Mikasa

I chain my bike to the light post right outside of the Walgreens and check over my shoulder—twice—before going in. I pass the stack of red plastic shopping baskets, and I grab one, just in case.

I wind through the cosmetics aisle. The basket was a good call. I can throw in decoys: an eyeliner here, in a tube of mascara there, a box of tampons too, for good measure. I make sure the coast is clear before crossing into the personal care aisle, and finally, I'm at the part of the pharmacy that sells over-the-counter meds.

I drift towards the section for sexual health products. The rainbow stacks of condom boxes gleam at me under the fluorescent store lights, and I pause in front of the morning-after pills. A missed opportunity. I can hear Ymir's voice screaming in my head, berating me for being so foolish and for being so ill-informed about my options.

"How are you the fucking salutatorian of your class… yet you don't know what Plan B is?" she squawked at me, swiping at me with her lacrosse stick.

So Jean and I screwed up.

Two weeks ago, he rolled off of me, cursing. "The fucking condom broke," he said. "But don't worry, I didn't come or anything, so you should be good." We replayed everything, talking through everything we did in painstaking detail. We were more than certain we were in the clear.

Ideally, I should've taken Plan B within a day of this; that would've been 95% effective in warding off pregnancy. But I saw no reason to fork out fifty bucks to address the slimmest likelihood that something happened.

However, the lacrosse girls weren't convinced.

"Pre-cum," Annie said flatly as we boarded into the bus for our first away game. "Come on, Mikasa. Did sex-ed teach you nothing?"

"Mikasa!" Sasha wailed, pulling on my ponytail. "Always, always, always take Plan B! Better safe than never!"

They implored me to keep an eye on my period. I was never good with tracking it, but I knew that whenever the monthly calendar dates hit the 20's range, my week was due.

From April 20th through the end of the month, I took more bathroom breaks than ever before. I'd lock myself in a stall, and before I'd pull my pants down, I'd silently pray, "Please let there be spotting. Please, please, please." But as the days dragged on, nothing showed up.

"What's going on with you?" Levi demanded a couple of days ago, looking up from his computer. Ever since he started his book project, he's commandeered our dining room table as his workspace, fanning out sheafs of paper across the entire surface.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I retorted. "You're leaving a huge mess everywhere, and we gotta eat dinner soon. Can't you just work in Dad's old study?"

"I like open space," he argued stubbornly. "And I don't wanna take more than three steps just to get coffee. It gets me out of my groove. But you know what's even more distracting? Seeing you pace around like you're unhinged. What's wrong? Are you going through a breakup? Another fight with Jaeger? Or—don't tell me—you can't be pregnant, right?"

He was joking—he had to be joking. But Levi has this uncanny intuition about things. I told him to leave me alone.

"Geez, someone's on their period," he sighed in mock hurt.

It's May 2nd, and my period has yet to come.

I make my way towards the pregnancy test strips. They only go for a couple of dollars, and it boggles my mind how these cheap pieces of plastic can send your life hurtling into so much disaster.

I hold two brands side-by-side. They're both printed with vivid patterns and shapes, as if this subtle marketing technique is meant to thrill you before finding out your fate. Its intended audience is a woman well-secured in her career, maybe with a fiance of several years, ready to welcome a new member into her family—not a teenage girl living with her second-cousin, twice removed.

Would I be able to carry through with an abortion? For the longest time, I've viewed this as a women's rights issue from ten thousand feet away. I've gone to marches in Chicago; I've written op-eds supporting Planned Parenthood for the student paper. But as I stare down at this clownish, obnoxious pregnancy test packaging, I don't know anymore. I had plans projected far into the future. Take over the lax team when Annie graduates, win the state championships, apply to college, get into college, work internships that make me feel as if I've found my niche in the world, get a job. These dreams were in crystal-clear resolution—but now, they've splintered into a fuzzy, chaotic static.

I've fucked up.

Before I know it, I'm crying. These are my last moments of not knowing. Ignorance is bliss, they say, and I'm spending them sobbing in the pregnancy aisle of Walgreens, holding a basket full of flimsy distractions for an unassuming cashier.

"Mikasa?"

As if things could get any worse. A witness. I turn away from the footsteps headed towards me, ashamed that anyone would have to see me like this, a blubbering mess. A hand on my shoulder, a light squeeze.

"Is everything okay?"

I wipe away tears with my sleeve.

