Chapter 4: The Plus-One

The invitation arrived two days after their Foreign Office morning, delivered by a diplomatic courier rather than the regular post. The envelope was thick cream paper, her name written in Armin’s precise, familiar script. Pieck slit it open at her desk while Stefan sorted the afternoon’s correspondence beside her.

Inside was a single card, not an official summons. Armin Arlert & Annie Leonhart, it read at the top in elegant print, followed by a date and time for the following Saturday. Lunch at Le Marin, a restaurant Pieck knew, one of those new places trying to fuse Paradisian and Marleyan coastal cuisines that had sprung up near the rebuilt western docks. The formality of the printed card felt like a joke between them, honestly. At the bottom, in Armin’s handwriting again, was a brief note.

Pieck—Hope you can join. It would be wonderful to catch up properly. Feel free to bring your plus-one, of course. Looking forward to it. —A.

She read the note twice, her eyes lingering on the phrase. Your plus-one. Not ‘your assistant’. Not ‘a guest’. The wording was deliberately casual, the kind used for social events where partners were implicitly invited. Armin didn’t make accidental phrasing choices.

Pieck tapped the edge of the card against her thumb. She looked across the desk at Stefan, who was frowning slightly at a poorly worded memo from the trade ministry. Sunlight from the window caught the dust motes swirling around his head.

“Armin’s invited us to lunch,” she said, keeping her voice level.

Stefan glanced up, his expression shifting from bureaucratic focus to mild inquiry. “Us?”

“He says to bring my plus-one.” She held out the card for him to take.

He wiped a faint smudge of ink from his finger on his trousers before accepting it, reading the note with that same careful attention he gave everything. His eyes didn’t widen; his breathing didn’t hitch. He just absorbed the information, his face giving nothing away while he processed the implications.

“He knows,” Stefan said finally, handing the card back. It wasn’t a question.

“He suspects,” Pieck corrected, though the distinction felt thin even to her. Armin’s suspicions were basically facts waiting for confirmation. “Annie definitely knows. She can smell these things.”

Stefan leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking softly under his weight. “And he’s inviting him out into the open like this?”

“It’s not the open. It’s a private lunch with friends.” Pieck turned the card over, though the back was blank. “He’s giving us an off-ramp. A chance to step out of the shadows with people who won’t sell the story to the press.”

“Or he’s testing a theory.”

“That too.” Pieck smiled slightly. “But it’s Armin. The test is the off-ramp. He doesn’t separate the two.”

She considered the invitation for another long moment while Stefan watched her, waiting for her decision as he always did. The risk was minimal, technically. Le Marin was discreet, and the group would be small—probably just Armin, Annie, maybe Jean and Connie if they were in town. These were people who had seen worlds end; they weren’t likely to gossip over tea about who Ambassador Finger brought to lunch.

But minimal wasn’t zero. Every person who knew was a potential vector, however trusted. Every moment they spent as a couple outside their apartment was a tiny fracture in the careful fiction they’d maintained for years.

The thought of sitting across a table from Armin and Annie while Stefan sat beside her as her ‘assistant’, maintaining that polite distance, suddenly felt exhausting. More exhausting than the potential fallout of dropping the pretense, frankly.

“We’ll go,” Pieck said, her mind made up.

She saw the flicker of surprise in Stefan’s eyes before he masked it. He’d expected more deliberation, probably. A risk assessment.

“As?” he asked.

“As us.” She placed the card on her desk blotter, aligning it neatly with the corner. “Well. I’ll tell you it’s a casual group lunch with friends. Which it is. And then we’ll show up, and we’ll see what happens.”

A slow understanding dawned on Stefan’s face, followed by something that looked like wary amusement. “You want to see if he’ll ask directly.”

“I want to see what he already assumes.” Pieck stood up from her desk and walked to the window overlooking their quiet slice of harbor. “And I’m tired of pretending with them. They’re not the enemy.”

“They’re also not exactly neutral observers.”

“No one is.” She turned to look at him, leaning against the window frame. “But they’re the closest thing we have to people who might understand.”

Stefan held her gaze for a moment before giving a single nod of acceptance. He didn’t argue; he never did once she’d made a strategic decision. His role was to execute, to support, to be the steady presence beside her as she navigated the consequences.

“Alright,” he said simply. “A casual group lunch.”

She told him over dinner that evening, framing it exactly as she’d planned.

“Armin and Annie are in town,” she said, passing him the bowl of roasted potatoes. “They’ve organized a lunch for Saturday at Le Marin. Jean and Connie might be there too, and Reiner. A sort of casual reunion thing.”

