name?" Warmth returned to Mina's voice, "How brazen of you! If I had done that, my father would have sent me out into the woods to pick out my switch before he whipped me with it! Do you call your mother by her first name, too?"

You thought of how to word the truth gently, as you would hate to lie to a new friend. "I'm afraid my parents have both passed. Niccolo and his late wife were kind enough to welcome me into their home."

Mina's face went white as bone. "Oh, Heavens! I am so sorry! Here I am, complaining about my mother and father when yours are no longer with us! I should never have–"

"It's alright, Mina."

"–said a single word! Idiot! I'm so sorry–so very sorry. God, I am such a–"

"Mina, It's alright."

"–dunce! How cruel could I possibly be?! First, I strolled right into your home completely uninvited, and now I am ruining your mood with my careless–"

"Mina," you stressed, and the girl finally quieted.

Your mind flashed to the night you and Jean fought over your sneaking around town. You thought of how cruel you had been and how easily you disregarded his feelings because you decided selfishly that your pain was far worse than his could ever be. You pushed and prodded at him like cattle to the slaughter. All of Jean's cruel bones had long since repaired their splinters, yet you still aimed to snap him into pieces with hatefulness when life brought you to your knees.

Although you had not known her long, Mina had no intention of causing harm the way you did. Her entire skeleton was devoid of even one cruel bone, while you had tens of fractured, deformed, ugly ones hiding under thick skin.

"You didn't know. It's alright. I may have a broken arm, but that does not make your broken leg hurt any less. The same goes for the aches and pains of our spirits," you comforted her in riddles. "It took me some time to learn that lesson myself, but I have learned it well."

You finished the stitches, handed the work back to Mina, and sent her on her way not long after the uncomfortable exchange, but not before offering to visit her for further lessons sometime in the future. That small extension of friendship allowed the girl to leave your home with a gentle smile, and you mirrored her expression yet again.

A friend, you thought as you watched Mina go from your perch on the porch. Friends are lovely mirrors.

Once she was gone, you returned to the sewing room to straighten up and busy your hands. You paced around, eyes flicking between untouched fabric waiting in the closet and the fiery, smoking waves haunting the corner. The red dress glared back. She challenged you with her presence–silently demanding that you dove into her ripples to finish her off.

Aimless steps and indecisiveness left you feeling drowned. Limitless possibilities of things to craft, but you struggled to move on before you vanquished what should have been the magnum opus to trump them all.

Perhaps the boldness of the colors scared you, as your rainbowed closet was gentle or muted, or the ugly memories that surfaced each time you thought of slipping the suffocating gown over tired bones. A hundred reasons could keep you from tackling the last of the black lace, but the dress would still hang in the gallows, waiting to be untied and put to rest all the same.

It was difficult at first, but you loosened the corset that bound the dress to form. Shaking fingers fought your intentions, but your mind wrestled harder. Needle in hand, you worked into the night, spinning anguish into beauty until your fingers were strong. Matching gloves that had long since been abandoned received similar attention until there was nothing left to do other than slip them on.

You stared at the fabric in your hands; she taunted you with excruciating beauty. There was nothing else to do. She was finished.

"Try it on, little one," the wind whispered. "Wear it with pride."

But the red puddled in your hands, stinging the deep cracks in your knuckles until rain dripped from cheeks to chest. Breaths became scarce, lips trembled with inward panic, and heartbeats thumped in your throat.

You pushed the dress onto the floor where it lacked the closeness to kill you. You breathed again only once the weight was gone, but thick saliva still burned. You shut your eyes tight enough for thunder to rumble until the fear faded.

A gentle knock broke through your aversions. You were quick to clean rain-soaked checks before answering.

"Come in," you told the visitor. The door creaked open, and Armin appeared outside.

"Dinner is almost ready, and Niccolo's set a place for you. If you are interested, of course," he said.

"I'll... I'll be down when I'm finished."

"Are you working? May I come in?"

No, you wanted to answer, but your tongue and mind disagreed. "You may."

Armin wandered inside your sacred place–his footsteps slowly creaking along the wood as though he feared the floor might cave in with a wrong step.

"What's this?" he asked once he was a few feet away, but you couldn't face him to see what object had caught his eye. "Is this a new piece of yours? I never took you for a lover of red. It's so bold."

"The..." Your throat clicked with a heavy swallow. "The fabric was a gift from a friend."

"Was it the friend that gifted half the house's trinkets?"

"The same."

Armin scoffed as he picked up the red gown littering the floor, and you forced your eyes to the wall. "Of course it was. If I ever meet this man..." The author lost his thought but quickly moved on to a new one. "Are you alright, dear? You look a bit... sickly."

"I'm fine," you breathed. "Just stood up too fast when you knocked. My head started spinning, and I slipped right back into my seat."

Armin hummed and took the seat Mina had used earlier in the day. You felt his watchful stare without seeing, were sure he heard your deception until he added, "Chlorosis, perhaps. I battle the spins occasionally, myself. Iron salts might be of use should you can manage to get your hands on them. They certainly help me."

"I'll take it up with Dr. Yeager. Thank you for the guidance." You finally faced your visitor and attempted to restore some depth to your voice, "So, Niccolo is sending you up to carry out his chores?"

"No. I offered to fetch you."

"Offered to be ordered around, you mean?"

Armin smiled, stood, swept away the bloody waves, and stepped toward the room's distant corner. You watched his back as he smoothly released the corset and tossed it over the dress form. Fastening the thread as quickly as he loosened it, the red silhouette waited in its otherworldly shadows. The newfound distance restored heat to your cheeks that you never realized had gone cold.

"Offered to check on you," Armin corrected, his back still turned. "And to ask you to dinner. I do enjoy your company, although I was told at dawn that any invitation I may or may not receive in joining your activities tonight was to be politely declined."

"By who?"

The author offered a knowing smile over his shoulder, and you took the hint with warm, dry cheeks. He walked back to you, his own cheeks full of amusement, and offered an arm.

"Shall we?"

. . .

Forks and knives scraped sharply over plates. Corn beef hash and boiled potatoes stunk up the dining room as candles brightened the darkness. Anxiety, dresses, and blood were forgotten, only to be replaced with something much worse.

You picked at your scraps, lacking much appetite, while Armin and Niccolo dug in as though life was not ending as soon as it truly started. The men spoke only of departures, goings home, and endings of trips while you decayed behind sealed lips.

Niccolo asked from the head of the table, "Is there anything else I can do to help see you off? Have you spoken to Mr. Ness or other drivers about taking you to the city?"

Armin took a moment to swallow his food. "I have, and he's more than willing to make the trip."

"And do you know where you're staying this time? Somewhere just as nice as when we went, I hope."

"It's the same building, actually. I arranged the rooms before you and I handed over our keys. Similar chambers, as well, so I'm rather looking forward to a relaxing visit."

"That should be nice–the room was better furnished than anywhere I've ever stayed. And how long do you plan to wait until the boat sets sail?"

"Only four nights. I thought we should have one last American hurrah before returning home. Who knows when we'll... when I'll be back."

You wanted the sounds to cease as quickly as they started, but the men kept discussing the mundaneness of carriage rides, shopping, and seasickness as though your heart wasn't breaking before their eyes. Four days in your town had become three, and once those passed, your dearest artist would spend only a few more in your country but many miles away from you. After that, it would be thousands of miles with an entire ocean in between. You might as well live in universes apart, given the distance, although Jean's absence would be felt as close as inches from your heart.

When would you ever see Jean again? Would he feel your absence?

Your seams began to come undone with slumping shoulders and heavy lids. Lace distressed over a wounded heart, and your lungs frayed more with each inhale. Armin cleared his throat, and you looked up to catch worried crystal pools. Your ribs tightened with invisible string and forced your slouching to straighten out. The author sent a feeling frown across the table, only for a lighthouse being his pupils to brighten navy waters.

"You know, Niccolo, my offer regarding Y/n still stands," Armin's voice pulled you from your wallowing.

You tightened more and asked, "What offer?"

"No," Niccolo shut down the conversation. "Our situation has changed since I agreed to that."

"What offer?" you asked again.

Armin breathed in to explain, but Niccolo shot a deadly glare across the table. The author sealed his mouth behind pursed lips, and that conversation ended without another word.

"So, Y/n," Niccolo redirected as he cut away at his dinner. "How was your little friend?"

"Miss Mina," you coldly corrected. You flipped a piece of meat over with your fork, pushing it around with disinterest guiding your hand.

"Miss Mina, then. How is she? And how did you meet?"

"Well. And we met in town."

"In town, huh? Shopping?"

"Sure."

"Her family must have moved here recently. I've never seen her around before. I've never even heard of her." You hummed in affirmation, not caring to string him along any further. "Well, aren't you dry tonight? You and the beef."

Niccolo shoveled in a mouthful, and he let you be after. Whatever remained of dinner was stiff and short, and it was not long before you offered to tidy up the table while the men whispered over wine in the parlor. You had cleaned the kitchen plenty of times in your short life, but never before had you felt so alone despite other bodies occupying the house.

The top of your heart beat slower than its lower half; your left hand grasped glasses more weakly than the right; even the eye waiting underneath your scar was foggier than its sharper match. Smooth dinner plates dissected your body. The flourish portions sailed into blissful oblivion where days stretched into a lifetime while the withering remains were discarded amongst the soil to be picked over by crows in a few hours.