It's Eren. His brow knitted up in worry. He's holding a paper bag of medications—presumably prescription tablets for his mother.

"Hey," I say, trying to smile, but more tears roll down my cheeks. "Don't worry about me, Eren. I'm fine. How are you?"

"Good try, Mikasa. Why are you crying?" he asks, dodging my question, keeping the spotlight trained on me. "What's going on—oh…" He notices the pregnancy tests in my hands.

"I fucked up, Eren," I tell him, through sobs. "I was… so stupid, and I didn't think ahead, and I just can't believe I got myself into this mess!"

He's unable to find the words that'll make this all go away, so he settles for wrapping his arms around me, slowly and carefully, and he hugs me, letting me bury my face into the front of his shirt. He suggests that we go to the self-checkout, and as we make our way towards the front of the store, he grabs a bag of Cheetos, a huge bottle of A&W root beer, and a tub of vanilla ice cream. He helps me when I fumble with the barcode scanner, and I manage to crack a smile when he handles the box of tampons like an explosive. He walks me outside, and we both groan when we step into pouring rain.

"Levi took the car to get groceries," I sniffle.

"Let me drive you," he offers, opening an umbrella over me as I fidget with my bike lock.

We shove the bicycle into the trunk of his station wagon, and he puts Radiohead on the stereo.

"So you're gonna do the test the second you get home?" he asks, drumming his fingers along the steering wheel.

"Windshield wipers," I tell him dully.

"Oops, sorry. Forgot." He flips a switch, and the wipers swing back and forth, sweeping the raindrops clear from the glass. "Backseat driver," he says, rolling his eyes.

"You're welcome," I say, and he smiles. "And yeah… I think so. I just need to know. I hate not knowing."

"I hear you."

"But at the same time, I don't want to know. Does that make sense? I have a good feeling what it's gonna be, Eren."

He glances over at me. I've always been jealous of his eyes. They have a way of shifting between blues and greens, but today's overcast, rainy lighting makes his eyes bluer than ever. "So you really think you're pregnant?"

"Yeah. I haven't had my period this month."

"What exactly happened, Mikasa?" he asks, but instantly blushes when he does. "I mean, if you're comfortable telling, like no pressure. It's your personal business, after all."

"The condom broke," I say quietly.

"Shit, did he tell you right after it happened? He better have. Otherwise, I'll kick his ass for you," he growls, clenching the steering wheel.

"Yeah, he did."

"Good. Because guys can forget about these kinda things—and I'm saying that as a guy myself, but not because I'd ever forget, but I'm just saying, you know, like in general."

"I just don't get why this is happening, Eren," I sigh. "He didn't really, like… you know."

"He didn't finish inside of you?" he guesses.

"Thanks."

"Wait, then you should be fine."

"My lack of a menstrual cycle says the contrary."

"Dammit."

A song I've never heard comes on. It sounds like a recording of a live performance because at the beginning, I can hear cheers from a crowd. A guitar begins to strum a sad set of chords, and Thom Yorke's pure voice strikes the air.

"A new Radiohead song?" I ask him, changing the subject.

"Kinda." He straightens up in the driver's seat, which means he's got a story to tell.

Eren's always been a music buff. When we used to hang out all the time, we'd sit side-by-side on his couch, and he'd ravenously devour Pitchfork articles while I scrolled through the New Yorker. He knows everything about his favorite artists, from the backstories behind lyrics to the intrigue amongst band members, to even the musical theory behind chord progressions. Some of my fondest memories in his home involved watching him mess around on the piano, mashing up Drake songs with ragtime tunes, concocting bizarre medleys.

"So to answer your question," he begins. "Right now, we're listening to 'True Love Waits.' People who don't know shit about Radiohead think it's a brand, spanking new song, since it came out on their most recent album, A Moon Shaped Pool, buuuut little did they know, Radiohead's been playing this song live for fuckin' decades. They just couldn't settle on a recorded version."

We're already parked in my driveway, and we sit there quietly, letting the song play until the crowd cheers at the end, and the track ebbs away.

He helps me unload my bike, and he wheels it back into the garage, while I keep the umbrella hoisted over his head.

"Well, Mikasa," he says, giving me a salute. "Good luck."

"Thank you, Eren," I tell him. I let myself hug him, and he holds me tightly. When I lean into him, I feel steadier on my feet, anchored to the ground. But when he lets me go, I feel limp again, as if even the slightest breeze will whip me into the sky.