Stefan took the bowl, his expression carefully neutral. “That sounds nice. It’s been a while since you saw everyone socially.”

“You should come,” Pieck said, as if the idea had just occurred to her. She kept her tone light, conversational. “It’ll be a group thing, so you won’t be out of place. And frankly, I could use the buffer if Connie starts telling those awful jokes again.”

Stefan smiled at that, a real one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He knew she was constructing a plausible rationale for his inclusion—the aide as social shield—and he played along seamlessly.

“As your assistant?” he asked, though they both knew the answer wasn’t that simple anymore.

“As my plus-one,” Pieck said, using Armin’s phrase deliberately. “It’s a lunch with friends, not a state function.”

He nodded again, that same quiet acceptance. “What time?”

“One o’clock. I’ll have Henrik drop us off a block away.”

The rest of the week passed with its usual rhythm of work and quiet evenings, but Pieck felt a low-grade anticipation humming beneath her daily tasks. It wasn’t anxiety exactly; more like the focused alertness before entering a negotiation where you knew the other side held cards you hadn’t seen yet.

Saturday morning dawned clear and mild. Pieck dressed with deliberate casualness—a simple navy linen dress, her hair down instead of pinned up—while Stefan chose trousers and a lightweight sweater over a collared shirt, an outfit that straddled the line between smart and relaxed.

They took the car as planned, Henrik dropping them at the corner of Rue du Quai and Harborview Lane. The walk to Le Marin was short, taking them past rebuilt shopfronts with fresh paint and windows displaying imported goods from Paradis and beyond.

The restaurant occupied the ground floor of a former sail-loft, with tall windows looking out over the docks where fishing boats unloaded their morning catch. Inside, the air smelled of garlic, seared fish, and baking bread.

Pieck paused just inside the entrance, letting her eyes adjust to the dimmer light after the bright street. She spotted them immediately at a large round table near the back: Armin and Annie side by side, Annie looking characteristically bored as she traced patterns in the condensation on her water glass; Jean Kirschtein talking animatedly to Connie Springer, who was already laughing at something; and Reiner Braun, larger than life even seated, listening with an easy smile.

They looked like what they were: a group of veterans sharing a meal, comfortable in each other’s company despite—or perhaps because of—everything they’d survived together.

Armin noticed her first. He raised a hand in greeting, his smile warm and genuine. The others followed his gaze, their conversations pausing as Pieck approached with Stefan half a step behind her.

“Pieck!” Reiner stood up first, his chair scraping against the tile floor as he came around the table to envelop her in a brief, hearty hug that lifted her slightly off her feet. “Good to see you out of that office for once.”

“It’s good to be out,” Pieck said truthfully as he released her. She turned to include Stefan in the circle of greetings. “Everyone, this is Stefan.”

She kept the introduction deliberately simple, giving no title or explanation beyond his name.

Armin stood next, offering a handshake to Stefan first—a subtle gesture that placed them on equal footing as newcomers to the gathering. “Armin Arlert. It’s good to finally meet you properly.”

Stefan shook his hand with a firm, polite grip. “Likewise.”

Annie gave a small nod from her seat without getting up, her pale blue eyes assessing Stefan with detached curiosity before flicking to Pieck with what might have been approval. “Annie.”

Jean offered a more casual wave from across the table. “Jean Kirschtein. You’re Pieck’s…?”

“Assistant,” Stefan supplied smoothly before Jean could finish fishing for the right word.

“Right,” Jean said, though his tone suggested he suspected there was more to it.

Connie practically bounced out of his seat to shake Stefan’s hand next, his grin wide and unguarded. “Connie Springer! Man, it’s about time she brought someone along to one of these things. We were starting to think she only ate diplomatic cables for sustenance.”

Pieck felt rather than saw Stefan relax incrementally beside her at Connie’s unabashed friendliness. Reiner clapped Stefan on the shoulder in welcome before gesturing to the two empty chairs they’d left between Annie and Connie.

“Sit, sit,” Reiner said, resuming his own seat with a contented sigh. “We already ordered wine because someone—” he shot a mock glare at Connie “—said he was dying of thirst.”

“I was!” Connie protested cheerfully as Pieck took the chair beside Annie and Stefan settled into the one next to her.

For a moment there was just the comfortable clatter of silverware being rearranged and water glasses being filled by an attentive server who appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Pieck smoothed her napkin across her lap while taking in the table—the half-empty bread basket already raided by Connie if she had to guess—the bottle of white wine sweating in its ice bucket beside Armin.

