Hey everyone! I decided to throw this out there because it's been rattling around in my head, and I thought it might be kinda fun to write. Also, it's Christmas time, so I thought it might be appropriate. Anyway...I'm not exactly positive where I'll end up with this one...I have a few ideas, though, so we'll see. Let me know what you guys think?

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters.

Enjoy!

Monday

Today is winter.

Well, it's been winter for over a month, actually. I know because it's marked on every calendar and professors announce it the morning of, like it's a holiday all its own, before they move on with their lecture like any other day, and "winter" lies forgotten in the shadow of autumn's leaves. I know because reds and greens and music-with-bells and plastic Santas have invaded all of the big department stores (these are the ones I avoid. Never trust a plastic Santa—no matter how warm those rosy cheeks might appear. Ceramic Santas are a little better, but they're still questionable). I know because the first snow has fallen and melted; now, as Christmas approaches, I can see the little ones as they peer out of their living room windows, tiny hands pressed against the glass, urging the cold-white-joy to return.

Yes, winter has been here for some time now.

But today? Today, in my mind, it is truly and thoroughly winter. I know because I walk into my favorite coffee shop and I see, scrawled in (drawn, not written) letters the words Eggnog Chai.

Oh, yes. Today is winter, indeed.

Now, this coffee shop—my coffee shop, as I have lovingly (and secretly) dubbed it—is not a very well-known place. It's on a side street downtown, with a red brick storefront and a worn sidewalk and an "Open" sign that only lights up three-quarters of the way, so it actually reads "pen." The cafe shares a building with a bakery and an old sushi place, each situated on either side of it. They press in so closely that from the outside the shop appears cramped: the disgruntled middle child who has to sit between two obnoxious siblings on a long road trip. The three stores also share the same ventilation system (they used to be one shop; the owner tells me it was a small department store or something. I'll bet the plastic Santas ran it out of business). Because of this, there are days when smells from the obnoxious siblings leak into the coffee shop. It's not such a bad thing when the bakery wins the day. Sticky buns and poppy seed muffins and made-from-scratch breads provide quite a warm, comforting scent, after all. But when the sushi place comes through...well, let's just say I know the shop well enough to have the good sense to stay away on Tuesdays. Sushi always wins on Tuesdays.

But today is a Monday and not a Tuesday, so I pull my evergreen muffler up over my nose to stave off the wind and I see the sign that reads Eggnog Chai through the window, and I know: today is winter.

I push open the door with a sense of homecoming and tug at the collar of my jacket. Petra, the owner, is manning the counter today.

She sees me enter and gives me a smile. "Hey, Mikasa! Having the usual?" she asks, whisking a strand of shoulder-length hair behind her ear. Today it is a deep auburn. She dies it every other month—always a natural-looking color, but so far this one seems to match her personality best: warm and welcoming, with subtle highlights of a bright, joyful perseverance.

"Yes, please. With eggnog." I pull lightly at my scarf until it covers just the end of my chin.

Petra nods. "Can't believe it's that time of year," she says, reaching for a twelve ounce cup. It's a solid, Christmas red, devoid of any Santas or reindeer or northern stars, but holiday-ish just the same. "Got a lot of homework today?"

I tug at the strap of my backpack with a sigh. "Not too much...mostly reading."

"Ah, nice." Petra begins steaming the milk with a faint smile. I'm not really one for small talk, but she and I have an understanding, a sort of common ground, in which she asks simple questions and I give simple answers, and in doing so we remain suspended in comfortable proximity, each grateful for the other's presence.

Petra finishes my chai and I pay with neatly-folded bills before dropping my usual tip in the jar. She wishes me luck on my homework, I nod my thanks, and then I take my Christmas cup of winter and savor the rush of warmth it provides against my palm.

One of the best things about my coffee shop is that it is not just a coffee shop. It is also a bookstore. And bookstores carry real books with real pages and not Kindle or Google ones, so they can be flipped through and smelled and appreciated. This is why it is also my best friend's favorite coffee shop. Armin can't resist the scent of fresh books (I prefer well-aged ones, myself. It is something we debate far more often than I'd care to admit).