Anticipation and Dread. Dreams and Nightmares. Alive and Dead. Life was not a pendulum as you previously believed. That would be too easy. Everything existed on the same field–each extreme tying to a different extremity and drawing you in every direction until you were torn into useless nothingness.

But dishes were scrubbed; dishes were dried; dishes were put away; dishes were forgotten–all while you tried to pick up little noises from the parlor.

Sound rarely did travel well enough in the house to reach you, especially when whispers were the objects of interest. Once you finished cleaning, you snuck from the kitchen, through the dining room, and hid against the foyer wall to pick at secret scraps.

Armin's voice was the first to cut through the shadows: "—You, yourself, said that taking in a new environment would benefit her immensely. That she should explore different worlds other than this dreadful town."

"That was before," Niccolo corrected.

"I doubt keeping her cooped up in her room will foster goodwill between you. How long do you intend to keep her prisoner in a place that scorns her existence?"

"She is not a prisoner here. This is her home."

"Home? Where she can only leave with your supervision? Where she cannot enjoy the last of her fleeting youth as all young people should? That hardly sounds–"

"She explored enough of it, and look where we are now, Armin. That scar will never go away. Dr. Yeager said the laceration was so deep he could almost touch her skull with his finger. For the rest of her life, she will see nothing but a reminder every time she looks in the mirror. I will do my part to shield her from reality, but I cannot do it with her gone. She has always had a wandering mind, has always been prone to sadness, and is hardly forthcoming with her feelings. She needs something constant. Somewhere stable. It's where she does best."

You reached up and traced your hand along your temple. Although the pain was gone, the skin still stung.

"So you will hide her then? You must see how you are treating her like–"

"A prisoner?" Nicolo scoffed. "Stop using that word, as it makes no difference to me. If keeping my child safe from the world's damnation constitutes incarceration, bind me by my wrists and lock me away. I would be so grateful to have that same protection."

Armin sighed heavily. "Do you think her true father would wish this upon her? For you to limit her experiences to the point where she never grows beyond a weed in the grass?"

"He would if it meant she stayed healthy. That was always his utmost concern–the safety of his daughter. If she wants to go to the city, I will take her when she is well, but the last thing I will do is allow you and that bastard to whisk her off. She wouldn't be safe. Not with him."

The city? Was that the offer? To take you with them to New York City?

Would they take you further if you asked?

"Niccolo–"

"If you plan to defend Jean again, save time and hold your tongue."

"But he–"

"No," Niccolo rumbled. "You've said enough on that matter."

"But he cares for–"

"If he cared for Y/n, where was he when she needed a savior? Oh, that's right–he was piss-drunk with Eren singing songs and ogling women, no doubt. Just like he did with Marco when Sasha and I visited, God rest their souls. But if Jean truly cared, he would have put down the glasses and kept an eye on her. Men like him do not change, Armin. They only get worse."

"If you have envisaged Jean as anything other than a good man with bad habits, then your perception is terribly skewed."

"It isn't about envisaging, Armin. It's about knowing. You may attempt to steer Jean on the right course, and I commend you for taking on such a hopeless battle, but I've seen his type a hundred times. There are at least five men like him at every party and in every tavern. Marco was the only one that kept him soft, but Marco is gone. Now, Jean will go the way of countless men–flooding an early grave full of tainted spirits and wine. And who knows who else he plans to drag down with him as he lowers himself into the dirt? Y/n will be nowhere near a man like him as long as I live and breathe. She deserves better than associating with a drunkard whose lack of attention nearly killed her."

You couldn't take much more of Niccolo's cruelty. Did he have no empathy? No understanding? No sense? The harsher his words turned, the deeper your fingers dug into the palm until blood nearly seeped between creases.

"You do know that you place blame on the wrong man," Armin warned much more darkly than you had ever heard from him.

Niccolo, however, was undisturbed by the change in tone. "I will place blame on every guilty party for as long as I like. You may think yourself a father with how you keep a leash on your rabid dog, but you will pass no judgment on me until you come home to find the child you have been charged with fostering half dead."

"You're right," Armin dryly agreed. "I awoke to find mine entirely dead, so our situations are quite different."

No longer having the stomach to stand the conversation, you snuck back into the kitchen, only to walk back into the foyer obnoxiously loud. Whispers became nothing under the thundering of your feet, and you stopped at the parlor entrance to regard the men inside.

"I finished tidying. I'll see you both in the morning. Sweet dreams, Mr. Arlert."

You ignored the second figure and carried yourself up the stairs with heavy feet before the author could answer. Perhaps you were too obviously disgusted by Niccolo's callousness, but cracked masks no longer shielded the world from your true feelings. You seethed as you waited for Niccolo to slink up the stairs and throw himself into bed. Your eyes twitched at the thought of your jailer sleeping peacefully after saying such vile remarks. He was no better than everyone in town that spat insults at you. Any guilt you felt toward Niccolo leaked from your healing temple in a red, hot river until it ran dry.

The moon hung high over the lake, and you redressed in soft, white linens in frazzled rage. Knowing that anger spiked the heat in your heart, you kept the layers thin so as not to burn up into flame on what should be a pleasant night.

But how could you be pleasant when your mind was anything but?

Niccolo knew nothing; he understood nothing; his good opinion was worth nothing, but he frustrated you nonetheless. His words were not something you could brush off, as you felt every urge to stomp into his room and rip them to shreds as he lay there half-asleep and unable to fight back.

His possessiveness will be his undoing, you vowed as you tiptoed from your cell and out the kitchen door.

Under normal circumstances, when the night air kissed your skin, you would feel the freedom of its tender touches. The night as it was the only time when the darkest parts of your fears had shadows to hide inside.

But tonight, anger crept from behind the midnight forest, searching only for you. It forced itself down onto your shoulders, whispering vile words and harsh judgments until cool skin scorched under the wrath's weight.

Why am I even still here? you questioned with each step.

You should run away to distant shores and find your happiness somewhere else. You should pack a bag, and when the time came, you would stow away on Jean's carriage and reveal yourself once it rolled into New York City. Then, he might carry you off to London, and you could enjoy the same happily ever after written in all your favorite books.

But Eren would miss you, and Hitch would be livid if you left without a world. Mr. And Mrs. Yeager would worry, and Zeke would be forced to fend for himself. Mr. Ackerman would be disappointed in your girlish naivety, and Mr. Smith would question your sanity. Connie might applaud your boldness and even come to visit your new home bearing housewarming gifts, but the rest of his family would break.

But what about what you wanted? You could not make a happy life by pleasing everyone else. At some point, your happiness needed to come first. Didn't it?

And what if Jean didn't want to take you with him?

He would, wouldn't he? You didn't know, which made you more outraged, conflicted, and vicious. Even as you turned the doorknob leading into the glowing cabin, skin still stung with oscillating degrees of insufferable heat because, at the end of it all, you, too, knew nothing. You were no better than Niccolo.

Then you opened the door, and anger stalked off into the night. Love took its place over your shoulders and relieved the pressure darkness had burdened you with.

You saw Jean's back first, but he had yet to notice your arrival. His warm aura was ringed in golden, flickering light while crisp clothes and neater, shorter hair welcomed you inside. Any length your beloved had grown since sailing across the sea vanished under the candlelight to only graze the middle of his neck. His tall figure loomed over the bed, studying red speckles dotting white sheets, but your eyes traveled further to find more red dots sprinkling the small table with full wine glasses patiently waiting to be emptied. And, of course, it was your favorite wine bottle waiting between them.

Maybe it was just enough to know that Jean was there in that moment and forever was a future concern.

And although you may not know what truths were buried within him, you knew yours. In your heart, you knew Jean was a loyal man. A caring man. A good man. Even if you were wrong, it would be near impossible to persuade your heart otherwise.

You clicked the door silently behind you and gazed at the pretty picture for as long as Time would allow. Lucy sprung up from the ground and trampled over the accents. She, too, was unphased by your presence, but Jean scooped her off the sheets once she attacked the red pieces with her mouth.

"Ah, ah, ah, Lulu. Rends-moi ça," he said before digging into her mouth for what you realized was a rose petal. "Ne mange pas les fleurs. J'ai bossé dur sur ça."

At the sight of your dearest cradling your other, you knew you needed to move. You tiptoed behind your beloved and wrapped your arms around his torso, digging your chin into his back. Unfortunately, Jean flinched from your touch with a slight yelp before you could lock him in. He whipped around, and honey pools suffocated you in sweetness.

"Bon sang," Jean exhaled once he noticed you giggling.

You took in his smooth skin. The facial hair you had become so accustomed to itching your chin was wiped clear, too. Laugher dissipated as you realized how different yet the same he appeared before you. Despite the newfound youth he wore beautifully, you finally saw how sharp his jaw truly was, and it cut you. It felt like seeing someone for the first time.

Still catching his breath after being startled, Jean rasped, "The sneaking needs to–"

"To stop," you finished for him. "I know. You both just looked so perfect I needed to join in without breaking the beauty."

Jean attempted to feign some frustration, but his will broke quickly, and a smile broke out soon after. Shaking his head, he pushed Lucy into your eager hands. "Take her, then. Let me see the perfection."