The greetings had been warm enough on their surface anyway though tinged with that slight formality reserved for introducing someone new into an old established group still feeling out their dynamics obviously enough without making things awkward yet anyway which meant everyone present already understood this lunch wasn't just about catching up between comrades anymore now that she'd brought someone specifically along rather than coming alone like usual frankly speaking so they all knew something had shifted even if nobody wanted to be first one mentioning it directly out loud just yet obviously enough anyway here they were together now at least so far so good anyway all things considered overall honestly speaking about it anyway now really truly beginning properly finally here today at last after all this time waiting maybe for exactly this sort of moment actually perhaps even honestly now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together

The server returned with menus, distributing them with quiet efficiency. For a few minutes the conversation fragmented into the practical logistics of ordering—questions about daily specials, debates between the sea bass and the braised lamb. Pieck ordered the grilled octopus with smoked paprika oil; Stefan chose the duck confit after a moment’s consideration. Armin recommended the wine already on the table, a crisp Paradisian white from the southern vineyards that was apparently doing interesting things with hybrid grape varietals.

With the orders placed and the server gone, the table settled into its first real conversational groove. It started, as these things often did, with work—the safest common ground.

“How’s the coastal committee shaping up?” Armin asked Pieck, topping up her wine glass. “I read the interim report. Phased access based on migration patterns was a smart compromise.”

Pieck accepted the wine with a nod of thanks. “It’s moving. Slowly. The Paradisian naval liaison still thinks every Marleyan fishing boat is a spy vessel in disguise, but we’re getting there.” She took a sip, the wine tart and cool. “How are things on your end? The last memorandum from your office mentioned something about joint agricultural research stations.”

Armin launched into an explanation about seed bank collaborations, his words precise and enthusiastic. Pieck listened while letting part of her attention track the other conversations blooming around the table.

Beside her, Stefan remained quiet but attentive, his eyes moving between speakers as if filing away information. He sipped his water, not touching the wine yet.

Across the table, Jean had engaged Reiner in talk about training protocols for the newly formed international peacekeeping corps—a project Reiner had taken a leading role in, leveraging his Warrior experience into something constructive.

“—mostly defensive tactics,” Reiner was saying, tearing a piece of bread with his hands. “Emphasis on de-escalation. Which is harder to drill into people’s heads than bayonet charges, honestly.”

“Sounds boring,” Connie interjected cheerfully from Reiner’s other side.

“It is,” Reiner admitted with a grin. “But boring keeps people alive these days. How’s your mother, Connie? Last time you wrote she was thinking of expanding the garden.”

Connie’s face lit up, and he launched into a detailed update about his family’s farm back in what had once been Wall Rose territory. His mother was experimenting with Marleyan root vegetables, his sister was courting a blacksmith from the next village over, and the apple harvest this year looked promising barring an early frost.

Pieck watched Connie’s animated gestures as he spoke, the simple normalcy of his news feeling both alien and deeply comforting. This was what they’d fought for, in the end: apple harvests and garden expansions and mothers fussing over courting rituals.

She felt Stefan’s knee brush against hers under the table—not an accident, but a light point of contact, a silent I’m here. She didn’t look at him, but she let her own leg press back for a second before shifting to take another sip of wine.

The conversation ebbed and flowed naturally from there, following the easy patterns of old comrades who didn’t need to explain their shared history to understand each other’s shorthand. Jean complained about administrative bureaucracy in the Paradisian veterans’ affairs office. Annie offered a single dry comment about the quality of Liberio’s public parks compared to Paradis City’s, which sparked a mock-indignant defense from Connie about Marleyan horticulture.

Through it all, Pieck participated when appropriate, smiling at jokes, offering brief updates when asked. But she also watched how her friends interacted with Stefan.

Armin included him subtly, directing a question about Liberio’s harbor security upgrades his way after learning about his police background—a polite, professional inquiry that allowed Stefan to contribute without pressure. Stefan answered succinctly, mentioning infrastructure improvements without divulging anything sensitive, his tone respectful but not deferential.

Annie observed him with that same detached curiosity, though once Pieck caught her glancing between them with a faint, almost imperceptible tilt of her head as if confirming some internal hypothesis.

Jean was politely skeptical, his questions carrying an edge of protective scrutiny that Pieck recognized from their Scout days—Jean assessing whether someone measured up to the group’s unspoken standards.