The left side of the shop is largely reserved for said books; there is, however, a single table in the corner, boxed in by a couple of shelves. It is an older table—round, with scuffed chairs and hand-carved trim and one leg that is slightly off-center, so it wobbles a bit if you put too much weight on one side. But most importantly, it is secluded, and surrounded by books on three sides with a window on the fourth, strategically placed as an avenue for pensive daydreams and heavy sighs. It is a perfect location for quiet conversations or the exceptionally introverted.

Over the last two years, I have staked my claim on this table. It is, in essence, my table, from 2:30 p.m. to 7:00 (barring Sushi Tuesdays). Armin joins me occasionally; he often prefers to study at the university's library. My cousin, Levi, also stops in now and then—mostly, I think, because he has eyes for Petra. But apart from them, it's just me. In my coffee shop. At my table.

Comfortably alone.

So when I come around the corner and see Not-Armin-Not-Levi sitting there, I stop short.

He doesn't notice me at first. His head is buried in a textbook, the title of which I can't see. He's wearing a red sweatshirt under a black peacoat (it must be old, because one of the sleeves is slightly tattered around the cuff. Why only one, though? Why?), and a charcoal-grey beanie lies on the table next to an open laptop and a long, looped cord for his earbuds. The remaining surface of the table is littered with various items: a dog-eared notebook, two red pens, three crumpled gum wrappers, and a number two pencil with a partially-chewed eraser. His shaggy brown hair is long enough that it's almost in his eyes when he leans over.

And his eyes...they flicker from where they've been thoroughly fixed on the textbook page, and they lock onto mine.

Sharp. Alive. Familiar, somehow, as though I've seen them in passing when I'm walking the halls of the university. And they're green—not the common, muddled green that some people have: drying grass with a bit of dirt thrown in—but a vibrant, uncanny sea-green, electric and piercing and endless all at once.

I stare at Table Thief. He stares back. And then, just as he is about to remove an earbud and his mouth opens to say something, I whisk around and scurry back to the other side of the coffee shop, where a secondary table squats resignedly against the far wall. I've only used it a few times before (and only on Saturday mornings, when a knitting club composed of four elderly ladies occupies my table).

I set my backpack down with a disgruntled huff and pull out my textbook on Renaissance and Baroque art; I'm not particularly fond of the class, but I needed another art credit, and it was either that or a painting course. The historical elements of this class, at least, are interesting, and it has spared me the embarrassment of attempting to slap some paint on a blank canvas. With a sigh, I remove my jacket—but not the scarf, never the scarf—and settle myself onto a chair with my back to the wall so that I can observe my surroundings.

I take a sip of chai as I flip through the pages. It's outrageously rich—something I'm not usually keen on, but when it comes to this season, the combination of the eggnog and the chai creates something truly perfect: a liquid manifestation of supreme comfort. I set the cup down with a delicate tap and begin to read.

It's been an hour. Table Thief can't stay back there forever, right? When he leaves, I can return to my oasis.

I sigh. I take another sip of my beverage, savoring the richness while calculating the miles I'll need to run in the morning, and then I return to my studies.

It is now 4:02 p.m. The last few sips of my chai have gone cold. I have watched twelve customers come and go, the sun has dipped below the horizon, and I've caught myself chewing lightly on my eraser not just one, but two times. I'm nearly finished with my assigned reading for the next few days...perhaps I'll read ahead, though.

No sign of Table Thief. Who does he think he is, anyway? And does he go to the same school, or am I imagining things?

I return to the Renaissance era. Green eyes stare back at me.

At 6:12 p.m., I check my phone and find no messages. Armin will still be studying. Levi is working. Ymir and Jean are on the school's intramural basketball team, and Sasha is hosting a welcome party for new members of her Culinary Club.

I tap my pencil against the open page of my book, frowning. Winter evenings are often like this—slow and relatively uneventful. In the spring, tennis keeps me occupied, but for tonight I'm on my own.

Not that I really mind the slowness, or the aloneness, even. It seems to coincide well with the peaceful atmosphere of winter.

Still. Quiet. Like the snow.