Holding her close to your heart, purrs rattled your ribs. You flicked your gaze to your foreign yet familiar beloved.

"You are right," he agreed. "A perfect picture."

You tried to swallow a smile, but it brightened your voice instead, "You cut your hair. And you shaved."

A blush stained Jean's cheeks. "... Mrs. Yeager said... I was starting to look like a dog, so she suggested that I..." He raked a massive hand through his hair, then ran it over his jaw. Nervousness creased his brows. "Do... Do you not like it?"

"No, I like it. It may take some getting used to fewer thorns each time I kiss you, but I like it. Although I must admit, I'm shocked you let Carla get out the shears after what she did to poor Eren." You glanced at the petal-covered bed. "Did she lend you the rose and wine plot, too, or was that Zeke's–"

"No. The roses and the wine were... That was me. I thought... You appreciate romance, and... and we lacked that as of late, so I... We could both use something... something more romantic than what we have been... Do you... Is it too much, or–"

"I like it. Truly, I do. All of it," you expressed honestly.

Cheeks blazed even redder, but you were unbothered by the hue that tormented you earlier. He stuttered, "Good. Good. Very... Very good."

Jean's Adam's apple bobbed harshly. His eyes darted around the room, but they always returned to yours. He failed to take initiative and stood stiff and tall as an oak. It was terrible to find enjoyment in the butterflies controlling him from the stomach, but you couldn't help it.

"Can I say something terrible?" you asked.

"...Go ahead."

"I love–" Jean's eyes widened ever so slightly. "–When you turn so nervous. It's embarrassingly charming."

His lids relaxed, puffed frustrated air between creased lips, and grumbled, "That is terrible. Tu es diabolique."

Offering a smirk as you passed him to pose sitting on the bed, you settled Lucy on your lap and stroked her back menacingly on top of crossed legs. "If I was a guessing woman, I might believe you called me diabolical. Am I right, or was I misled by a false cognate?"

"You can be quite evil, mon amour."

"And what's that mean? My armor? Or maybe my shield. I'm not sure either suits me, but am I close?"

Jean's enjoyment vanished. "It... There is no English equivalent... as far as I know."

"I find that hard to believe. Try and give me a definition, even if it's a poor one. Something close to get an idea."

"I... I..." Jean looked to the ceiling for answers, and his neck flushed into the most brilliant sunset. "Maybe... A good substitute would be... Maybe something close to... Hmm... Nothing is coming to–"

"Oh, forget it, then. I've put you on the spot enough for this lifetime and the next. So why don't you let your tension go and join me here?"

"Wine?" Jean asked with a crackling voice, but he quickly covered up his youth with a cough and footsteps toward the table. "I mean... Would you like some?"

A glass sounded wonderful, but Niccolo's words haunted your thoughts. Jean will go the way of countless men–flooding an early grave full of tainted spirits and wine. You answered his question with a quick shake and a nasty frown.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asked quickly.

"No. No, you did nothing."

"I must have done something. Your face has gone gray, and I–"

"I can assure you that it was nothing you did, Jean. I swear on my life. I promised not to lie anymore, didn't I?"

Jean abandoned the table to sit beside you. Stilted silence followed, and you cursed your nosy nature for listening to what should have been a private conversation.

Ignorance is bliss, is it not? Yet, you had to stick your nose where it did not belong, and in doing so, you were ruining what should have been a perfect night with bad moods. There were no other distractions, no unwanted third parties, and no reasons to forgo fun, but there was still a roadblock. It was your own mind rather than someone else's.

"If something is bothering you, you can tell me," Jean said gently.

"It's nothing," you breathed.

"And there goes your promise." You snapped your attention to Jean's pretty face only inches away, and you expected frustration but found saddened sympathy. "If you are upset, then it is not nothing. Your feelings have value, even if you hate giving credence to them."

Lucy purred from your lap, and you felt her golden eyes begging for honesty. How a kitten could ask for truths was beyond all rationality, but both her father's words and her pleading were well felt.

"It was a conversation I overheard Niccolo and Armin having after dinner. It was a stupid, trivial affair, so I dare not breathe further life into it."

"Well, I am here to listen should you change your mind. For as long as you need."

Perhaps you were a suit of armor, as you would shield Jean from the true nature of Niccolo's feelings. Your beloved need not burden himself with someone else's hostility, and you would bear that burden for him for as long as he needed. It was only fair.

"You are a good man, Jean." You reached for his hand and squeezed it tight. "A remarkable man. You have stuck with me through much more than I deserve, and I can never thank you enough for your kindness. For your softness. For... for everything. I... I want you... No, I need you to know that. You are one of the most wonderful things that has happened to me. Perhaps that will ever happen. Maybe not when we first became acquainted, but I can think of no one better now. Should you ever believe otherwise... I hope you have the sense to reject those feelings, as you are so worthy of countless good words."

Jean leaned in. Not for a kiss but to steal a better look at you. He bent back, eyes narrowed in confusion, and said, "Now you are beginning to worry me."

"...What?"

"This feels like an early goodbye. Or even a rejection. Does it not feel that way to you?"

"Not at all! I only wanted you to know how I felt."

"So then this must have something to do with what you overheard. Otherwise, you would never say all this. Not out loud."

Jean watched your face closely while you bumbled. "I... I–"

"If you are planning to lie, I already know the truth. Armin told me yesterday that Niccolo still wants to kill me, so there is no use keeping that secret if it troubles you."

You exhaled in defeat, no longer caring to put on a brave face. "You read me too well."

"I needed to learn fast. You live inside your skull. If I waited for you to speak your mind, we would be here longer than if I wrestled my tongue for answers to your questions."

You chuckled lightly. "I overthink excessively, don't I?"

"And you have passed that trait onto me like a disease," Jean joked. You answered his jab with a nudge to his shoulder. He nudged back, albeit much softer. "You are lucky I enjoy being sick if it is with you. I gave myself a migraine thinking of ways to keep my hands off you this evening."

"Was yesterday that terrible?" Worry seeped from your voice and into the conversation.

"No, it was too pleasurable, and I made my own promise to let you lead. I thought that if I bought the wine you liked and threw dead flowers everywhere, I would remember that these nights are just as much about you as they are me. It is working so far, so I have no room to complain. So, would you like your wine now or later?"

"Unfortunately, I'd prefer to abstain... It's just that... Well... What if neither of us drinks when we spend time together? It ensures we remember all the little details if we're clear-headed."

"But it is already poured."

"I know, but–"

"If the wine is poured, it must be drank."

"I understand, but–"

"And one glass of wine will not fog your brain. If anything, it will help loosen us."

"Jean–"

Jean cut you off for what would be the last time. "To waste is sacrilege. If we were in France–"

"Niccolo said you are an alcoholic," you blurted out, and Jean's eyes widened. "And that... that drinking might kill you while you're still young. And I... I know it isn't true, as you almost always seem sober as of late, and you didn't even touch the wine when it was right in front of you last night, but I can't help but worry. I know it's ridiculous and irrational, but the thought of something happening to you, no matter how unfounded it may be, terrifies me beyond–"

Jean stood up, strode to the table, grabbed both glasses of wine, and headed for the exit. Opening the door swiftly, he tossed the liquid to soak in the grass and shut the door behind him. He placed the empty cups back on the table and turned to you with a softened expression.

Suddenly embarrassed by how easily your rambling ruined another one of Jean's kindnesses, you mumbled, "I'm sorry. It was a foolish thing to fuss over."

"Stop fussing, then. I am sure the worms have never sampled decent wine before, and we are not in France, so all is well." Jean smiled proudly, raising a playful brow. "We can add 'clever' to my list of good words. While we are at it, add 'handsome.' And 'generous.'" Lucy jumped from your lap and waddled over to Jean. She rubbed along his ankles until he picked her up and held the kitten against his heart. "Je sais, Lulu. Je suis un génie."

Jean knew how to force laughter from you when staring dread in the face. Massive problems became small, and small problems disappeared entirely with his calming presence, simple jokes, and pretty smiles. Just speaking with him put your soul at ease, and you wanted to bask in his warmth until all the seasons passed and it was summer again.

With lighter spirits, you sarcastically added, "And 'terribly humble' to boot."

"I prefer 'self-assured,'" Jean corrected as he rejoined you on the bed.

"What about 'hubristic?'"

"You would prefer me to be a limp noodle of a man?"

"No, not limp. Not where it counts, anyway. It would leave both of us bored."

Jean's face steamed again while you realized the unintended implication of your poor phrasing. You meant that Jean had a strong character, but that wasn't how it came out. Staring at each other like two statues turned to face one another for centuries, your skin heated up more as the silence stretched on.

Jean finally asked, "... Should I put Lucy in the washroom?"

"No," you answered quickly.

"But... you have your plans–"

"Oh, fuck plans," you said as you flopped onto the mattress and stretched tall. "When have our plans ever gone particularly well for us, anyway. I'm perfectly happy listening to your talk and doing nothing else. Let's just... Tell me about your day, Jean."

"My day?"

"Yes, your day. I want to hear about all the sunlit hours I miss. I always feel better once we get a few laughs in."

And although you did initially intend to spend the night with your beloved under the sheets–bodies bare, glistening, and tightly entwined–you spent it full of spontaneous amusement that reached further into you than any hand. Gentle conversations regarding Jean's day, or days due to your constant questioning, with the Yeagers had you beaming so hard that your lips stung.

