The infirmary was quieter at dusk. The lanterns had been turned down, the scent of herbs and cloth thick in the air. Bandages hung neatly in the cabinet, and only two soldiers lay resting beneath thin sheets.
Mikasa was one of them—propped up slightly on her cot, her arm wrapped tightly in gauze, eyes half-open but unfocused. She hated stillness. She hated needing it.
The door creaked softly.
Boots. Light. Familiar.
Annie.
She hesitated in the doorway before stepping in, no words offered. She wore her full uniform, jacket half-open, dust clinging to her boots. The setting sun gave her a copper outline, her expression unreadable.
"You're not supposed to be here," Mikasa said, voice low but steady.
"I know."
Annie didn't move further. The silence stretched.
"I'm not here to talk," she added.
Mikasa raised an eyebrow. "That's good. I don't have the energy for you."
Annie almost smiled—but didn't.
She took a step closer, then another. Finally sat in the chair by Mikasa's bed. Her fingers rested on her own knees, still tense. She looked at the wall, not at the woman beside her.
The minutes passed.
Mikasa didn't speak. But she watched her.
Something shifted. Annie's eyes dropped to the bed.
There, Mikasa's hand rested—still, open, bruised at the knuckles.
Annie reached, hesitated—then touched it. Not a hold. Just the edge of her fingers against the commander's skin. Brief. Careful.
Mikasa didn't move.
For a moment, the only sound was their breathing.
Then footsteps.
Annie pulled back immediately, her spine straightening. The door opened.
Jean stepped inside, carrying a note. He froze slightly at the sight of Annie.
"She awake?" he asked.
Mikasa nodded once. Annie stood.
"I was leaving," she said to no one in particular.
Jean watched her go, something unreadable in his eyes.
When the door shut, Mikasa stared at the ceiling.
She hadn't flinched.