Chapter Text
The familiar chime of the door bell sounds, followed immediately by the footsteps and chaotic banter you’ve come to expect on weekday mornings. You straighten from where you’re leaning on the counter, bracing yourself as the sound of arguing fills the café.
“Oh please,” Jean scoffs. “I’d last longer than you, easy. Zombies wouldn’t even have to hunt you down—you’d just charge at them like the suicidal maniac you are.”
Eren snorts, bright green eyes narrowing beneath his messily tied man bun. “Yeah right, Kirstein. You can’t compete with my strength and endurance.”
“What—are you gonna outrun a zombie? They’re slow, you idiot.” Jean throws his hands up. “Tell me one of you agrees with me.” He looks around the group with pleading eyes.
Mikasa doesn’t bother to look up from her phone. “Eren would survive longer than you.”
Jean glares at her. “On what planet?!”
“I wouldn’t let him die,” she says flatly.
Jean stares at her for a second. “The argument is about which one of us would—” He exhales, shoulders deflating. “You know what? Never mind.”
Armin slips behind the counter, returning from his break. He rolls his eyes at his friends' typical antics. When he catches your eye, you give him a knowing smile.
“Good morning, guys,” Armin calls softly. “You’re here earlier than usual. I’m not off until ten-thirty.”
You half-listen, catching muttered complaints about needing a caffeine head start before a long day of classes.
The group, as always, fills the space easily.
Connie yawns mid-sentence, rubbing a hand over his buzzed head as he tells Sasha about some new video game he's obsessed with. She doesn't respond—too busy eyeing the pastry case like she hasn't eaten in weeks. Even on her days off, she practically lives here alongside her friends.
Mikasa sits close to Eren, dark hair falling around her face, thumbs tapping across her phone. Every so often, she glances at him while he loudly argues about the zombie apocalypse. Jean leans back in his chair, scoffing at something Mikasa mutters under her breath.
You and Armin move swiftly behind the counter, making quick work of their drinks, having memorized their orders after months of almost daily visits.
When Mikasa walks over to the register, you set down the iced chai you were working on for Jean to meet her. She holds out her credit card.
You quirk a knowing eyebrow at her. “Still paying for all these freeloaders?”
The corner of her mouth lifts slightly. “Yeah, guess so.”
“Can I get you anything else?”
“No, just the drinks, thank you.”
You ring up the familiar order—silently adding the friends and family discount, when someone clears their throat. Sasha stands just behind Mikasa with an innocent smile, her eyes darting between the pastry case and her friend.
Mikasa rolls her eyes. “And a croissant for Sasha, please.”
Cough.
“And a brownie,” Mikasa sighs, used to the perpetual hunger of her friend.
Sasha’s eyes glow with satisfaction. “Thanks, Mika. I owe you one.”
Mikasa shakes her head with a faint smile before she returns to her seat.
When Armin finishes the final drink, you round the counter through the swinging door and reach for the tray. You carefully cross the honeyed wooden floorboards to the large table near the front door—the one these students have claimed as their “spot.” Passing around the drinks, you smile at their thanks before handing Sasha her plate.
When you hand Jean his iced chai, he averts his eyes and clears his throat. “Soo… uh— what might you be finding yourself doing this weekend?”
You smile, nose scrunching at the awkward phrasing. His friends exchange suspicious looks as he avoids their gaze as well.
“Uh…” You try to remember what your plans even are. Your life isn’t packed with wild hobbies or a huge social circle, but you like the quiet simplicity of it. Your younger brother, Niccolo, has voiced concerns about your lack of social life for years, despite your assurance that you have plenty to do. You have your cafe, him, Hange, and Stardew Valley. That’s plenty.
Still, Niccolo sends links to concerts, events, and—god, even speed dating opportunities. You appreciate his concern, but it’s misplaced. You’re happy. Your life is simple.
Stability is what you’ve built in this small brick corner of Paradis: a café with your last name on the door, Sinclair’s Table, and a small apartment overhead. You’ve carved out your little world, and you don’t need to venture beyond it.
A small piece of your name to honor your parents memory is not much, perhaps, but you hope the café, and taking care of Nic, is enough to make them proud.
Or would have been. Or… whatever.
“Don’t have too much planned,” you continue, “just dinner with Hange and Nic is visiting tomorrow. Oh– and I have a hot date with Sebastian, of course.”
The group chuckles, well aware of your small obsession with the pixel farming sim.
Everyone except Jean, apparently.
His eyes brighten. “Date?” he says. “Well… if you’re interested in dating… we could—maybe I could—”
A sharp smack lands on the back of his head.
“Agh—what—?” He turns to find Sasha standing there, one eyebrow quirked, secondhand embarrassment radiating off of her.
“Shut up, ya idiot,” She says, brownie crumbs flying out of her mouth.
Jean’s ears turn red, the flush spreading up his neck. “Say it, don’t spray it, brownie girl.”