If Eren was not working with his father or being scolded by his mother, he and Jean were forced into manual labor and housework while Carla supervised, which in itself was an absolute disaster. Jean rattled off all of the hilarity that came with spending a few hours with Eren and his mother: petty arguments, unnecessary defiance, occasional threats of pummeling.

Oh, how you missed spending time with them.

Jean spoke of your second family highly. Surprisingly, Zeke was his most favored member, an opinion few shared, with Mrs. Yeager being a close second. Even Eren received praise in Jean's own strange way of speaking. Of course, your beloved had some choice words surrounding your best friend's brashness, but if you had not known better, you would think he was speaking of a brother rather than a former enemy. To hear that your painter blended so beautifully with one of your life's most significant pieces was a wonderful thing to learn.

You fought back yawns as the time ticked. All these late-night rendezvous left you exhausted despite how late you slept each morning. Eventually, sleep tugged your jaw wide a second before you could cover the open mouth.

"Tired?" Jean asked.

"A bit," you moaned, still yawning behind a fingered mask.

Jean pushed Lucy off his lap, and she leaped onto the floor to explore the room. He reached for your hands and tugged. "Come. I will help you to your room."

"No, I'm too tired to climb the stairs."

"Fine. I will carry you."

"Can't I just sleep here like we used to? I sleep so terribly when I'm alone to the point where I awake around noon," you whined.

Jean readily relented with a roll of his eyes and a shake of the head. He was up blowing out candles in seconds and was even quicker to abandon most of his clothes to join you under soft linens. You snuggled into him–your cheek flushed with his bare chest.

Breathing him in, Jean stunk of you.

"That's a lot of lavender for a man. Did you steal my oil the night you helped me to my room?" you joked.

"No," Jean rumbled from underneath. "I will have you know I can afford my own."

"Why would you buy yourself perfume? Planning to gift it away to other women?"

"It makes my hair soft. And to feel closer to you when we are apart."

"How 'obsessive,'" you added another word to the list.

"'Smitten,' and you are to blame. I needed to rub your perfume into my pillows to fall asleep. It is embarrassing."

"You're kidding."

"I wish I was."

"I can't decide if I should be concerned for my safety or enchanted at the thought."

"Neither. Both. It will make no difference; I will miss your smell regardless."

You would miss Jean's smell, too. His foresty rain brought so much comfort; soon, that scent would be much harder to come by, and there was no way to bottle it up and store it on a shelf. How would you survive without it?

"Leave me with one of your undershirts," you ordered.

"Why?"

"So I have something to cure my restless nights, too."

Jean chuckled in your ear. "Should I wear it out while Mrs. Yeager forces me to chop wood? The scent will be strong that way."

"I don't want to smell your sweat." You laughed with him. "I want to smell you. Wear it around the house without making it filthy, and bring it back to me tomorrow."

"You have to trade me for it."

"And what do you want?"

Jean thought for a moment. "The ugly brown thing you call a dress. You know the one."

"You want that?"

"I do. I will cut it up, so you never have to wear it again, and I will hide the scraps to serve as little surprises for myself."

You laughed much harder. "How about this: I'll cut it up and fashion the pieces into handkerchiefs. That way, you can think of me whenever you blow your nose in the winter."

Jean groaned loudly, his brows furrowing in dramatic disgust. "You ruin everything."

"I know. Isn't it wonderful?"

Jean never answered, and you never tried to stoke up the conversation again. Every steady heartbeat pulsed in your ear like a lulling drum, and your lids grew heavier until the room disappeared with each breath you matched with his. Steady rises and falls carried you further into dreams.

Although you adored the sound of Jean's voice, silence was your favorite way to spend time with him. It was never fully quiet, as girlish adoration whistled a secret, love-struck tune between your ears, but the tranquility was addictive. And Jean held tight when the world stopped spinning for those few moments of bliss. He shielded you with strong arms, protecting you from whatever awfulness might attack from the shadows so you could close your eyes in peace.

The shared silence was the only time you ever felt truly safe.

The quiet moment persisted, and you were so close to falling asleep. You wished to dream of that secluded house again—to see the blue, smoking hills and your beloved sitting beside you on the stoop. But this time, you would have your kiss with him. The dream would continue, just like the moment, until it became a second reality you could escape into whenever it suited you.

Only a few more waves and you were good as gone.

"You know... You are the worst thing that has ever happened to me, Y/n." Jean's mumbling forced your eyes open, but he continued before you could unlock the arms chained around your caged-in ribs, "I was content with being miserable. There was comfort in the anger, and the sadness, and the solitude because the pain was predictable. It was constant. It was simple.

And then you went and cleared my eyes. You led me into the woods, handed me a cat to love and wood to burn, and gave me a reason to push on. You reminded me that life was so much more than sorrow, but I remembered far too late to use it properly. And now, I am leaving, and you are staying, and yet we both will grieve what could have been if I had been a better man from the moment we first met. And you will never know how much I regret it. Because I regret it. Every day I come here, I regret it more and more."

Jean's speech echoed a few times, and his first sentence was the loudest. You are the worst thing that has ever happened to me.

"You need to work on your delivery," you grumbled as you snuggled deeper into him, allowing your hearts to intertwine behind closed lids again. "You can't start such a beautiful speech with, 'you are the worst thing that ever happened to me.' Not this late at night."

Jean's heartbeat picked up, and the muscles holding encasing you tensed. "You... I thought you were asleep."

"I was close, but you woke me with a mild heart attack. You should have said it in French if you never wanted me to know." You rolled over slightly to rest your chin on his muscles, staring into alluring yet mortified honey waves with a smile. "But I'm glad I heard it, and we can properly use our feelings now."

You shifted up Jean's skin until you were inches from his mouth. The tender kiss you planted was delicate and sweet, and he returned gentle passes with the same adoration that grazed over your skin smoother than silk. The heat from two exposed hearts burned every inch of flesh until kisses brought you both closer to damnation. Jean broke away first, and your gasps for cool air mixed with his. Opening your eyes, you stared desire in the face.

"How tired are you?" he asked darkly.

"I wouldn't mind staying up a little longer if you need it."

"Perfect." Jean's hands guided you to the edge of the mattress and forced you onto your back. "I will make it worth your while."

Your beloved climbed on top of you–his total weight pressing you deep into the mattress. He stamped a sweet kiss on the tip of your nose, then moved back to plunder your lips. Each featherlight touch grew warmer until he jumped from face to clavicle. Hands wandered over your gown, desperate to feel whatever was underneath but unwilling to remove the barrier himself.

"Can you get up for a moment?" you asked between giggles.

Jean peered up from just below. "Am I too heavy?"

"No, my dress is too thick. I need to take it off."

Jean practically leaped off you, and you sat up to meet his foggy gaze.

"Close your eyes," you ordered. "And no peeking until I say so." Jean shut his eyes. When you reached for the hem of the garment, his right eye cracked open, so you froze.

"No peeking," you reminded.

"I am not peeking."

"I have eyes, genius." With a moan, Jean sealed his lids again, and you finally pulled the thin barrier over your head. Balling up the cotton and smiling devilishly, you covered your breasts with the white cloth. "You can open now."

And when he opened, Jean lacked the disappointment you were hoping for. If anything, the more modest view made his tongue wag harder.

"I'll trade my dress for your pants," you bargained.

"I love–" Jean's voice widened your vision and popped your confident bubble. "–When you tease me like this." And you relaxed again.

You wouldn't know how to respond if he used three words instead of eight. Some part of you craved the former, although it was far too early for any confession.

So why did your mood suddenly dip from the absence of a 'you?'

You attempted to pick up the part of you that fell in love before the timing was right. "Well... I suppose I enjoy the sport of it all."

"As do I."

Jean quickly did away with his pants and handed the fabric over to wait on your lap.

Even though you had seen him entirely bare once before, it still felt like the first time. Your eyes traced every shadow, muscle, and trail like the most detailed and beautiful of maps. How long could you stare before the little details engraved themselves into your memory so as never to be forgotten, no matter how much time passed?

Jean cleared his throat with a hand extended to you. Suddenly, you weren't ready to relinquish your dress. It was the last bit of armor protecting a fragile spirit, and your game of cat-and-mouse lost most of its fun.

"I'm scared," you admitted.

Jean clicked his tongue with pretty teeth shining bright in steams of moonlight. "Do whatever feels right to you. If you would rather we put our clothes back on, make it so."

"But you've already handed over your–"

"I can take it back. It is easy." Jean stole his pants from your lap. "You keep what is yours, I keep what is mine, we trade whenever we please, or we never need to trade at all. Now you have no reason to be scared, as there is nothing to lose. I can wait as long as you need, and I know I can wait even longer than that. See? Easy."

"... Easy," you repeated.

It was easy to close yourself off, wasn't it? There were no risks with delaying the inevitable other than lingering remorse, and you lived a short life of constant contrition, so what was another small drop in the lake of regret?

But you wanted to trade, and there was no man safer to exchange vulnerabilities with than the one before you.

You reached across the space and reclaimed Jean's bargaining piece, only to toss them on the floor. You offered the final brick of your broken battlements, wrapped and hidden in white cotton, that protected your heart. He slowly accepted the dress but carefully placed it within your reach. His eyes never left yours despite how easy it was for him to stare at your bare chest to find your heart anxiously bursting through the skin.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "You can keep it."