I glance up at the sound of the door opening. A gust of cold wind rushes across the tables, just powerful enough to reach me and ruffle my ebony hair before it dissipates with a soft hiss. Out of habit I tug my muffler back up to cover my nose. Blinking, I realize that it's Table Thief, standing in the doorway, a backpack slung over his shoulder and that charcoal-grey beanie tugged over his head, little feathers of brown hair sticking out of the edges as though reaching for air. He pauses, glances back. Those green eyes find me. Our gazes lock. I hold my breath for some strange, unfamiliar reason, and then he smiles. It's a curious thing, vanishing almost as quickly as it appears, but it is bright just the same.

Then he ducks his head and trudges out into the cold, but the sea-green of his gaze remains until long past the time when I pack up my things and head back to the dorm.

Tuesday

"Hungry?" I sit down beside Armin and hand him one of my protein bars. He's bowed over a Differential Equations textbook, a calculator and an open notebook with line upon line of Numbers Nonsense scribbled down the page.

He smiles as he takes the bar, ever-so-grateful for even the smallest gesture of kindness. "Thanks," he says, glancing around for the librarian before carefully pulling apart the wrapper (Levi hasn't explicitly banned most foods, but that doesn't mean his wrath is any lesser when students leave wrappers. Or crumbs. Or fingerprints.).

Armin happily takes a bite of the offering and peers over at me with a discerning blue gaze. "Sushi Tuesday?" he asks.

I nod grimly and pull out my art history textbook, plopping it down on the table with a sigh. The school library isn't a bad place to study, really. It is, after all, two whole floors of used books and computers and tables that are surrounded by more books and computers. The far wall is smattered with a myriad of high, bay windows that look out over our campus. It's always, always clean here, of course, because Levi is in charge.

But it is also at school. Thus, it looks like school and it smells like school and there are people I know from school, and after hours of class, I usually need some air. Hence my love of that far table at my coffee shop—my oasis.

I wonder if Table Thief is there now. If so, I'm sure he's enjoying the smell of some very ripe fish from the obnoxious sibling next door.

Serves him right.

Still, as Armin and I turn comfortably to our respective textbooks, I find myself wondering about this mysterious thief, both familiar and foreign at once. I wonder what his name is. I wonder why the cuff of his sleeve is tattered. I wonder why his eyes are that specific shade of green, why they persist to stare back at me when I close mine. It's unsettling.

"Have you seen Jean today?" Armin asks after quite some time, pulling his head up to breach the tide of Numbers Nonsense.

I blink to clear my mind and pick at a stray thread on my scarf. "I haven't. Was he looking for me?"

"Well, he's always looking for you…."

I roll my eyes and flip to the next page of my textbook. Of course he is. Jean's persistence is almost admirable, but it's also pointless—unfortunately for him. He's a nice friend and all, but...well, I suppose that's it. He's just a nice friend (a pushy, somewhat arrogant, marginally nice friend). I blink again. Green eyes stare back at me. Stop that.

Armin clears his throat, pulling me to the present. "But anyway, he got in a fight yesterday."

I frown. "At the basketball game?" It's no secret that Jean is a bit of a hothead. He's been in more than one altercation over the last few years. Especially when sports are involved. And girls. "Is he alright?"

"Yeah, he's fine. A little banged up and all, of course. He's got quite the black eye." Armin's blonde hair glimmers as winter sunlight filters through the window, illuminating his small frame. "He was at a party last night after the game, and apparently he got into it with some guy from another dorm—Jaeger, I think his name is? I asked Ymir what it was about, but she wouldn't say."

"Hmm."

"Yeah. He should get his act together, you know? Before he gets into a fight he can't win."

I skim through a paragraph before looking over at him again. "Are we still on for tomorrow?" I ask him, eager to change the subject. "At Pen?" It's not the real name of my coffee shop, of course, but the nickname stuck almost as soon as the "O" in "Open" resigned.

Armin nods. "Of course."

Nodding, I pull my scarf up over my nose for a moment, considering. It will be nice to have Armin there tomorrow...especially if Table Thief strikes again. Sitting out in the open—the "normal" area—will be more bearable with the company of Armin's unfailing kindness. At times, it seems as though his friendship is the only buffer I have against the rest of this world, so prone to cruelty and cold.

