Hi guys!

Thank-you all for the sweet reviews/follows/favourites again! You're all so lovely. Here's good old Chapter 3. It's still a bit of a filler chapter, but I'm planning on writing (and publishing) a verrryyy lengthy (this one is very short and I'm very sorry), delicious Chapter 4 in a few days, so look out for that.

Enough of my blabbing, thank-you again for reading!

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Disclaimer: I do not own any property or rights to Shingeki no Kyojin. This is the sole intellectual property of Hajime Isayama.

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Sasha was nervous. No, nervous was an understatement – it wasn't even the correct word to use – she was absolutely petrified right now. For the past three hours, the poor girl had tied up her hair, only to pull it back out again, and repeat the process over and over. Her hair was going to start falling out in large clumps at this rate. What if Jean bailed? What if just didn't show up? What if she had to just cross her fingers, hoping she'd run into him again by chance? Sasha wasn't one for stalking, and while she was as stubborn as an untamed stallion, she definitely wasn't one to pressure someone to do something they didn't want to do. Funny enough, this had been the same inner battle she had fought with Marco so many months ago back at the hospital. It didn't even seem like it had been months ago, come to think of it…it could have been days ago. Hours, even.

The girl stopped in front of her living room mirror. Large and antique, it hung almost menacingly above a polished wood bureau, the first thing Sasha had bought (and subsequently lugged back to her apartment) when she realized that she was in this darn city for good. She had supplied a few other things; other antique finds from various consignment stores – a large grandfather clock, chairs for their kitchen table…there was probably a good reason as to why her roommates had begun holding their breath after asking Sasha what she did that day, if she'd bought anything new…

"You look sick," the girl exclaimed to her reflection, running her fingers down her pallid cheeks, pulling at the skin underneath her eyes, "should I shower? Should I put on some make-up? Do I even have the time to?" Her own eyes glared back at her.

No. Maybe? God, she didn't know. She had showered that morning after her shift at Orpheu, but now it seemed that she hadn't scrubbed hard enough – the light scent of flour and cinnamon still stuck to her hair, her waterproof mascara hadn't budged, and she swore someone in this apartment complex was brewing some ridiculously strong coffee. Luckily enough, Sasha had finished preparing dinner fifteen minutes ago and it was sitting quietly on the stove.

It had been two months; two months exactly, since she moved to this godforsaken city. Had Sasha wanted to leave her job – the best job she had landed EVER – and move across the country? Hell no. Just like everyone else plowing through their daily, dull lives, Sasha Katja Braus had aspirations and dreams and goals, but it seemed like they were just edging out further and further from her grasp every day.

And this fucking Jean guy...

Sasha sighed, leaning in towards her reflection so close that her nose pressed against the mirror. This FUCKING Jean guy. He was impossible. He was rude and solitary – a hermit. A recluse, even. Sasha was willing to bet the guy didn't even get out of bed some mornings, which was fine in terms of mourning and grief and all of that jazz, but she didn't have time for that bullshit. People die – people die and it sucks, but there's always time to move on.

Taking a deep breath and exhaling through her nose, Sasha repeated a slow mantra to herself,

"Be patient," she whispered, "be patient and understanding. He's going through a tough time. You know what that's like. You know where he's coming from. You've been there, too."

There was a loud, ferocious at the door, and Sasha shirked slightly. No. She wasn't ready. She hadn't even considered how to bring up the letter, and it really didn't have time to –

"SASHA!" another loud knock, "You there? It's JEAN!"

Darn. She really was banking on it being one of her roommates instead. On the bright side, this means that he didn't actually bail, but there was just something about this guy's presence that had her constantly on edge around him. Sasha had really tried her best to be charming and sweet, but he just stared back at her with these stupidly irritated eyes, as if he could see right through everything she was saying. After one last look in the mirror, Sasha realized she really should have put more effort into her appearance. Oh well. It's not like she was trying to impress any one these days.

Heart pounding, the girl opened the door to a very perturbed (what else was new?) looking Jean Kirschtein.

"It took me forever to find this place," the young man barked, walking past Sasha into the apartment. He shrugged off his coat and scarf, being mindful of the water that had seeped into them.

"You could have called me, that's why I gave you my number in the first place," Sasha huffed. She was really getting tired of this guys attitude. Hadn't it just been a few days ago he was crying to her about losing his best friend?

Jean's eyes widened slightly, and his ears flushed pink. He hastily averted her gaze with his own, choosing instead to focus on the hardwood floor.

"You lost my card, didn't you?"

"N-no…" It was just…somewhere in his trash can. Balled up. Jean had actually spent the greater part of last night searching for that stupid fucking card, and the greater part of today cursing himself as he navigated through the blocks looking for this damn apartment's address.

Sasha sighed.

"What matters is that you found it. Good timing too; I only just finished making dinner," the girl took Jean's wet things and put them in the coat closet to the left of the door, "you can put your shoes in here too, if you'd like."

Jean looked up at her from the floor.

"Dinner?"

Sasha blinked, wiping her wet hands on her pants, "Yes…I invited you over after all, it's impolite for me not to serve you some form of meal."