Connie was just openly friendly, asking Stefan if he’d tried a particular Liberio beer or if he followed football.

And Reiner—Reiner was watchful in a different way. His eyes kept returning to Pieck, then to Stefan, then back to Pieck as if tracing an invisible line between them. He didn’t interrogate; he just observed with that weary, knowing expression of someone who had learned to read what people didn’t say.

The first course arrived—a shared platter of oysters on ice for the table, along with Armin’s beetroot salad and Annie’s clear broth. For a few minutes conversation gave way to the practical sounds of eating: the scrape of forks, the clink of shells being pried open, murmured approvals of the food.

It was during this natural lull, as Connie was attempting to demonstrate the “proper” way to slurp an oyster without spraying brine everywhere, that Pieck felt the moment settle around her.

The wine had warmed her slightly. The restaurant noise was a comfortable backdrop of clattering dishes and distant laughter from other tables. Her friends were relaxed, their guard down in this private corner of the world they’d salvaged. And Stefan sat beside her, steady and solid, having navigated the initial introductions without a single misstep.

She looked at his hand resting on the white tablecloth beside his water glass. His fingers were relaxed, the skin across his knuckles still bearing faint scars from his police days—old nicks and abrasions that never fully faded even without Titan healing. A practical hand. A hand that cooked her meals and sorted her papers and touched her with deliberate tenderness in their dark bedroom.

Without overthinking it—which was unusual for her frankly—Pieck reached over and placed her own hand over his.

The contact was simple: her palm covering his knuckles, her fingers curling loosely around the side of his hand. It wasn’t a dramatic gesture; it barely looked like anything from across the table probably. But in the context of everything they’d never shown anyone in this group before today, it might as well have been a shouted declaration.

Stefan went very still under her touch. He didn’t pull away; he just turned his head slowly to look at her, his expression unreadable to anyone who didn’t know how to read the slight tension in his jaw versus the softness in his eyes.

Around them, the conversation continued for another half-sentence before it stuttered to a halt.

Connie paused mid-slurp, oyster shell hovering at his lips. Jean’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline as his eyes dropped to their joined hands on the tablecloth. Reiner stopped chewing entirely. Annie set down her spoon with a soft click against her bowl rim. Armin just smiled—a small, knowing curve of his mouth that held no surprise at all.

Pieck waited until she had everyone’s attention, which didn’t take long honestly. Then she spoke into the sudden quiet, her voice calm and clear as if announcing a minor amendment to a trade agreement.

“Just so we’re all clear,” she said, her gaze sweeping around the table before settling back on Stefan’s profile. “Stefan isn’t just my assistant.”

She paused for a beat, letting the words hang in the air between the empty oyster shells and half-drunk wine glasses.

“He’s my boyfriend.”

For three full seconds, nobody moved or spoke.

Then several things happened at once.

Armin’s smile widened into something genuine and warm, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he gave Pieck a small nod of acknowledgment. He’d known, obviously. Or at least strongly suspected. His expression said thank you for trusting us more clearly than words could have.

Annie gave one brief, sharp nod of her own—not smiling exactly, but something in her face softened incrementally. Understanding. Approval maybe. With Annie it was hard to tell sometimes, but the nod was enough.

Jean’s eyebrows somehow climbed even higher before his whole face rearranged itself into an expression of pure shock that quickly morphed into delighted incredulity. He opened his mouth as if to say something clever but apparently couldn't find any words that fit.

Connie made a choked gurgling sound as the oyster brine he'd just sucked down went down the wrong pipe. He coughed violently, thumping his own chest with his fist while his eyes watered. The shell clattered from his fingers onto his plate.

“You—” he wheezed between coughs, pointing a trembling finger at Pieck and Stefan like he'd just witnessed a minor miracle. “You—!”

And Reiner—Reiner threw back his head and laughed.

It wasn't a polite chuckle or a suppressed snort. It was a full-bodied, resonant laugh that seemed to rise from deep in his chest and fill their corner of the restaurant with honest amusement. He slapped one heavy hand down on the table hard enough to make the silverware jump, then reached across with his other hand to clap Stefan firmly on the shoulder.

“I knew it!” Reiner boomed, still laughing as Stefan absorbed the shoulder clap without flinching though Pieck felt his fingers twitch slightly under hers. “I always wondered! All those times you talked about your ‘extremely efficient aide’ who just happened to live in your building—” He shook his head grinning broadly now at Pieck. “You really thought we wouldn't figure it out eventually?”