"I'm sure. I trust you. Implicitly, I trust you."

"And I trust you. So guide me, mon huître."

[WARNING: SEXUAL CONTENT]

You moved slowly, creeping across the creaky frame, and straddled Jean's lap. His arms looped around your back, and his thumb traced the same inch of your spine repeatedly while you rested your elbows on his shoulders.

There was an intimacy in having hearts so close and exposed without ever breaking eye contact that was almost indescribable. The only word that came close was love. You loved and felt loved, and while you swore to share every secret, this one would be a treasure only you kept close with every fluttering heartbeat.

"You are painfully beautiful," he whispered. "Touching you burns me each and every time."

You thanked Jean's kindness with a kiss, and he leaned into you so hard that you would have toppled over without his constant support. The thinnest silk bound you together until the protection was stronger than any steel.

Once you felt secure enough to stay upright, your hands moved to find Jean's arms and bring his hands forward. Lips still locked in a desperate battle, his callouses roam inches from your heart. You moaned into his mouth with how gently he cupped your breasts and brushed your nipples, but his hands disappeared from your chest to favor your back again. Slowly, he eased you onto the mattress with his hands slowing your descent.

His mouth finally left yours, and he huffed, "Tell me where I can kiss you."

"Anywhere," you answered. "Everywhere."

That was all it took for Jean to plant kisses on your jaw and then for him to move down to your chest. He skipped over your neck entirely. You had been right to trust him, as he remembered your fears when you were too lost in lust's fog to recall them from the shadowed haze.

Burning kisses sparked further until Jean's tongue swirled over your nipple. His free hand thumbed over the other peak, stiffening the bud until every nerve pulsed in pleasure. You wove your fingers through his soft hair and held on for dear life as he sucked, nipped, and flicked the sensitive skin.

But despite your ratcheting pleasure, something itched the corner of your eye. You glanced to the side to find Lucy's glowing eyes shining up from the floor, focusing intently on the two of you. Her shining mirrors bore into your soul, and you suddenly couldn't drown yourself in the pleasure any longer.

"Jean," you pleaded, and Jean untangled himself instantly.

"What did I do?" The panic in his voice was painfully evident.

"It's not you. It's... It's Lucy." You pointed to the kitten on the floor. "She's... staring at us. At me."

Jean glanced over to a kitten and sighed. "You scared me. I thought I hurt you."

"I'm sorry, but... Do you think she knows what we're doing?"

"She is just a kitten. She is too little to understand."

"Are you sure?"

"I am. Just enjoy the moment, mon huître." Jean attempted to lower himself back down, but you pushed him up.

"I'm not sure I want her seeing this. What if she thinks we're hurting each other and gets the claws out? Or what if she gets traumatized by all this?"

"Y/n..."

"You know what? Let me put her away. I'll be quick."

Jean rolled off and waved his arm to set you free. Wrapping a sheet over your naked body, you shuffled to the staring kitten and scooped her up. She yowled and even let out a hiss as you carried her to the washroom.

"It's only for a little bit, sweetheart," you assured her. "I'll let you out when it's safe. I promise."

She yowled again when you set her down. Once the door was closed, her little claws scratched against the wood. It broke her heart to put her away, but you couldn't have her watching. It could traumatize her.

The guilt must have darkened your features as you sat on the bed because Jean said, "She will be alright, Y/n."

"Do you think she'll be cross with us?" Another yowl answered your question. "Oh, she's going to hate me."

"She is spoiled between the two of us and Mrs. Yeager. A little separation is good for her."

"But what if she turns jealous? That she feels we aren't giving her enough attention? Maybe... Maybe I should let her out."

Jean stopped you from standing, hooking a finger into the bedsheet that clung to your body. "Try not to worry so much about her, and let me worry about you. You deserve attention, too."

Your eyes flicked between the washroom door and honeyed glass. The little noises went silent between glances, and a smile crossed your lips. "Alright, fine. I'll try not to worry... What were we doing again?"

"I was about to move further down your body," Jean flirted as he pulled the sheet away. "And you were going to scream my name loud enough to send waves through the lake."

"Was I?" you teased.

"You were, so can we start again?"

"We can."

Jean placed his hand on your chest to push you onto your back. He grabbed your shins so that your knees bent to the sky. He waited between your legs, and you bit your lip, knowing what pleasures would come.

Jean glided his hands upwards until fingers dug into your thighs. He spread you apart before lowering himself to meet your flesh. Kisses crawled up your inner thigh, and with each one, distractions disappeared until you saw only him. The closer he came to your cunt, the slower he moved until all he had to do was turn his head to taste.

Then, Jean sunk his teeth into your skin. Not enough to hurt, but enough to send shivers down your spine. Your breath hitched with the pleasure such a little love bite carried. His eyes watched every labored, needy breath while his teeth tugged at the skin until your thigh slipped from his bite.

"Was that alright?" he asked, but the answer was obvious from how desperately you followed his every move. "What about this?"

Jean released your opposite leg and glided his fingers between the folds. You whimpered from the fire he burned in your core, and when he slid two digits inside of you and latched his mouth onto your clit, whimpers erupted.

"God, you feel so good," you moaned.

Every time Jean experimented with your body, he discovered new secrets to drive you half-mad. He curled his fingers in a different way to reach your sweetest spots, pumped harder and faster whenever you begged for it, or increased the speed of his tongue until your toes curled. But once he found whatever made you scream the loudest, he kept whatever worked constant.

You gripped the sheets with one hand and squeezed your breast with the other, all while locking eyes with the only man you ever hoped to love like this. He was as much a part of you as your skin. As your bones. As your own mind.

Jean hummed against your clit as he circled his tongue, and the vibrations and the sound of his voice nearly sent you over the edge. The roughness of his beautiful fingers and his sucking of your jewel pushed you from that cliff, and your walls clenched around him. Your whole body cracked under his fire, and every muscle sparked as you burnt to cinders.

It took some time for you to return to your body, but Jean was still waiting patiently between your legs with the most sickening smirk when you did. You grinned hazily, forcing his smirk to curve on both sides rather than one. He picked himself up, and the hardness of his cock just from pleasuring you sizzled any normal thought floating around in your brain. Jean threw himself beside you with a glistening mouth. You ran a thumb along his lips to clean away the wetness before pinching his chin and pulling him in for a quick peck.

"I was afraid you fell asleep on me," he joked once you released his jaw.

"I was close, but I'm still here."

"Shut your eyes, then."

"And what will you do?" You ran a hand over his abdomen, feeling each muscle tense under fiery fingertips. The hand wandered lower, and Jean let out a slight moan when your touch was nearly at the base of his hard cock. "I can't leave you like this. It wouldn't be fair."

"You... You are... You are tired, no? I can always... take care of myself."

You shook your head. "I don't think I can rest until I help you."

"Can you handle that?" His question was half-joking, half-genuine.

"Jean," you whispered, gliding your hand to his heart. "I want you to take all my firsts. If you'll have them."

Jean studied your face, looking for sincerity. For honesty. For conviction. For something you weren't sure you supplied with each second he kept quiet.

"Maybe we should wait to talk about this until you are more... present," he offered.

"I am present. But if you... If you don't want–" You realized how big of an ask you had made and regretted cornering him into the situation. You laughed awkwardly to cover your embarrassment. "You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up. I should... go to sleep."

You attempted to turn away and shield your embarrassment at such a stupid request, but Jean cupped your jaw. The sweet playfulness was long gone as cold seriousness replaced it at your admission.

"It is not that I do not want you. I do want you. Obsessively. But I... I know... lovemaking can be painful for... for women. If we do this, you must tell me if I am hurting you. No being brave or suffering in silence. I need to know you are alright," he warned.

"There's a good chance it will hurt no matter what you do," you told him honestly. "But if I have no say in the pain, I'd rather you hurt me than anyone else."

Jean's expression softened. "And you are sure you want this? That you want me to..."

"I'm sure. I trust you."

And with three little words, he melted. Honey warmed to liquid gold. The adoration flowing behind loving eyes aged Jean until he appeared before you as not a man but as a dream: a dream so sweet you could die peacefully right then.

Giving you one last kiss, Jean pushed away. He repositioned himself between your legs and tugged you onto his firm thighs. Your cheeks burned when the tip of his cock grazed your folds. You covered your mouth with a web of fingers and rolled your head to stare out the window.

It was calm along the lake. The outside world was shrouded in a pearly glow, while your world inside was raging with a red desire so strong that you couldn't bear to gaze upon it in fear you would never want to leave.

"Y/n," Jean called for you. "I need to see your face."

You turned to face your world, and his holy hands stole the weak one covering your mouth. As he laced fingers together on the sheets until the lock was unbreakable, Jean's thumb caressed the bottom of your palm. Each touch relaxed some tension clamping down on your muscles until you were as still as the lake.

"You can still change your mind, Y/n."

"There's no need. I want you. Only you. Just be gentle with me. Please," you whispered.

"Of course, mon amour. And you with me."

Jean guided his tip to your entrance. Slowly and smoothly, he pushed himself inside. You breathed through the pressure, fighting every urge to seize or squirm as the pain took root. His brows were as tense as yours, but his teeth did not grit like yours. Eyes and fingers searched for each other, and through the discomfort, souls were found.