"You…cook?" Came the young man's incredulous reply as he bent to undo the laces of his shoes.

"Well, if I can't, then those seven years of experience sure were a waste of time," Sasha sauntered into her apartment's kitchen, opening the door and letting it swing back behind her. True, phrasing it that way made it seemed grander than it was – but she had been at culinary school for four years, worked her way up the ladder for three more…it really had taken some perseverance with someone who admittedly had the attention span of a goldfish.

She had hoped that for once she left the young man's jaw slack with her response, but when she came back out carrying a tray, he was sitting on one of her couches, flipping through her roommate's assorted magazines that they left on their shared coffee table.

"I never would have pegged you for a Cosmopolitan-gossip-magazine girl, but I guess everyone has their quirks, eh?" Jean stopped on a wildly highlighted page, "Also never pegged you for one who took tips from a magazine concerning 'Roleplay for Dummies'."

Sasha's cheeks burned (so maybe she had scoured a few of their older issues back when she first moved there…) and she slammed down the tray on the coffee table. She couldn't tell which part of this guy's personality she hated more – the reclusive jerk or this. Crying Jean, she deduced, was her personally preferred Jean.

"I hope you like Italian, " Sasha circled behind the young man and plucked the magazine from his hands, carrying it back into the kitchen only to emerge with two glasses and a bottle, "I also hope you like cheap white wine because it was all I could grab at the last-minute." She filled the two glasses and placed one in front of the young man.

While Jean absolutely hated to admit it – there was a ridiculously mouth-watering scent wafting from the steaming bowls that Sasha had set on the tray. They appeared to be filled with a creamy sauce and as Sasha handed him his bowl, he noted that the sauce was covering small balls of dough. While he sat on one couch, he saw Sasha sit down on a loveseat to his left, crossing her legs as she brought her own bowl into her lap.

"Uh, so, what is it?" the young man asked attempting to cover up the gurgling his stomach was making. When was the last time he had actually eaten something that wasn't take out or made in the microwave? Weeks? Months?

"Gnocchi in tomato cream sauce," the girl answered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Of course. Naturally.

Jean quirked an eyebrow.

"Potato dumpling pasta," Sasha rolled her eyes, "they won't kill you, Jean. As long as you're not allergic to anything in particular, that is…?" This was probably been something the girl should have asked him sooner…

The young man shook his head. He wasn't allergic to anything, though he wasn't too particular about mushrooms or shellfish, and could do without certain fruits and spices, but for the most part he wasn't a picky eater, especially when prepared something presumably from scratch, that hopefully tasted as good as it smelled. Spearing one single dumpling with his fork, Jean lifted it up and gingerly blew away some of the steam before popping it into his mouth. Sasha was taking a gentle sip from her wine glass, but Jean could feel her eyes resting on him as he chewed.

Fuck, it actually tasted really good. The inside was light, not overly doughy or undercooked, and the sauce complemented the pasta well. It was fucking delicious, and before Jean realized it, he had polished the entire bowl. Hadn't he learned table manners at one point in his life? Apparently not, because damn was he hungry for more. The young man took a swig of his wine. It was actually nice for cheap wine, but then again, Jean didn't know much about spirits in general other than what he learned in college and during Friday nights with his coworkers at their pub.

"So, you liked it, I take it?" Sasha laughed nodding towards the empty bowl. She had eaten most of hers as well.

"It was pretty good," Jean had to admit that – it wasn't like he had forced those things down, "but I honestly didn't take you for a chef or anything of the sort. How old are you?"

"Twenty-five," Sasha placed her bowl back on the coffee table, unfolding her legs so that she could grab a napkin from the tray. She reached over across to where Jean sat and he tensed for a moment as the girl wiped the napkin at the edge of his mouth. "Sorry, you had some sauce on your face."

Weirdo.

For all Jean knew, she had drugged him. He still didn't know anything about her, where she was from, how she knew Marco…

"Can you finally just tell me who you are?"

Sasha smiled slightly, but the smile was short-lived. The girl eventually diverted her gaze and sighed.

"Okay, okay," she stood up, and Jean could see she was moving very uneasily. Her hands were balled into fists and her sock-covered feet padded densely against the hardwood floors, "I guess I've played it up enough."

Jean watched as she approached a large mirror with a polished wood bureau beneath it. Sliding open one of the bureau's drawers, Sasha withdrew a white, plain letter envelope. She turned around and Jean noticed that her complexion had grown even paler – so pale that he could see the watery marks of light freckles dotting along her nose bridge. Her brown bangs tucked behind her ears, a few strands falling out to frame her face ever so gently.

"This letter is for you, Jean," Sasha handed the envelope over to him, and Jean took it, his eyes never leaving hers. "It's from Marco."

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Notes:

WOAHHHH who saw THAT coming?

Everyone? ...Everyone?

Oh. Okay.

Next chapter will be up by the end of the week! It will also be much longer than these past ones - I realize that I haven't really been writing chapters with much length and that's annoying. Thank-you all for reading, sorry this was a little late. Your reviews are all so sweet, if you are enjoying the story so far don't be scared to drop a quick line! :)

xx