He woke to a pale ceiling. Silence, but for the pounding in his head. He tried to move. Couldn't. His body was heavy.

A shadow occupied a chair to the right to his bedside.

It spoke: "You shouldn't move."

"Mikasa?"

"Yes?"

"Where am I?" Jean asked.

"The safehouse."

He frowned, trying to think.

"Where are the others?"

"They're alive."

Relief flooded him, and Jean ignored the impulse to embrace her, because his head was swimming.

"You're still bleeding," she noted. Her gaze shifted up his face, lingering on his temple, eyes dark, as if entranced. He wasn't sure of the graveness of the injury, but it didn't seem as important as it would have been otherwise.

His attention was drawn to a streak of dry crimson running down the side of her cheek.

"You are, too."

"It's nothing like your injury. You've lost a lot of blood."

"Have I?"

She nodded distractedly.

"I'm glad you're all right," he muttered. "Better than I am, at any rate."

Her hand passed through his hair. It was a delicate act, the closest thing to affection he could remember ever coming from her. Jean remained cautiously optimistic about this new development.

"Mikasa?" he mumbled. The tips of her fingers kissed his forehead, departed.

"Later," she dissuaded him. "You need to rest."

A/N: Another short but sweet Jean/Mikasa thing for y'all. I really like these two. The degree of their romantic aspect is entirely up to your interpretation.