His beaten station wagon pulls into his own driveway when I dial his number on my phone. He picks up after the first ring.

"Hey," he answers.

"I left the pregnancy stuff in your trunk," I say, abashed but also, for some reason, grateful. "I'm sorry, guess I was too preoccupied by the bike."

"Oh, don't sweat it. I can come back."

When he steps out of his car again, plastic Walgreens bag in hand, something overcomes me, and I blurt out, "Can you do this with me?"

"Uh, I think only you can pee on the stick to make it work," he says, sounding confused. "I don't think we're both supposed to—"

"Never mind, you idiot," I huff, grabbing the bag from him. "Forget I said anything—"

"Oh, oh, oh, I get it, sorry!" he stammers, laughing. "Yeah, I'll be so down to rub in your face and be like 'I told you so' when the thing comes back negative."

"I wish I had your optimism."

We kick off our shoes in the mudroom, and we run into Levi in the kitchen. He's hunched over his computer again, typing up a storm. I grab Eren's wrist, urging him to follow me quickly and silently towards the stairs, but Levi snorts, sipping from his coffee. "I thought you guys had drama with each other. Are things rainbows and sunshine now? Finally ditched that Jean kid?"

Beside me, Eren squirms in his place, uncomfortable. It's been months of coexisting under the same roof, but Levi still tests the limits of my patience. "Jean and I are still very much together," I grit out. "Also, guess what?" I continue. "I might be pregnant."

"Oh, very funny," he mutters, not looking up from his work.

"I'm serious."

"Quit it, I gotta focus. I'm trying to get this chapter done."

I fish a pregnancy test out of the plastic bag and slide it across the table. It makes contact with his cup of coffee. When he sees it, his eyes go wide. He slowly lowers his computer screen and pins me with a serious look. "Please tell me this is a prank," he deadpans.

"It's not. I missed my period."

He studies the pregnancy test. "Do you want a cup?"

"What are you talking about?" I ask.

"To piss into." Levi rummages through a cabinet below the kitchen island. He pokes his head over the top of the counter surface. "Don't tell me. You weren't thinking about just peeing on these sticks directly, were you? Disgusting."

He fills a glass with water and hands it to me, along with an empty plastic cup and the test strip. I take out a second test from the bag; I had purchased it to cross-check the results.

"Those better come back negative," Levi chimes in, cracking himself a beer. "You teenagers are already the bane of my existence, and if we have to deal with an infant, I'm packing my bags for Siberia."

In the upstairs bathroom, I chug the glass of water, and I give Eren one last look; in return, he gives me a smile. Under the warm interior light, his eyes have shifted into their greener hues.

"Hey, gimme a shout if you need anything," he says, squeezing my arm. "All the best."

I nod and close the door. I sit on the toilet, clutching the cup in my shaking hands. Am I too nervous to pee? More than five minutes pass, still nothing.

"All good?" Eren calls from outside.

"I can't pee," I say meekly.

He tries to stifle a laugh but fails—miserably.

"Not helping," I growl, wishing my leg was long enough to kick the door.

"Sorry," he says sheepishly. "I suck."

"No kidding."

Another five minutes pass, and finally, I'm able to fill the cup a quarter of the way. I set it on the bathroom countertop. I unwrap the two pregnancy tests. I dunk both of them into the cup and scrub my hands with soap and water furiously, hoping I can rinse off any bad luck.

I open the door, and Eren's sitting against the hallway wall, flipping through Twitter.

"What did the tests say?" he asks immediately.

I sit next to him, heaving a sigh. "We gotta wait five minutes." I show him the timer on my phone, which seems to be taking its sweet time counting down the seconds.

Footsteps pad up the stairs, and Levi emerges. "Are you preggers?" he asks.

"We'll find out soon enough," I reply.

He nods and slumps against the wall, crossing his arms. "You seem like you'd be overly Type A about these kinds of things, so I'm honestly not worried at all," he remarks.

I swallow uneasily. An overly Type A person wouldn't have let the Plan B boat set sail without her.

"This is gonna be a classic pregnancy scare," Levi continues. "And we'll be all 'hardy har har' about it and pretend it never happened, except when I need the upper-hand in an argument with you."

"Yo, don't jinx it, dude." Eren raps his knuckles against the hardwood floor.