A good scarf can only do so much to keep it at bay.

We don't hear him approach, but the low, bored tone of his voice is unmistakable. "Armin," Levi mutters from behind us, "those aren't crumbs I see, are they?"

Armin nearly jumps out of his seat. He looks back at the librarian, apology wide in the blue of his eyes. He hastily begins wiping the evidence into an open hand. "Sorry, sir!" he stammers. "I'll take care of it."

Levi grunts noncommittally. His grey eyes drift with feigned disinterest over to me, the most subtle flicker of amusement tugging at his lips, before the expression settles back into one of calm, measured boredom. "Ackerman," he murmurs, "did you pick out my Christmas present yet?"

I pull my muffler down and settle him with an equally level gaze. "No—not that I would tell you if I had. You shouldn't ask those things, you know."

"Why not?" He blinks slowly at me and picks an invisible something from the sleeve of his well-pressed shirt. "Is it rude?"

"Some people think so."

"Do you?"

I help Armin with the last of his crumbs before answering. "Well, you're always rude."

Levi snorts. "Brat."

"Midget."

"Careful," he drawls, "I might just give you coal."

I roll my eyes at that. "You gave me coal last year."

"You deserved it."

I chuckle in spite of myself, a rare and light sound, before I turn back to my book. A patter of footsteps announces the approach of another student, who hesitantly asks Levi for help in finding a certain book. My cousin huffs a great sigh. Then he ambles after him, gliding across the library floor, while Armin and I are left to wallow in our textbooks.

Wednesday

As far as the smell goes, Wednesdays at Pen are hit-and-miss. So when Armin and I shuffle in from the cold and are greeted by the sweet fragrance of the bakery next door—icing and raspberry filling and bread made from scratch—we release a collective sigh of appreciation. I order my usual chai from Petra (minus the eggnog today, as I can only take so much richness per week); Armin goes for a dark roast with a splash of cream.

Petra smiles up at me as Armin calculates his tip. "So," she begins, "you sharing your table now?" Armin shoots me a questioning look, his golden eyebrows arching high.

Sounds like Table Thief is back, then.

"No." I flip down the collar of my jacket with a frown. "He's a thief."

"A cute thief. Don't you think?" Petra hands me my chai, winking.

I'm glad my muffler is still high; it conceals the traitorous red glow of my cheeks. Before I can object, Armin steps in to rescue me, dropping his tip in the jar and lightly tugging on my sleeve. "Come on," he says, "we can sit over here. Thanks, Petra!" He raises his cup in gratitude before whisking me away.

We plod over to the secondary table, weaving around a happy couple who haven't decided on which drinks they want yet, and I tug my evergreen muffler down before sitting. Armin fishes Differential Equations out of his pack. With precise purpose, he lines up his notebook, pencil, and calculator beside it—each one perfectly spaced and square—before he begins his work. I pull out my own textbook and start to read.

"So, who's the guy at our table?" Armin asks me after just over an hour of reading and sipping and observing other customers with a practiced expression of Levi-esque indifference.

I turn to the previous page of my book. "Not sure. He was here on Monday, but I didn't talk to him."

"Oh." His blue eyes drift tiredly down to his endless scribbles of Numbers Nonsense before he looks back up at me. "I know you really like that spot," Armin says. "Maybe we could share?"

I sniff. "No, he takes up the whole table with all of his stuff."

"Ah, so he's one of those." Armin blinks at me. "Well, maybe he'll make room if we ask."

I look up from my current page, where Caravaggio's Sacrifice of Isaac and an in-depth analyzation of the piece have been holding my attention for the last fifteen minutes. My expression must be close to that of Abraham's right now: a mixture of surprise and rigid determination.

Sit with someone new? Someone we don't know? And a thief, no less! I think not.

Armin interprets my look with ease. He sighs, shrugs, and returns to his Numbers Nonsense. I take a sip of my chai before returning to Abraham and Isaac.