He glances at you sheepishly and you give him a tight-lipped smile. You were fond of the kid, but he was… well, a kid. Four years younger than you. The same age as your brother. You shudder at the thought. “Sorry, only pixelated residents of Pelican Town for me,” you joke lightly. You slip back behind the counter just as another customer enters.
Jean’s awkward attempts at flirting aside, you had little interest in dating. You’d gone on one or two blind dates, begrudgingly arranged at the insistence of your eclectic, and oddly persuasive, best friend, Hange. They weren’t terrible, but they just… fell flat.
Polite conversation. Pleasant dinners. That was it.
A few of them called you back, but after a voicemail and an unopened text or two, you were once again left to your own devices. Very much by choice, you remind yourself.
You take the customer’s order and swiftly make the double americano. You call out their name, and they nod as they make their way back out the door.
The chattering of the students dulls to pleasant background noise. With the absence of new customers, you begin diligently cleaning your counters, registers, machines… organizing labels, marking expiration dates. All the necessary small things to keep your café running smoothly. Weirdly, it’s one of your favorite parts of the place. Another thing you’re able to control in your environment.
Armin moves to help, grabbing a broom. You wave him away with a soft smile and gesture toward his friends. He nods gratefully, setting the broom aside and slipping through the swinging door. He leans against the counter near them, easily folding back into their study session.
As you continue cleaning, you glance up at the group of kiddos you’ve grown fond of and smile.
When you first moved to Paradis, you didn’t know anyone except Hange. You met them your sophomore year of high school in biology class, where they’d been assigned as the teaching assistant. Their boisterous personality easily filled the silences you didn’t always have the words for, and despite the slight age gap, the two of you became close friends.
There was a brief stretch where you saw less of each other after they moved to Paradis for college and you stayed behind in Trost, working as a waitress while your little brother finished high school. When he left for Marley University, you followed Hange to Paradis not long after.
While you love your frequent dinners with Hange and occasional visits with your brother, it was nice to have the quiet company of a group that enjoyed being around you without expecting you to fill every silence. You were happy to offer what you could manage: caffeination and a comfortable place to exist together.
You furrow your brows, suddenly remembering that you’d made an extra tray of ham and cheese croissants. You’d taken them upstairs intending to enjoy for breakfast over the coming week—but now you think of a better use for them.
“Armin, can you keep an eye out for me? I’ll be right back.”
He nods, and you rush behind the counter and up the stairs. In your apartment, you cross the tiled kitchen floor and grab the croissants from the counter, arranging them quickly on a plate before carrying them back down to the group.
They look at you questioningly—all except Sasha, who stares at the plate with stars in her eyes and drool trailing down her chin.
“Made an extra batch last night,” you say breathlessly and set the plate down. “Thought you all could use the extra fuel.
“That’s really kind of you,” Armin says with a soft smile.
Connie stares wide eyed at the plate, then up at you. “Wait. Seriously—for free?! Got any more of these to g–”
He jolts with a grunt. “I mean—thank you. Obviously. Thank you.” He presses his lips together, glaring at Mikasa.
Eren clears his throat. “Yeah. Thanks... We’ll—uh—we’ll pay you back.”
You chuckle, waving it off. “Not necessary, guys. I really just made extra. I hope you enj—”
Sasha snaps out of her trance.
“Food!”
She lunges.
Eyes wide, pupils blown, she snatches two croissants in a death grip and immediately tries to shove both into her mouth at once.
“Sasha—hey—” Connie yelps, grabbing one of her wrists.
Jean lunges in from the other side. “You can’t just take two!”
The croissants visibly compress under Sasha’s titan grip as she growls and resists with surprising strength.
Mikasa sighs, already standing. She pries Sasha’s fingers back calmly, freeing one of the pastries.
Sasha, undeterred, immediately leans sideways and clamps her teeth down on Jean’s arm.
“Sasha!” Jean shouts, horrified, “stop biting my arm!”
Sasha muffles something that might be an apology. Or might be chewing.
Mikasa, now fully focused on the attempted cannibalism, manages to pull Sasha away and seats her firmly in a chair far from Jean—and far from the croissants.
You stare at the chaos, eyes wide. When you glance around the table, none of them seem particularly fazed. Apparently this is normal when Sasha and food occupy the same space.
“Sasha—” you call. No response. “Sasha!”
She looks up, a relatively normal expression back in place.
“Are you still able to open tomorrow? I’m taking Nic out to breakfast.”
“Yeah, you got it, boss. I’ll be here bright and early. You can count on me.”
“Thanks,” you breathe,” I’ll be around in the early afternoon to relieve you.”
A few of them begin packing up, tossing cups and napkins into the waste bin. Armin neatly folds his apron and slips it into his backpack before slinging it over his shoulder.
You glance down at your small gold wristwatch. “It’s that time, then,” you say, moving back behind the counter. “Good luck with classes, kids. I’ll see you soon.”
A chorus of thanks follows—for the coffee, the company, the croissants. You wave and watch as they file out the front glass door. A cool October breeze slips inside, and you close your eyes, basking briefly in the warmth that lingers.
You savor the quiet of this little world you’ve built.
Then you return to cleaning.