Levi shrugs. "I stand by it."

These minutes are agonizing. Each time I check my phone, only seconds have elapsed from the last time I looked.

"What do you want for dinner?" Levi demands suddenly. "Can we just order a pizza?"

Ever since the spring lacrosse season has started, I've passed onto Levi the responsibility of cooking because most evenings, I don't get home until 6:30 or so, and by then, all I really want to do is crash on the couch. Our dinners have been dominated by frozen food, microwavable meals, and all forms of take-out and delivery.

"We had pizza two days ago," I mutter.

"That was Domino's. I was thinking we could shuffle things up with some Papa John's."

"We haven't had vegetables in a week, just saying."

"Peppers, olives, and onions as toppings. Boom."

"Not when it's cancelled out by a bucket of oil and cheese."

"Jaeger, how many slices?" Levi asks. He already has his phone to his ear, waiting for the other line to pick up.

"For me?" Eren answers, sounding a little startled. "Don't worry, I'll just go home—"

"How many slices?" Levi repeats. "You've got about five seconds."

"Three," Eren says quickly.

"Seriously, we can't be eating like this every night," I protest.

Much to my chagrin, we devolve into yet another session of bickering, sparring back and forth over the value of proper nutrition, exchanging ad hominem blows when the argument goes stale. I can't believe how Levi would be so heartless and uncompassionate as to rile me up like this—especially given the circumstances. But midway through our squabbling, he gives me a smirk, but it's a smirk devoid of its usual indifference and chilliness. His face is still smug, but his eyes are just the slightest bit softer. Right then, I realize that he's helping me kill these dreadful minutes of waiting. And before we know it, the timer on my phone goes off.

Eren pats my shoulder as I lift myself to my feet. Levi nods silently. And I enter the bathroom, approaching the plastic cup, where two test strips await me, bathing in my own urine. One has a blue plastic covering, and the other has a white one. This is so ridiculous, I can't help but think, placing both palms on the sink countertop, steadying myself. My elbows are shaking, almost ready to collapse. My reflection stares back at me in the mirror, looking so pathetically desperate. My eyes are still red and puffy from crying in the pharmacy, and flecks of mascara rim my eyes.

A plus sign means I'm pregnant; a minus sign means that I'm okay. I swallow as I remove the blue test from the cup, and I take a deep breath before I flip it over to view the reading.

A minus sign.

A cascade of relief crashes down on me, and the waterworks start up again. "It's negative!" I call out, choking out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

"I knew it!" Eren shouts, rushing in. I show him the result, and he fist pumps the air before giving me a high-five.

But Levi remains outside, leaning against the doorway. "Not yet," he says. His phone is dangling from his hand, and I can hear the Papa John's employee on the other line, calling out from the speaker, "Sir? Sir? Are you still there?" Levi ends the call with a tap of his thumb. He tips his chin towards the plastic cup. "What about that one?"

My heart sinks. Peering out from the rim of the cup is the white test. I peel myself out of Eren's embrace, and I reach for the white test.

When I check the result, the test strip tumbles from my hand and clatters into the sink.

The three of us sit around a box of cold, untouched pizza. Eren is hunched forward, patting my back, as I let out ragged sobs. Levi sits, leaned back in his chair, furiously texting on his phone.

"My scientist friend says these little piss sticks are a load of crap," he says, the first to break the silence. He gets himself a slice of pizza and gestures for us to do the same. "False-positives, false-negatives, we can't rely on these stupid things, so I hope you don't have any plans bright and early tomorrow. We're gonna go see a proper doc—well, nurse practitioner."

"My mom?" Eren asks with a full mouth of pizza.

"Yeah, Carla's got a free slot right around 7:50AM," Levi replies, setting his phone down on the table. "Mikasa, eat your food."

The pizza is a horrible sensation of sliminess and warmth, and after two bites, I shove my plate away from me. I steel myself for another comment from Levi, but right before an unneeded quip comes out of his mouth, his phone rings. The legs of his chair scrape against the floor—a habit that I always call him out on, but evidently to no avail, so scratch marks have been forming in the hardwood. "So tell me, Hanji," he says, stepping out the back door. "Does pre-jizz have sperm? There's a zero percent chance, right?"

And it's just me and Eren. Already having scarfed down his first slice, he's working on a second. He always devours food like there won't be enough to go around.