"Does it hurt?" Jean huffed.

"It's... bearable."

"Should I stop?"

"No, just go slow. You're alright?"

"Amazing. You feel like Heaven."

"Good. That's good. And how much more of you must I take?"

Jean looked down between his legs. "There... there are some inches left."

"Then let me have them. Slowly."

You felt Jean deeply as sensitive walls twitched around him. Every part of him that disappeared inside strengthened your heaving breasts until you took as much of him as possible. The pain was still very much present, and in your desperation to share Heaven with your beloved, your free hand traveled below your stomach.

"Jean, promise me you'll hold still," you begged as you circled your jewel. "That you'll just watch for a bit."

"I promise," his voice came out as smoke.

The pain became more tolerable with each flick of your fingers against your sensitive bud. Jean watched as you pleasured yourself, his eyes only fixated on yours. Although he was mostly a spectator, you moaned his name the closer you brought yourself to climax, and he twitched inside you with every utterance.

"Jean," you gasped. "Jean, you feel like Heaven, too."

Jean's breaths became more labored with yours, and when you clenched around his cock, his fingers nearly crushed yours under the pressure of your orgasm. Pain, although still vaguely there, was an afterthought. Your beloved fell further forward with each of your convulsions. His cock pressed even deeper into you–further extending your high.

And when your climax reached its end, Jean crushed you under his weight. He kissed you as you rolled down that hill of euphoria: soft and slow and strained to keep still.

You pushed away to gaze into his eyes. "You can move now. I'm ready."

"I need a moment," Jean heaved. "If I start now... it will be over just as fast."

To pass the time until Jean recovered, you locked lips with his. He finally released his grip on your hand, so both arms hooked around his neck, and your fingers tugged on his soft locks. Such a little pull forced a whimper from his throat, and you relished his neediness.

And when you weren't expecting it, Jean pulled out of your cunt slightly only to slide back in. As he kissed you with every bit of his soul, his even thrusts grounded you back into the earth. His pace picked up, and ecstasy buzzed over every inch. Lightheadedness plagued you, so you finally broke your mouth away to swallow fresh air and praise your lover with desperate adoration.

"Jean, please, keep going. Oh God, just like that, Jean."

"Merde," Jean groaned once he was free. "J'aime quand tu dis mon nom. Tu as une si jolie voix."

Constant. Jean's love was enduring; his touch was persistent; his thrusts were constant. The mattress creaked loudly underneath passion, and you thrived with the sensation's consistent beat. You felt Jean everywhere, and you would never accept any less than his consistency ever again.

But Jean's thrusts began to lose strength the more you begged and pleaded for him, and Jean suddenly pulled out of you well before you were ready. As he kneeled about you, gripping his cock firmly, he pumped his hand a few times before covering you from navel to nipple in thick pearls. He whimpered with each shot until his soul completely vanished from his eyes.

Once he finished, you ran a finger over his seed, bringing the wetness to your mouth. You savored Jean's taste and held his vacant stare with each finger that found your mouth. Your stomach was almost clean when you offered him a fiendish smile.

"Are you still in there?" you teased, and Jean nodded dumbly. Although he was physically present, his mind might as well have been on the moon.

"I... will find you... something to clean yourself up with," he mumbled before attempting to raise himself off the bed.

Unfortunately for your dearest painter, his strong muscles were too weak to stand, and his knees buckled beneath him. You steadied him before he toppled onto the floor, guided his back to the mattress, and threw a sheet over his glistening body.

"Don't trouble yourself. I'll find something, so focus on finding your bearings."

Since you were in a much better state than your beloved, you stood up and redressed despite the throbbing between your legs. Before you could flee the crime scene in search of a wet rag and the outhouse, Jean snatched your hand–the delirium in his eyes still apparent.

"You are beautiful," he told you. "So very beautiful. Promise me you will be quick, so I can tell you again when you return."

You beamed at his hazy romanticism. "I'll be quick, I promise."

"If you take too long, I will come looking for you."

"I'm sure you will." And you wriggled out of his weak hold.

You relit one of the bedchamber candles, hooked your finger in the holder, and stepped into the night with a minor limp. Seeing as you were unsure how much time it took for the bladder infection Hitch warned of to present itself, the first stop was the outhouse. You weren't willing to take any risk in your future, especially now that you genuinely had one to look forward to.

Next, you searched for a rag and fresh water. It was slightly nerve-racking–sneaking into the dim house for the water pitcher and some cloth to clean yourself with Niccolo just upstairs–but you worked quietly under the candle's glow. You even stole a glass of water, hoping it might restore some of Jean's sanity before he slipped into dreams.

After returning from the cabin and locking the door behind you, you found Jean waiting exactly where you had left him, except his eyes were shut. He was so peaceful in this light. So very peaceful. You wouldn't wake him unless absolutely necessary, so you left the water silently by his bedside.

You walked around the room, picked up every rose petal that littered the ground, and brought your handful to the dock. You floated the red petals like little ships into the water and watched them float into oblivion for a few seconds before returning to the cabin yet again. You hid the wine bottle and the glasses in one of the cleared-out drawers for later cleaning, and finally, you released Lucy from her makeshift cage.

"I told you we'd be quick," you whispered as she purred at your ankles. You cradled her in your arms and brought her to bed. "Barely even an hour."

You crawled into bed without so much as a creak from the frame. As soon as you lay down with Lucy on your chest, a hand snaked over your stomach and yanked you closer.

"You came back," Jean mumbled.

"I promised I would, didn't I?"

"And you are alright? Does it hurt?"

"Not enough to trouble me." You beamed as you tucked away some of the hair obscuring Jean's brow. "Now, let's hear how beautiful you think I am."

Jean lulled you to sleep with whispers of your beauty; it was the fastest you had fallen asleep all year—maybe even your whole life.

And the dream he gifted you–oh, such a wonderful dream. Jean's whispers pushed you straight into the house of your dreams with rainbowed leaves and smoking blue hills. You dreamt of humble breakfasts and candlelit dinners shared with your dearest love. The days grew colder and darker, but your hearth and heart were so full of warmth that you paid the chills little mind. Days and weeks flashed in blips until blue hills turned white, and the cold never crept inside the simple home Jean had built in your dreams.

But with the cold came this sense of an end, and somewhere deep in your heart, you knew you had to leave. Bags and drawers were opened; bags were filled; drawers were emptied; bags and drawers were closed–all farewells whispering in the icy wind.

Jean helped you pack away clothes, and sadness aged him even more. Laugh lines pulled downwards, tugging your love to the point of breakage.

Where you were going, you weren't sure, but you walked down that porch you dreamed of sipping tea each morning with a melancholy smile. Jean's expression mirrored yours as he carried your bags down an ice-covered path. The trail snaked around dense evergreens until the adorable, modest, cozy house was a distant dream well forgotten.

Cold cradled you in such a strange sense of loss, but what were you losing?

"Y/n!" a familiar voice called to you, but there was no one around other than a carriage driver and his horses. "Y/n?!"

"Stop it with the sad face," Jean stole your attention as he loaded your things into the buggy. "You will be back when you can, so smile for me. I want to remember you with a smile."

"But I'm not ready to leave," you mumbled with words you had no control over.

"And I am not ready to see you go, but such is life." Jean grasped your gloved hands. Snowflakes fell from the Heavens to coat his lashes in glittering diamonds as if on cue. Wetness soaked your cheeks, and you weren't sure whether it was the snow or tears.

"Y/n, where are you?!"

Where were you? And where were you going? Why, even in dreams, did you always have to leave? Why could you not stay forever where life was good?

"You look beautiful with the snow in your hair like this," he said. "Promise me you will work fast so I can tell you again when you return. It would be a shame if we spent the holidays apart again."

Jean leaned down to kiss your lips, and you closed your eyes to return that final show of love before you departed for wherever you were meant to go.

Banging shook you awake, followed by the jiggles of the locked cabin doorknob. Jean grumbled from beside you at the abrupt noises, and he tried to force you back into his arms. Sunlight poured in through every sheer curtain. It must have been mid-morning at the earliest.

You both had overslept.

"Y/n?!" Niccolo's unmistakable voice cut through the wood. "Why is this door locked?! Y/n, are you in here?! I've been looking everywhere for you!"

You shook Jean roughly, and as soon his eyes cracked open, and he attempted to speak, you slapped your fingers to his mouth.

"Y/n? Can you hear me?" Niccolo asked again.

Jean's eyes widened, but you whispered clear instructions, "Get your clothes on and hide under the bed. Don't move. Don't breathe. Don't do anything until he leaves."

Jean scurried out of the blankets and rushed to throw on whatever articles he could, and whatever he couldn't, he balled up and hid under the bed frame with himself. You straightened up as much as possible and stepped toward the doorway when you were sure Jean was out of sight.

You know nothing, you saw no one, you did nothing, you kept repeating. You came out here to sleep because your room was too hot. Fabricate whatever lies you need to keep Jean hidden.

You unlocked the door with a click and slowly opened up to find a sweating Niccolo at the door. His eyes were tense with fear, but relief flooded him upon seeing you.