He worries about me, I know. I suppose I can understand his concerns—my introverted, stoic nature and my penchant for isolating myself make it difficult for me to find new friends. But the truth is that I prefer having a small number of people I trust. Armin and Levi have been there for me since the Unspeakable Night, that horror, the one we never address anymore, and while I've managed to allow a few others into my life (at arm's length, of course), I'm content with the solidarity of Armin and Levi's companionship through all of my narrowly interspersed days and nights of solitude.

Isaac stares out at me from where he lies upon the altar, his eyes wide and scared. I sigh.

Armin glances up at the sound. He regards me for a moment, and then: "Want to browse some books? They should have a few new ones since last time."

"Sure," I agree, glad for the suggestion, and we leave our textbooks open and forgotten on the table.

Armin follows me across the cafe and over to the books section. I peek around the corner of one of the shelves, where my oasis is, and Table Thief is there because of course he is. In the moment it takes me to glance over at him I can see that he's exchanged his red sweatshirt and peacoat for a Christmas sweater. It's dark green with a patterned stripe of red across the chest; little white reindeer are knitted along the center of the pattern. His beanie lies on the table. His earbuds are in. He has four gum wrappers today instead of three, and the remnants of his eraser amounts to nothing more than a jagged stump. Table Thief's head is buried in his textbook—the same one as Monday's, by the look of it—and I step back into cover before he glances up.

I run my fingers along the spines of several books in front of me. I'm in the Mystery section; it isn't my genre, really, but Armin loves the challenge of a good crime novel. I slide an unfamiliar title out and hand it to him. Smiling, he flips through the pages, fanning the scent of unblemished pages toward himself, before reading the synopsis.

"Hmm." Armin scrunches his brow and hands me the book. I oblige him by giving it a good sniff—pressed tree and black ink and something metallic—before offering him a thoughtful nod and replacing it on the shelf. We do this several times before shifting over to my favorite section, where all of the used books are kept. I dabble at first, sliding out a few that I haven't seen here before, but after several long minutes I go straight to my favorite. It's an old copy of Les Misérables. The pages are old enough that I can't make out the publication date inside the cover; the binding used to be a dark red, I think, but now it is mostly brown. The spine is tattered and tired from use. The first thirty-seven pages are stained at the top right corner, where its previous owner apparently spilled some coffee, and the smell—ah, the smell! It's perfect: aged and warm and ragged, all well-worn pages and cedar bookshelves and years and years of life. I flip to the middle of the book and unabashedly breathe in until my lungs can expand no further.

Armin looks on in amusement before he plucks another from the shelf: The Call of the Wild. "Are you going to buy it today?" he asks, flipping through the acknowledgments.

I hum thoughtfully as I turn a few more pages, skimming over the words. I read Les Misérables only once, back in high school, and I quite enjoyed it. But because of this copy's age ("It's an antique," Petra always tells me), it's marked at $47.50, and I simply can't bring myself to pay that much. So I return regularly to make sure it's still here. And I wait. One day, perhaps, the price will go down—or I'll just bite the bullet and pay for the thing. Something tells me I won't regret it.

"Maybe after Christmas," I answer him, fanning the pages one more time.

And suddenly, as I am standing there with my nose shoved in the book and my scarf pulled low around my neck and my raven-black hair falling in locks across my face, I hear a voice drift over from the other side of the shelf.

"How's it smell?" the voice asks, and I know it is Table Thief, somehow, even before the top of his head breaches the shelf and his sea-green eyes peer down at me.

I slap the book closed. Armin drops The Call of the Wild. Huffing, he scrambles to pick it back up, tenderly brushing off the cover. The green of Table Thief's eyes seems to brighten as he watches us fumble.

"Um, good," I stammer as I hurriedly place Les Misérables back where it was, sandwiched neatly between the shelf's lower left edge and a copy of Parenting for Dummies with a suspiciously vomit-colored stain down its spine. I brush a strand of hair out of my eyes and shoot Table Thief a wicked glare. "It's not polite to eavesdrop."

His dark eyebrows fall low. I assume he's frowning, but the shelf conceals everything below the upper half of his nose. "You think I was eavesdropping?" he snorts. "On you two book sniffers? Please."