"How're you holding up?" He hands me my dozenth tissue of the day. There's a small mountain of soggy Kleenex accumulating by my elbow.

I take it and dab at the corners of my eyes. "I don't know," I tell him, covering my face with hands. "I was so stupid."

"Come on, shit happens, Mikasa. Don't beat yourself up too much," he says kindly.

"I don't know what I'm going to tell Jean." I have no idea how to approach him with this. A phone call, starting with small talk, then springing the news on him? A text message out of the blue? I sigh, shredding a piece of tissue into smaller pieces. "I don't even know if I should tell him."

"No, you should, once my mom can run a real test for you," Eren replies firmly. "And make him pay for all the stuff you got at Walgreens. Next time I see him, I'm giving him hell for being so dumb about all of this. He should know better—"

"Please don't, Eren," I plead with him. "I can handle this on my own."

A younger Eren would brush my words aside. He would drive straight to Jean's house, and he'd fling a rock through his window. Maybe he'd even conscript the help of Connie, and together, they'd toss rolls of toilet paper through the trees in the Kirsteins' front lawn.

But the Eren sitting next to me heaves a sigh. "Ugh, I'm sorry," he says. "This just isn't fair."

The backdoor squeaks open again, and Levi steps back in, bringing with him a chilly draft. He's still on the phone with Hanji. "Hanji thinks you're gonna be fine," he tells me. "If that brings you any peace of mind."

"Thanks," I manage.

"Chin up, buttercup."

"Shut up."

The faintest smile crosses his face. He gets himself a beer and heads up to his room, while Hanji's voice babbles on the other line.

"You know, Eren?" I take a moment to calm my breathing. I haven't cried like this in God knows how long. "It's been a crazy year for me."

"No shit," Eren says with a bitter laugh.

"My idiot father got himself killed. My new legal guardian is one of the best journalists in the world, except for the fact that he doesn't know what he's doing with his life, and he's kinda a royal pain. I'm actually going to parties. I've had my first kiss and my first physical experience, and I lost my virginity, and I'm dating this boy who's so great to me, but I don't know, I feel so lost. I don't know what I'm doing, Eren."

Eren whistles. "That's... a lot. You're totally right."

"Yeah."

"Are you and Jean okay? After you told me about all that stuff he said to you?"

"About him being in love with me?"

A month ago, Mrs. Kirstein knocked on Jean's bedroom door. "Kids, want any dessert?" she called from the hallway. "There's cookies!"

Cursing under his breath, Jean pulled out from inside of me, and I sat up, rifling through his pillows and comforter for my bra and panties. "Shit," I whispered. "Back of your neck, sorry. But it's not too bad."

Not thirty minutes ago, we had set some ground rules for sex at his house, and I'd just violated Rule Number One: No evidence. Period. No hickeys, no bite marks, no forgotten clothes. Used condoms go back into their wrappers, and the whole package gets stuffed into empty Coca Cola cans, which get buried at the very bottom of the recycling bin. Music needs to be cranked up as high enough to muffle our noises but low enough as to not draw Ms. Kirstein's attention. We had agreed earlier not to undress completely, in case we were interrupted, but ten minutes into making out, well, we couldn't help ourselves.

If anything, we were conflicted about doing this from the start. Jean told me that his mother was the reason why he's always done it in the backseat of his car—and also why he's never had a girl home. That is, until his mom invited me to dinner.

"She's catching on," he said a week ago. "She told me that she's itching to meet my girlfriend, since, you know, we hang out so much."

Girlfriend. Every time he said it, my mind clung onto that word—a label cementing our relationship into something more than a string of hookups. And to think that only a couple of months ago, his car knocked our mailbox over, igniting Levi's fury.

"We're trying to focus on calculus right now!" Jean shot back, struggling to get his pants on. "Can you give us a minute?"

"Psst, they're on backwards," I informed him in hushed tones. I tried to suppress a giggle when I attempted to flatten a flyaway clump of hair sticking straight up from the crown of his head.

"Good enough," he sighed, sneaking one last kiss before we clambered into the chairs in front of his desk.

I started scribbling integrals and numbers onto a sheet of notebook paper. Jean flipped the textbook to a random page, remarking loudly, "Nice work, Mikasa. It all makes sense now!"

"You're horrible at this," I hissed, elbowing him.

