Chapter 2 — Small Things That Matter
You learn quickly that mornings in this world are not gentle.
The day begins with boots hitting stone, shouted orders, and the scrape of chairs across floors. The sun barely has time to rise before the weight of survival presses itself onto everyone's shoulders again.
You wake before the bell.
Not because you have to—but because your body has learned the rhythm of fear. Even in sleep, you are listening.
You dress quietly and step outside, the air cold and sharp against your skin. The courtyard is already alive with movement. Soldiers stretch, spar, argue half-heartedly. Someone laughs, the sound breaking off too abruptly.
You head toward the mess hall.
Inside, the smell of bread and weak tea fills the space. You grab what you can carry—extra cups, an extra plate—and begin moving through the room like you belong.
At first, no one notices.
Then someone does.
"Hey," Connie says, blinking at the extra food you place beside him. "What's this for?"
"You skipped dinner last night," you reply, not stopping.
He stares after you like you've just committed a crime.
"You notice weird stuff," he mutters.
You shrug. "Someone should."
Across the room, Sasha catches your eye mid-bite. You hold up another roll of bread. She freezes.
"…For me?" she asks carefully, like it might disappear.
You nod.
She grins—wide, bright, grateful in a way that feels almost painful. "You're officially my favorite person."
Jean snorts. "You say that about anyone who feeds you."
"That's not true," she says. "Sometimes I like them even more."
It's small. Laughable, even.
But something shifts.
Later, in the infirmary, you help sort supplies while a medic works through the wounded. There aren't many today—a rare mercy—but the room is still heavy with quiet pain.
You don't rush.
You sit beside a soldier whose leg is wrapped too tightly and loosen it when he winces. You refill water glasses without being asked. You listen.
Not with urgency. With presence.
"Most people don't stay," the medic remarks quietly as she watches you.
"Where would I go?" you ask.
She pauses. Then nods, as if that answers something she's been wondering.
It's Mikasa who seeks you out first.
You're folding linens when she approaches, footsteps silent as ever.
"You helped Eren last night," she says.
You look up. "I sat with him. He couldn't sleep."
"He doesn't let people do that."
You hesitate. "He didn't talk much."
"That's still something."
She studies you—not threatening, but cautious. Protective.
"Why are you here?" she asks.
The question isn't sharp. It's genuine.
You consider lying.
Instead, you say, "Because I don't want to leave."
Mikasa's eyes soften—just slightly.
"…If anyone bothers you," she says, turning away, "tell me."
It's not warmth.
But it's safety.
The afternoon is filled with routine. Training schedules. Inventory counts. The world moves, relentless as ever.
You're helping Hange organize notes when she suddenly stops, staring at you like a puzzle she's almost solved.
"You don't ask many questions," she says.
"I listen," you reply.
"That's rarer."
She taps her pen against her chin. "You're not afraid of us."
You think of Titans. Of death. Of futures you know but cannot speak.
"I am," you say honestly. "I just don't let it decide what I do."
Hange laughs softly. "Oh, I like you."
You see Levi again near dusk.
He's supervising training, posture rigid, voice sharp. You stay out of the way, watching from the edge, careful not to intrude.
A recruit stumbles. Levi snaps. The tension tightens.
Afterward, you approach—not directly. You wait until he's alone, cleaning his blades.
You place a cup of tea on the table beside him.
He doesn't look up.
"…I didn't order that."
"I know," you say.
Silence stretches.
He finally glances at the cup. "You're persistent."
"You're exhausted."
He scoffs. "Observant."
You meet his gaze. Calm. Unafraid.
"You don't have to drink it," you say. "I just thought you might want it nearby."
Something unreadable passes through his eyes.
"…Tch."
But he doesn't push it away.
That night, you notice him drink it when he thinks no one's looking.
As days pass, your presence becomes expected.
Someone saves you a seat. Someone asks your opinion. Someone knocks on your door when they can't sleep.
You don't fight. You don't command.
You stay.
And that, in this world, means everything.
You lie awake one night, listening to distant thunder—or maybe footsteps—and realize something terrifying.
They are beginning to care.
And you are beginning to care back.
In a world built on loss, that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
🔥 End of Chapter 2