"Oh, thank the Lord, Y/n. I have been looking for you for the last half hour! I... I was so worried. I brought your breakfast up to your room, but you were gone. I thought something... something happened. That someone snatched you in the night, and I missed it. Good Lord, my heart's racing so fast I might keel over," Niccolo heaved as he placed a hand over his chest. "What are you even doing out here?"

"I couldn't sleep," you breathed. "My room was unbearably hot, so I searched for a breeze."

"Why didn't you open a window?"

"I did, but it wasn't enough."

Niccolo nodded before releasing a heavy sigh. "You can't keep doing things like this to me. I'm getting too old for it."

"I'm sorry, Niccolo."

"You have to leave a note on the kitchen table next time. Or wake me up, so I know where you're going."

"I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I was just so tired."

"I can tell. Your voice barely has any meat to it." Niccolo offered you a half-smile. "Go into the house, grab your breakfast on the table, and pour a cup of coffee. They're probably all cold now, but something is better than nothing. I'll straighten up here for you while you eat."

Niccolo attempted to force himself inside the cabin, but you blocked him with hands on his chest and shouted, "No!"

"No?"

"I mean... You don't have to do that. I roughed up the bed, so I should be the one to straighten it. You shouldn't trouble yourself, especially after cooking and searching for me all morning."

"I can take care of it for you, Y/n."

"I don't mind cleaning. Honestly, it's good for me to get back into the swing of things. We have another round of guests coming not long after Mr. Arlert departs, don't we? I should start easing myself back in."

"We do." Niccolo leaned against the doorframe with arms crossed. "I didn't tell you about them yet, did I?"

God, you were sweating. How could you politely ask Niccolo to screw off? Why couldn't he take the hint and leave so you could sneak Jean off the property?

"I'm not... sure you did."

"Ah. Well, it's two of Levi's old students. They're to be married next week, and they'll be staying here until the furnishings for their marital house are finished. Shouldn't be long–an easy first-round back. Of course, if you ever need a break or aren't feeling up to entertaining them, I'll step in. I know it won't be easy, but you're right: you should start easing back into regular life. It'll be good for you."

"Of course. Thank you, Niccolo."

"If you want, you can join me on my trip into town today. We're running low on flour and your sleeping medicine. We can stop at the market, and... we'll see Dr. Yeager about getting you more medicine. Maybe you can grab something to eat with Eren. For old time's sake."

"That... that sounds wonderful."

"Perfect. I'll prepare the horses, and we'll leave once you're fed." Niccolo peaked over your shoulder. "Are you sure you can straighten things up in here by yourself? Stripping the sheets, putting on new ones, fluffing the pillows..."

"I'm sure."

"Alright, I'll trust you with it."

Niccolo turned to leave, and you could finally breathe without wanting to scream.

You did it. You successfully hid your wrongdoing yet again without raising the slightest suspicion within your guardian, and he was allowing you to see Eren during the day instead of having to sneak around at night. Luck must love you desperately, as she always passed good fortune your way when there was little room for cheating.

And then, there was a meow at the bottom of your feet.

Niccolo stopped walking away instantly, and he searched for the noise. Before you could stop her, Lucy ran out into the grass. You and Niccolo watched blankly as the kitten relieved herself, only to trot back into the cabin like she had done nothing out of the ordinary.

"Y/n," Niccolo gritted. "Why is that creature here?" It was over. "Who is inside?" You couldn't answer. "Y/n, I swear to all that is good, if that man was here..." You couldn't breathe. "Y/n, answer me right now: was Jean here?"

You couldn't do anything. You stood there, dumb and motionless, praying that your dream had turned into a nightmare, even if you knew that was impossible.

"Fine. You don't want to talk?" Niccolo sneered. "You have until I go inside, grab the rifle from my bedroom, load it with a bullet, and come back here to make sure you are alone. We'll even look through the cabin together before discussing this."

Niccolo stomped off, and you slowly shut the door. It barely even clicked when the August breeze was blocked from entering.

No. It was September, wasn't it? Yes, it was the first day of September.

Jean crept out from under the bed, clothes still in hand. You stood before him like a ghost–unwilling to break what last few moments you would ever have with him. Because this was the end, there would be no more sneaking out, late-night rendezvous, or passion-filled acts of adoration. You had until Niccolo returned to say millions of words, and no worthwhile ones came to mind.

"I'm sorry, Jean," you whispered. "You have to go."

"Maybe I can–"

"You need to leave, Jean. Please."

"Y/n, listen. I can reason with Niccolo. He would never shoot me. He is all bark, no bite. There is still–"

"Don't make this harder than it already is," you said with tears brimming your lash line. "I will miss you so much, Jean. I swear, I will think of you often."

"Y/n—"

"But you need to leave. I can't risk something happening to you. Even if there is the slightest chance we may meet again, even if it's years down the line, we have to do whatever we need to do to guarantee that future. Please, Jean. Please, go. Please."

Jean's lip quivered, but he held his tears back. "You know I cannot bear to lose you again."

"You are losing nothing. I will still be here. I will still think only of you. I promise."

Lucy meowed at your ankles. You scooped her up, rubbed your tears against her fur, and kissed her between her ears. "I'm sorry, little one. I should have let you out sooner. Poor thing." You laughed pitifully. "You did a good job of holding, though."

You handed her off to Jean. He took her weakly and placed one last kiss on your brow.

"Dream of me," he whispered against your skin. "Dream of me, and I will dream of you. Let sleep fill the spaces we cannot share."

You nodded, unable to choke something out, and Jean finally left the cabin for the last time. You watched him as long as he was a speck on the horizon until you returned to the bed and sat on warm sheets.

The room smelled of lavender after a summer rain, and the aroma was strong enough to kill.

Niccolo entered with his rifle, as promised. He looked under the bed, in the washroom, and behind every piece of furniture that had no hopes of shielding a cat, let alone a man. He forced you off the mattress to strip the sullied sheets and made the bed while you stared out the window.

The lake was so calm. So beautiful. So serene. So unlike inside the cabin.

"Y/n," Niccolo said. "Come. We'll talk in the kitchen."

Your body followed, but your spirit had receded into itself. You were an oyster without meat–without a pearl–an empty shell.

Niccolo ushered you into the house and sat you at the kitchen table.

"Armin!" Niccolo called, and the other blond appeared shortly after.

"Oh! You... You found her!" Armin smiled, but terror kept the corners of his eyes smooth at the sight of the gun. "How wonderful! We were so worried!"

"Give us a moment in the house alone, would you? We have a family matter to discuss."

Armin looked at you, offering one last bit of his assistance, and you shook your head. "Of course," Armin mumbled before fleeing out the backdoor.

Niccolo rested the rifle on the kitchen counter, and your jailer sat across from you with fingers weaved under his chin.

"How long has this been going on?" he started his interrogation.

What was the use of lying? Look at where it brought you.

"A few weeks."

"A few weeks?! You have been sneaking out to see that bastard for weeks?"

"He isn't a bastard," the starting of a fire burned in the back of your throat.

"Don't you dare talk back to me. To think I was finally starting to sleep again. I honestly believed you were resting each night! You started coming down more, spending time out of your room, and sharing conversation over food and drink. You were even strong enough to help me up the stairs when I was too... too... weak..." Niccolo's expression turned ghostly, and something clicked behind his eyes. "You stopped meeting me for water before bed... And your vial was empty last I checked... And I haven't needed to... to be carried. I've been so restless. Tell me you didn't, Y/n."

You didn't answer.

"Your medicine from Dr. Yeager--the one that helps you sleep. You were putting that poison in my water, weren't you? That's why I slept through every time you snuck out. You put it in my goddamn water!" Niccolo erupted. "What the hell is wrong with you? You were drugging me?!"

"You were exhausted," you answered coldly. "You needed the rest."

"What do you think you are: some kind of hero?! That you saved me from being tired? You force-fed me your medicine so you could spend the night with the man that nearly got you killed? Have you lost your goddamn mind?!"

Your spirit reignited in a sudden rage, "Jean didn't do anything! Stop blaming innocent people! The man that hurt me was caught! He's gone! Let life be as it was, and just be glad it's over!"

"Over? Oh, you're right. It is over. You are not to leave this house. Not even for a second! You need to relieve yourself: use a chamberpot. Want sunlight: stand in the window! You want to see Eren, Hitch, or anyone: go to sleep and dream of them because that's as close as you'll get!"

"That is ridiculous!"

"You are in my house, Y/n! You do as I say! You clearly have lost your mind and allowed some man to coerce you into actions you would never have done alone. You will atone for every misstep, and when I feel you have corrected your behavior, I will consider giving back some of your freedoms. Until then, I will ensure you stay on a straight path without being misled!"

So this was the end of your summer, and the good parts had only begun to flower. You would shrivel into gray, withering petals as your jailer watched you break apart and decay into the dirt.

And for what? Because you spent time with a man at nineteen? Because you were acting as a typical young woman with more mature interests? If Niccolo knew what else you had done–how you practically kidnapped and interrogated Floch under threat of force, paid off and spent time with the Ripper, and stalked a man before driving him to insanity–would he still think another was misleading you, or would he come to realize that you were capable of evil?

Your childish reputation proceeded you with Niccolo. You would always be the young girl who gorged herself on strawberry cakes, grew fruits in the garden, and was enchanted by the leading women and their happy lives in the romance novels he purchased you. But with romance often came tragedy–tragedies you would stop at nothing to avoid the genre you hated.