"Well, that is what it looks like," Armin interjects. His gaze is stern, but I can detect a sparkle of amusement in the curve of his mouth.

Table Thief rolls his eyes. "Nah, you've got it all wrong. See, here I was, minding my own business, doing some studying, when the sound of your...sniffing...interrupted my train of thought. You guys should really try to keep it down over there."

"There's no way you could've heard us through those earbuds," I say.

"Oh?" Whoops. He was fishing, and I took the bait. "How did you know I was wearing earbuds today?" Table Thief's eyes crinkle at the edges. "Were you spying on me?"

I pinch the fabric of my scarf, clinging to its silky texture. "No, I just—"

"Uh-huh."

Armin looks between us, watching with an increasing amount of interest. There's a brief pause. Table Thief looks like he's about to return to his studies, but Armin stops him when he asks, "What were you studying for?"

Sea-green eyes divert from my shadowed face to Armin's. "Anatomy and Physiology," he answers. He releases a great, upward breath, ruffling the strands of brown hair that lie against his forehead.

"Oh. I hear that class is difficult," Armin says.

Table Thief sighs. He blinks once, slowly. "That's putting it lightly. Professor Hange's expectations are...severe." So he does go to the same school. He tips his head to the side, regarding us, and I can see the curve of his ear where his hair parts. "You guys look familiar," he murmurs. "Science majors?"

"Mechanical Engineering," Armin tells him.

Table Thief looks to me, and I swallow. "English."

He nods thoughtfully. "That explains the book sniffing," he chuckles. "Just kidding. But really….I'm majoring in Health Science—I plan to go into physical therapy, though."

"Nice."

"Yeah." He blinks. I still haven't seen the lower half of his face. "Well," Table Thief sighs, "I hate talking about school when I'm not at school. It makes me nauseous. So…."

"Me too," I say, almost surprising myself. I clear my throat. "Um...we should get back to our studies."

Table Thief nods. "Probably."

Armin gives me a suspicious look, but I quell whatever comment he's about to make with a furrowed brow, and together we turn to make that journey back to our textbooks, made long and arduous by dread.

"Wait," Table Thief stops us. He steps around the corner of the bookshelf, finally coming fully into view. His Christmas sweater looks even more festive up close—festive, and cheesy, and maybe a little endearing. But now that the lower half of his face is visible, I see what I didn't catch earlier: a spread of deep purples and scarlets at the left corner of his mouth, and a painful-looking gash through his upper lip—with more bruising—where, presumably, someone's fist collided with his face. He steps closer to us and extends his hand to Armin. "I'm Eren," he says. "Eren—"

"Jaeger?" Armin takes his outstretched hand and shakes it firmly. "Armin Arlert."

Eren blinks in surprise. "How did you know?"

"I had a hunch."

Table Thief—Eren—offers his hand to me next. I take it carefully, letting go of my muffler to do so, and my grey eyes meet his. "Mikasa Ackerman," I say. His grip is firm, confident, but also strangely gentle. His skin is warm and dry against the clammy, cool mess of my palm, but if it bothers him, it doesn't show.

We step away; the air is cold against my skin where the ghost of his hand dissipates. "Ackerman," he muses, tipping his head up. "Like, Levi Ackerman? The librarian?"

I nod. "He's my cousin."

Eren chuckles. It's a light but unbridled sound, warm and happy and unfettered. "Holidays must be fun."

"You have no idea."

He hums pleasantly, tugging at the collar of his sweater, then gives us both a wide smile. "Well, book sniffers, it was nice to meet you guys. I'll see you around, yeah?" He asks the two of us, but he's looking intently at me, and a curious something bubbles in my chest. Then he saunters back to his table; I'm left with the lingering impression of a firm but gentle handshake and a green sweater and green eyes and bright laughter.

I look over at Armin. He's watching me with this awful, cheeky grin on his face, and I attempt (unsuccessfully) to cover my blush with an indignant glare. "What?"

"Nothing," he chirps. But his tone does not say nothing. It says everything.

Well, there we have it! Thanks for reading. This was my first (posted) attempt at first person, and I hope I'm portraying Mikasa accurately! Leave me a review? Pretty please?