Jean makes coffee with two sugars and low fat creamer, nudging her out of the kitchen with a gentle tap of his hip against hers.
“Go sit,” he tells her, when Mikasa looks at him, bleary eyed with an ache in her legs that’s never left since last night. “I’ve got you,” because it’s been two years, and he knows how her coffee should be fixed, and how breakfast should be made, and how she likes to pick the newspaper apart into fours. Mikasa all but stumbles back towards the dining room table, drawing her knees to her chest and settling her glasses on nose, and there is comfort in the constant, in whatever the two of them have.
Jean carefully sets the mug down beside her, careful not to disturb, and she catches him by the waistband of his sweats, drawing him closer and closer still, until her mouth is on his.
“I don’t have to be in until ten,” Mikasa murmurs, feeling his lips twitch and curl into a grin against her own. He pulls away, tapping the table and telling her he put that cold brew coffee to use, to try and see how it tastes. Mikasa pours the cinnamon Jean leaves for her in her cup, dipping the spoon and wiping it clean with her tongue.
“What–” She glances down at the coffee, then back at him, as he lounges in the chair beside her with the discarded news sections sitting in his lap, half a smile lapsing onto his face as if he had no clue ‘Marry me’ was inscribed in the spoon.