Pieck felt a slow smile spread across her own face as she watched Reiner's reaction unfold honestly it was better than she'd hoped for really though she hadn't allowed herself to hope for much just prepared for various outcomes as usual anyway now this laughter felt like something physical loosening in her chest like untying a knot she hadn't fully acknowledged was there until it started coming undone finally after holding it tight for so many years already frankly speaking about it now honestly yes indeed finally truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now

Connie finally recovered his breath, though his eyes were still watering. He wiped them with the back of his hand, staring at Pieck and Stefan with the awed expression of someone who’d just solved a particularly tricky puzzle.

“Boyfriend?” he repeated, as if testing the word for structural integrity. Then his face broke into a huge grin. “No way! How long has this been going on? And you didn’t tell us?”

Jean found his voice next, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, his earlier shock giving way to mischievous curiosity. “More importantly,” he said, his gaze shifting to Stefan, “how exactly did you manage that? I mean, we’re talking about Pieck Finger here. The Cart Titan. The woman who negotiated the Hizuru trade agreement while recovering from three broken ribs. What’s your secret?”

Stefan’s shoulder was still under Reiner’s heavy hand, but he didn’t seem bothered by it. He glanced at Pieck first, a silent question in his eyes—how much do I say? She gave him an almost imperceptible nod, her own smile lingering at the corners of her mouth. Your move.

He turned back to Jean and Connie, his expression shifting into something dry and understatedly amused. “There’s no secret,” he said, his voice even. “I just made better tea than anyone else she’d met.”

Connie blinked. “Tea?”

“It started with tea,” Stefan confirmed with a slight shrug that didn’t dislodge Reiner’s hand. “She came home from a two-week summit in Paradis looking like she hadn’t slept since the departure ceremony. I made her chamomile with honey. Apparently my technique was persuasive.”

Armin chuckled softly into his wine glass, clearly appreciating the answer’s simplicity.

“Tea,” Jean repeated, sounding both skeptical and impressed. “You landed Pieck Finger with chamomile.”

“And organizational skills,” Stefan added mildly. “I alphabetize her treaty files by both chronological date and geopolitical region. Cross-referenced.”

Now even Annie’s lips twitched, though she hid it by taking another sip of water.

Pieck watched Stefan handle their friends’ attention with that same quiet grace he brought to everything—not seeking the spotlight but not shrinking from it either. He parried Jean’s teasing with dry humor, answered Connie’s earnest questions without divulging anything too personal, and all while her hand remained over his on the tablecloth, a public claim that felt both terrifying and exhilarating.

“So wait,” Connie said, leaning so far forward he was practically halfway across the table. “You live together? Like, actually together-together? In that fancy harbor apartment everyone talks about?”

“We share living quarters,” Stefan said diplomatically.

“He means yes,” Pieck clarified, squeezing his fingers lightly under hers.

Reiner finally removed his hand from Stefan’s shoulder, still grinning as he reclaimed his wine glass. “I should have guessed years ago. Remember that summit in Odiha, Pieck? When you insisted on handling your own luggage instead of letting the porters touch it? You had that one bag you wouldn’t let anyone near.”

Pieck remembered. That bag had contained letters from Stefan, along with a small carved wooden bird he’d sent because she’d mentioned missing the gulls from their harbor view. She’d guarded it like state secrets.

“Security protocol,” she said blandly, though the spark in her eyes gave her away.

“Right,” Reiner said, rolling his own eyes good-naturedly. “Protocol.”

The main courses arrived then, carried by two servers who placed the steaming plates before each diner with practiced efficiency. The interruption allowed the conversation to shift momentarily to the food—compliments on presentation, questions about ingredients exchanged across the table.

Pieck’s grilled octopus arrived artfully arranged on a bed of crushed potatoes with the smoked paprika oil drizzled in a precise spiral around the plate. Stefan’s duck confit looked rich and golden-skinned beside a small mound of garlicky white beans.

For a few minutes everyone focused on eating, the earlier revelation settling into the group’s atmosphere like sediment finding its level in water. It wasn’t forgotten—far from it—but it had moved from shocking news to accepted fact, which was exactly what Pieck had hoped for honestly.

She cut into her octopus tentacle, the flesh tender and charred at the edges from the grill. The flavor was excellent—smoky and briny with a hint of citrus underneath. She ate a piece thoughtfully while listening to Connie recount a story about his mother trying to use Paradisian farming techniques on Marleyan soil with mixed results.