You would not succumb to despair until you met a cruel, painful end with the likes of Juliet, Cleopatra, or Isolde. There would be no dagger, no asp, and no succumbing to heartbreak. You wouldn't allow Niccolo to steal away your life to satisfy his need for control, and you had endured too much suffering to enable Fate to seize the last laugh.

With your spirit nearly restored, you stood from the table and marched past your jailer. Flying up the stairs with Niccolo trailing close behind–his voice still barking after you–you threw open your sewing room door and headed straight for the closet.

"What are you doing?" Niccolo asked when you ripped leather from the shadows and brushed past him into the hall. "We aren't finished talking!"

"We are finished. There is nothing left to say," you answered.

Once you entered your room, you tossed the suitcases on the ground and went to work. Heaps of clothes were pulled from your dressers and stored away. You haphazardly stuffed undergarments and dresses into leather bags. At the same time, Niccolo stood fuming in the doorway.

Your new life would fit into two leather bags, although you barely paid little attention to what you shoved inside them.

"What are you doing?" Niccolo gritted. "Y/n, answer me. What the hell are you doing?!"

"I'm leaving. If I can't be with Jean here, then I will go elsewhere."

"How on earth are you managing to play the victim right now? Instead of admitting that drugging me was wrong and accepting your punishment, you'll run away?! Do you honestly believe you can disappear with a man you have known for less than a season like it's easy? Like it's the obvious solution?!"

You kept packing–allowing your silence to serve as an answer.

"You are so desperate to be treated as a woman, but you have no concept of what being an adult entails! Do you think he will whisk you away, and all your problems will magically vanish? Do you have any idea of how little an artist makes? What will you do when money is tight, and Jean drinks away all your savings in another one of his drunken stupors? If you want, I can pull out every one of Armin's letters from the last year detailing how your tippler spent his money! Do you think slipping a little medicine into his wine will fix that? What if he should become too drunk and forgets to be gentle with you? You know as well as I how easily a good wife can become a battered one! And should he decide you are not enough for him and tosses you to the side, how will you support yourself?"

"Jean wouldn't do any of that," you seethed.

"Oh, because you know him so well!"

"I know him better than you."

"No! You don't! That's the problem!" Niccolo finally screamed, his face red as fire. "You know nothing! If you knew anything, you would put your clothes back in their proper places. You would–No, you should thank me for overlooking your obvious lapses in judgment and saving your goddamn life! Because that is what I did today: I saved you from a life of misery with a drunken ass that would never treat you half as well as you deserve! You are too young to understand what a colossal mistake you are making by even entertaining the notion of running away with him!"

"Then they are my mistakes to make!" you finally screamed. "I deserve a say in my own life! Jean is kind to me even when I spit venom, and he is gentle when I am undeserving of his softness! He makes me so happy I can barely contain myself when he's around! And if being happy with someone is a mistake, I will gladly make it a thousand times over! Again and again, I will ruin my life with so much happiness that I could choke on it!"

"Kind? Gentle?!" Niccolo shook his head with eyes full of disappointment. "So, he put you up to this, didn't he? He was the one that told you to slip medicine into my–"

You cut Niccolo off, "He did nothing of the sort. Everything I did, I did of my own volition."

"Did you? God, listen to yourself!" Niccolo let out a laugh so full of disbelief. "You are a child–a manipulated child–who was taken advantage of by a grown man, but you are too twisted in his webs to see it."

Visions turned red, and you saw nothing but where to jam the knife deepest to kill Niccolo the quickest.

"What was Sasha, then, Niccolo?" you asked, voice ripe with feigned innocence. "Was she a child that you manipulated? Was she a mistake to you?!"

"... Don't you dare bring her into this."

"Why? Because you know she told me everything growing up? How she saw you working on a kitchen worker's salary–however much that was at the time! She used to sneak out to see you, just like I snuck out to see Jean! You used to bring her treats so that she'd be sweet on you! She was about my age, and you were about Jean's when you first met, for Christ's sake! Did you manipulate her, or did you love her?!"

"Don't act as though you and I are the same. It was different with Sasha, and you–"

"How?! How is it any different?! Because I gave you a harmless little teaspoon of medicine where she didn't give one to her father, or because you think you can rip into me since your mistakes are in the past?!"

"Because neither Sasha nor I had holes to fill!" Niccolo blared. "We both had happy families, decent lives, good fortunes! We did not need love; we chose to share it together! You are thirsting for anything to satiate you, but Jean–!"

"So what? If I am not near perfection, then am I undeserving of love?! In your twisted world, is love only meant for the wealthy? For the content? For the decent?! For those that have already filled themselves with goodness, while the broken are doomed to starve?!"

"It is not about being deserving! You are not ready to run off with someone at this point in your life! You need to heal! From everything! A short-lived romance will not fix the grief, the fear, the nightmares, or the obvious idiocy that plagues you! Only you and time can do that, and you need more!"

You shook your head behind trembling lips. "I lost the last month of my life healing. I'm healed, see?" You lifted your full bags and threw them back down in rage. "Healed!"

"No, you aren't!"

"I am!"

"A month is not enough! You know that better than anyone."

"How long would you have me be locked up in this hellhole of a house?! For the rest of my life?!"

"If that is how long it takes you to see reason!"

You scoffed and shook your head. "Why is my happiness such a difficult concept for you to grasp? Why do I always have to bend and break to exist in your world?! I'm tired of existing! I want to enjoy my life, and I finally found someone that does not ask me to bend to them! Someone that cares for me!"

"If you think Jean honestly cares for you, you are sorely mis–"

"Don't say it! Do not impress your wisdom upon me as though I give two shits about your opinion! And do not belittle my feelings because I won't stand for it! I won't even hear it!"

"Oh, you will hear it! If I have to scream at you all day and night for you to understand, then that's what I'll do!"

"Why?! Why am I–"

"Because you are all I have left!!" Niccolo screamed so loud that the windows shook, and stiff silence followed. His voice broke, "You're all I have left." Niccolo's lip quivered while you reflected in brown puddles. "I will never remarry. I will never have children. Should another tragedy befall you, then my promises to your father... To Sasha... Should I fail to keep you safe, my life will have been for nothing."

Niccolo's heart was exposed to you in one last attempt to keep you trapped, and you drove the blade deep enough to kill.

"And your refusal to see me as nothing more than an obligation to the dead will leave you barren."

You shoved the last of your things into the bags and forced the leather shut. Taking both handles, you stood up and pushed past Niccolo. Stomping down the steps, each crash of your feet was louder than the last. You hit the bottom, marched to the front door, and dropped a bag to take hold of the knob.

You were one step closer. All you had to do was take hold, twist, and be on your merry way. You would have everything you wanted since you were old enough to dream.

But as your fingers wrapped around the brass, you hesitated.

Because what if Niccolo was right? What if Jean couldn't fix you the way you so obviously needed, given all your vicious anger? What if he was not some life-saving cure? What if Jean needed to heal? What if he needed time of his own?

And what would you do in London without family? Without friends? Without anyone to count on for support other than Jean and Armin? Should they turn their backs on you, what did you have other than a needle, some thread, and your body? Would they do that to you? Did they genuinely want you around?

Did anyone?

Turn, you begged your trembling hand. Turn, goddammit. He's lying. He's bluffing. He doesn't mean it. He would never truly abandon you. Not if you needed him. Stop being a coward and turn. Be brave for once in your pitiful life.

"If you walk out that door, you will never be welcomed back into this house," Niccolo called from the top of the stairs. You snapped around to see him, and tears leaked from brown eyes. "You leave, and it's over. I cannot force you to stay, but you cannot force me to let you back in should you come up empty-handed and broken-hearted. Not after everything you've said today. You go, and you are on your own."

The wind whispered, "Not like this. You are better than this."

How could you leave Niccolo after using his wife and the closest you would ever have to a sister in some fucked-up game of chess?

How cruel could you possibly be?

The brass slipped from your fingers, and resolve slipped with it. You bent down to grasp the suitcase left abandoned at your feet. Retracing your steps, you passed Niccolo at the top of the stairs–unable to meet his gaze.

Bags and drawers were opened; bags were emptied; drawers were filled; bags and drawers were closed–all while Niccolo watched from your doorway. You never had the bravery to steal a peek at him, but your heart told you he did not care to rub your nose in his victory.

Niccolo only wanted to ensure that your things found their places and that you stayed.

When you nearly finished, Niccolo mumbled, "Say a prayer for each curse you used, and come down when you're done. I'll light a fire for the coffee while I do the same." Your guardian gently shut the door behind him, and frustration burned wet cheeks.

Because when you reached the bottom of the suitcase, not a single pair of socks found their way into either bag.

Don't cry, you told yourself. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. Tears will not set you free, so they are not worth crying.

"Cry, little one," the wind whispered. "Let it go."

And a great flood ensued.

French Translations:

Rends-moi ça = Give that back

Ne mange pas les fleurs. J'ai bossé dur sur ça = Don't eat the flowers. I worked hard on this

Bon sang = Goodness grief/goddamn

Tu es diabolique = You are evil

mon amour = my love

Je sais, Lulu. Je suis un génie = I know, Lulu. I am a genius

Merde... J'aime quand tu dis mon nom. Tu as une si jolie voix = Shit... I love it when you say my name. You have such a pretty voice