He shoved me back teasingly and scooted out of his chair to open the door. "This is some tough homework," he said, rubbing the back of his neck and conveniently concealing the blotch I left. I nodded vigorously when Ms. Kirstein poked her head into the room with a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies in hand, examining our progress.

Jean always complained about how his mom hovers. At dinner, she had constantly refilled his plate with spaghetti despite his protests, fretting that he wasn't getting enough nutrition. She'd badgered him about the growing number of underage drinking cases in the local news, reminding him that he still needs to pay for the busted bumper on his car from that one night. She'd fussed over his grades, his hair, his clothes—every possible detail that a mother can nitpick.

When she turned to me, asking me what my parents did, I hesitated. I used to have a well-rehearsed spiel for adults. My dad worked in IT, I would say. Though he's not around usually because his job requires him to take regular business trips. I kept it vague and brief. But due to recent events, that script was out-of-date.

"I live with my uncle," I told her carefully. "He's a writer."

"What does he write, dear?" Ms. Kirstein pressed on, offering to refill my bowl of Caesar salad. "Books? Articles? Poetry?"

"He's… doing research right now for a biography."

"How great! Whose biography—"

Jean swooped in to save me, changing the subject to our incoming spring sports seasons. He's churlish with his guy friends, and he has hot-headed moments with his teammates—well, really only one teammate, that being Eren. But with me, he has an enormous capacity to be sensitive. He can be incredibly observant, and he has the patience to hold back commentary when the time isn't right.

When his mother left us with a heaping plate of cookies, he sprung it on me, out of nowhere.

"I love you, Mikasa."

I was at a loss for words. I didn't know what to say. When the silence between us stretched on, worry swam in his eyes. "It's okay if you're not on the same page yet," he told me, brushing my face with his palm. His thumb ran along the scar on my cheek. "I just wanted you to know."

"Thank you for that," I said. His expression became expectant, hopeful. He was waiting for those words to be said back to him, and he was ready to break into a smile, ready to kiss me and abandon our math homework. But instead, I told him, "I'm sorry, Jean. I need more time."

These words crumbled him. He tried to smile through it anyways, and he told me that there was no rush and that he understood. But a tremble in his voice told me that he came out of this battered, bruised. But still, it amazes me how he has so much patience and persistence with me. In the coming days, he'd pick me up for school, pretending all was okay. He made love more intensely than ever before, as if he had something to prove to me. He asked me out to prom in the most grandiose way possible—filling my locker with an ocean of ping-pong balls. And strangely, he started bringing me my favorite things, things I've never told him about. He knew to order my coffee with almond milk. He started asking me if I read the latest issue of the New Yorker.

And one day, he brought me a single sunflower. And that day, I panicked. Only one person in the world knew how much I loved sunflowers.

"I love you," I said. The words spilled out of me, but before I could process anything, Jean threw his arms around me and kissed me.

"I can't believe you told him about the sunflowers," I say quietly, stirring my root beer float with a spoon.

Eren brought a half-melted tub of vanilla ice cream from his car, along with the bottle of A&W and the bag of Cheetos that he bought from Walgreens. Somehow, he finds pleasure in dipping Cheetos in his root beer float, and each time he urges me to try it, I turn up my nose, insisting I'm too old for this.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he hums, sipping from his straw.

"And the almond milk too. And I can't believe you got him to start reading the New Yorker." I try to catch his gaze, but he's avoiding me, scrolling through his phone. "Did he come asking you for help? Because that's huge for him. And you, too. The fact that you guys managed to have a civil conversation with each other amazes me—"

"Yeah, he totally came crawling to me," Eren says quickly. "Not that he'd ever admit it."

"That's so unlike him."

Eren shrugs. "He's trying really hard for you. He wants you to be happy."

"I just can't believe how fast things are progressing."

Neither of us speak for a while. He slurps at his root beer float. I stir mine with my spoon, and every so often, the metal clinks with the glass cup.

"Can we listen to something?" I ask him.

"Like what?"

"That song you had playing in the car. The new-old Radiohead one."

"Oh, hell yes." He opens up Spotify on his phone and pulls up the song. "Mikasa," he says, as the guitar chords come in. "Close your eyes for a sec."

"Okay," I say, following his instructions.

"So I didn't tell you the whole scoop on this song. Just the bare bones."

"Tell me, then."

"My dad actually got to see this performance. And he told me all about it."

"Did he really?"