Halfway through her meal, as Armin was explaining something about cross-border irrigation projects to Jean, Pieck looked at Stefan’s plate. He was eating methodically, cutting precise bites of duck and bean together. She watched him for a moment, noting the familiar way he held his fork—the same way he held everything, with deliberate care.

Then, without planning it or overthinking the gesture—which was becoming something of a theme today—she cut another piece of her octopus, speared it along with a bit of potato soaked in paprika oil, and lifted her fork.

She didn’t make a production of it. She didn’t call attention to what she was doing or ask if he wanted to try it. She simply reached across the small space between their plates and held the fork out toward his mouth, her expression calm as if this were the most natural action in the world.

Stefan paused mid-bite, his own fork hovering over his beans. He looked at the food offered to him, then up at Pieck’s face. His eyes held hers for a heartbeat—a silent exchange that needed no words. Then he leaned forward slightly and took the bite from her fork.

He chewed slowly, nodding once in appreciation before swallowing. “Good,” he said quietly, his voice just for her though obviously everyone at the table could hear. “The smokiness is perfect.”

That was when the table erupted.

Jean groaned loudly enough that diners at neighboring tables glanced over briefly before returning to their own conversations. “Oh come on!” he protested, though he was grinning despite himself. “Get a room! We’re trying to eat here!”

Connie made an exaggerated retching sound before clapping both hands over his eyes—though Pieck could see him peeking through his fingers. “I’m blinded! The cuteness! It burns!”

Even Reiner laughed again, shaking his head as he sawed into his steak. “And here I thought today couldn’t get more interesting.”

Armin and Annie exchanged a look—Armin’s amused smirk meeting Annie’s faint eye-roll that somehow conveyed deep understanding and shared amusement despite her typically stoic expression. Armin reached over and patted Annie’s hand on the table in a mirror of Pieck and Stefan’s earlier gesture, which made Annie give him a sideways glance that might have been annoyance but probably wasn’t.

Pieck felt laughter bubble up in her own chest—not the polite diplomatic chuckle she used at receptions, but real, unguarded laughter that made her shoulders shake slightly. She looked at Stefan and found him smiling too, a genuine smile that reached his eyes and softened the careful lines of his face.

“Sorry,” she said to the table at large though she didn’t sound sorry at all frankly speaking honestly now really truly laughing finally yes indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now yes finally indeed truly here together now

“Don’t be sorry!” Connie insisted, dropping his hands from his face. “This is amazing! I haven’t seen you laugh like that since… well, ever maybe.”

The truth of Connie’s observation settled over the table more quietly than the earlier teasing had. Pieck realized he was right—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed freely in front of anyone except Stefan. Her public laughter was always measured, always part of the performance.

Here, with her hand still resting near Stefan’s on the table after feeding him from her fork, with her friends watching them with varying expressions of amusement and approval rather than judgment or scandalized shock—here she felt something loosen inside her that had been clenched tight for years.

“The octopus really is excellent,” Stefan said into the comfortable silence that followed, picking up his own fork again as if nothing remarkable had happened. He cut another piece of duck. “You should try a bite of this too if you want.”

He offered her his fork without ceremony—not reaching toward her mouth as she had done for him, but holding it out over her plate so she could take it if she chose to.

Pieck accepted the bite, tasting the rich duck and creamy beans. “Better than military rations,” she said after swallowing.

“Everything is better than military rations,” Reiner chimed in with feeling.

The conversation drifted back to easier topics after that—upcoming trips everyone had planned, a new book Armin was reading about pre-Titan maritime navigation techniques, Annie’s surprisingly detailed opinions on different brands of baking flour available in Liberio versus Paradis City.

But something fundamental had shifted in the atmosphere around their table. The careful distance Pieck had always maintained between her private life and these friends had collapsed like a sandcastle meeting an incoming tide. In its place was something simpler: acceptance.

Stefan participated more freely now too though still quietly overall anyway really naturally enough not trying too hard obviously just being himself which seemed to be enough for everyone present honestly speaking about it frankly enough overall anyway they continued eating while sunlight slanted through the restaurant windows moving slowly across their tablecloth as afternoon deepened toward evening outside where Liberio harbor bustled with its ordinary Saturday rhythms completely unaware of the small private milestone being celebrated inside Le Marin between people who had survived apocalypses only to find that sharing a meal with friends while holding your lover's hand under the table could feel like its own kind of victory maybe even more meaningful somehow than some of those earlier more famous ones honestly when you really thought about it properly overall anyway yes indeed truly here together now