Touch - EreMika

Chapter 3: Blink

He blinks his eyes open to the burning glare of the afternoon sun. Squinting, he lifts a hand to shield his eyes from the sudden burst of light, momentarily blinded and unsure of his surroundings. When his eyes finally adjust to the brightness, he lowers his hand and tilts his head up to the cloudless blue sky stretching endlessly above him, rooftops and tall, stone buildings edging his periphery—and he remembers what has brought him here.

'Where is...?'

He looks ahead, and there are clotheslines and green capes and white sheets lining his path, swaying gently in the summer breeze. His feet carry him forward into the thick of the maze of clean clothing, and he is immersed in their soapy scent as he weaves through, hands gingerly pushing aside the white shirts and sheets that blow into him from the occasional strong gust.

And then, he comes to a stop before a sheet only partially hung, the familiar silhouette behind it stretching to pin the last corner to aa clothesline that is just out of reach. He stands with his arms crossed, cocking his head to observe curiously, and not a moment too soon, the wind blows the entire sheet onto into the female shadow, who in response, grunts and bats violently agai itnst it to combat the wind. He successfully withholds a snort, but cannot contain the grin that bursts onto his face at the sight and sound of one of humanity's most powerful soldiers at war with a piece of laundry.

His amusement only grows when the sheet comes loose altogether, falling to the ground slowly and carrying on the wind, about to reveal what he thought would be a flustered and disgruntled raven haired woman. But, as the sheet sinks to the ground between them, his eyes catch onto a flash of furious charcoal blues, blazing behind the blur of a fist slicing through the air in his direction. His eyes pop wide in surprise as he jerks his head out of the way just in the nick of time, just narrowly dodging the blow, his left hand shooting up to capture her wrist, as her knuckle just barely grazes his cheek.

Just as soon as he traps her, his assailant attempts to pull roughly out of his grip, and his breathing labors from the unexpected attack as he holds her wrist in place, surprised and impressed with his own reflexes—and at the fact that he is strong enough to maintain his grip. With another fruitless tug, her glare snaps from his hand to his eyes—and at the recognition, her expression instantly melts from battle-ready fury into flustered puzzlement.

Her lips part, and a sound comes up from the back of her throat that sounds like the beginning of a word, but she falls silent just as quickly, mouth closing—and opening, and closing.

They stand in silence, and as the seconds tick by, he begins to register his heart palpitating violently and thumping in his ears at the unexpected assault Mikasa had very nearly administered to his face.

Eventually, both his heart rate and breathing slow enough for him to understand what has just happened.

And he laughs.

Because, although her hair now touches to her shoulders, and she dons a simple dress and apron far more often than Survey Corps green, moments like this brought forth the merciless warrior within, and were an amusing—albeit dangerous—break from her usual demure disposition. He had to admit that he loved such moments, because they were her through and through.

She blushes as his laughter persists, her arm going slack in his grip, and the bashful frown on her face is so incredibly endearing, and she is sobeautiful , that he forgets why he is even laughing.

And soon enough, it is silent, and they are left standing close, staring at one another upon a familiar rooftop in a familiar district, and it feels like home.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," she replies sheepishly.

His stomach flutters.