"So it's the year 2001," he says. "It's cold as balls in Oslo, and you're having a good-ass time listening to Radiohead absolutely fuckin' kill it performing songs from The Bends. But then, all of a sudden, Thom Yorke's standing on stage, solo. Just him and his guitar. And this amazing fucking performance comes on. You've never heard this song before, even though you're a rabid fan, but you're frickin' mesmerized the whole time. Later, you manage to get a live recording of the song, but you're so excited for it to come out on the next album in its finished, polished, buffed-up final version. When OK Computer comes out two years later, you're listening through all these kickass songs, just waiting for that song from Oslo to show up, but by the end of the album, you come up empty-handed. Same deal when Kid A comes out a couple of years later. And every other album. The band can't get the song right. They're fucking perfectionists, and they wanna do this song justice, so it takes them more than 20 years of trial-and-error before 'True Love Waits' finally shows up on A Moon Shaped Pool. But when you listen to it, it's not the same as that acoustic guitar arrangement in '01. Sounds nothing like it, whatsoever."

When I open my eyes, he's looking at me, searching me intensely.

"So they never got it right?" I ask him.

"Nah," he says. "There's been a recording of that 2001 performance. 'True Love Waits (Live in Oslo),' the last track of their live album I Might Be Wrong. That's what we're listening to right now. It's been there all along, but Radiohead kept insisting that it wasn't the final thing. They kept saying it wasn't good enough. But for a lot of us, it was perfect from the start."

His gaze seems to flicker between two points on my face, quivering between holding eye contact with me and stealing glances at a point below my nose—could it be my lips? And we stay here like this, sitting so close to each other in my kitchen, registering every twitch, every blink, every breath between us. He's teetering between self-control and impulse. I can tell because his knuckles are white, tightly gripping his phone.

"I should go home," he says finally, but his eyes don't leave mine.

"I should try to get some rest," I reply, almost a whisper.

When this moment between us severs, I need a moment to recalibrate to my surroundings. I'm in my house. Eren saw me crying at Walgreens. I might be pregnant. Levi is being weirdly nice and supportive.

Eren grabs his phone and keys off of the table. I walk him outside, and before he slides into the driver's seat of his station wagon, he turns around and gives me one last hug. "Good luck tomorrow," he murmurs into my hair.

"I'll need it," I say. "Thanks for everything, Eren."

"I'll text you tomorrow."

"Okay."

He's halfway down my driveway, when his car stops. He rolls down his window and sticks his head out. "Hey, Mikasa?"

"Yeah?"

I hope you meant what you said to him," he says, before backing the rest of the way out of my driveway.

A/N: Whew, this was a looooong chapter. Usually, I shoot for somewhere between 2,000-3,000 words per chapter, but this one somehow made it into the 6,000 range, so chagirl is feelin' SPENT. I hope you guys enjoyed it, though! I certainly had a lot of nostalgia writing it. A couple of years ago, one of my friends had a pregnancy scare, and she had a similar terror of having two pregnancy test strips that displayed two completely different results… not a fun time, but luckily, everything worked out, so we joke about that whole kerfuffle fondly nowadays.

Guys, I'm so frickin' thankful for all of your feedback on FF/AO3, as well as those super nice messages on Tumblr and Twitter! Gotta say, I've just been really enjoying hearing what you all took away from the chapter, and I'm gonna respond to all of your comments, one-by-one (but still a bit behind, argh, but working on it!). To be honest, I kinda need a break from Mikasa/Levi, so I was wondering, what perspectives would you guys like to hear from in the coming chapters? I know I asked this before, but I'd still love to hear what y'all think! In my head, I'm juggling the possibilities of putting some Carla in, maybe some Hanji, and possibly a bit of Armin. It felt so nice to have a change of gears when we switched into Eren's POV last week!

It's always so fun to fashion everyone's voices. Levi's a blast because it's a lot of thoughtful vulgarity plus grotesque word choice plus sheer, unabashed sarcasm. With Mikasa, I can focus more on little details and observations, since she's always struck me as a really circumspect character; nothing gets past her! Well, except for her inability to process her own feelings RIP. Eren's a lot of unfiltered honesty and bravado (which is SO refreshing after writing WUARD!Mikasa, who kinda likes to dance around the elephant in the room, as many of y'all very astutely noted).

Thanks for reading, and see you all in the next chapter! I'm gonna shoot for once-a-week updates throughout the summer!