Disclaimer: I don't own Shingeki no Kyojin.


"I can't sleep."

Her voice is a pin dropped in the silence of the bedroom. His eyes are open; he can't remember the last time they had closed and gathered rest. He feels her weight dip into the mattress and her breath ghosting over his ear as she settles next to him to curl into his side.

"Did I wake you?"

He doesn't reply and she apologizes anyway. He wonders why.

Why she's here, in his bed.

Why she still smells of sweet wild flowers and fresh brewed tea.

Why she has her lips, chapped and rough—much unlike her—pressed against his temple.

Why she's alive.

He wakes in a cold sweat, rays of sunshine slicing through the unsettling atmosphere. The room smells of dirt and grass and death.

He's clutching her jacket, patch torn and all tattered; the same she wore as her body was tossed carelessly out of the cart.

He doesn't move for a long time.


Inspired by those 2-sentence horror stories. I always seem to write Rivetra without mentioning their names.