Foot finger

Pieck sat cross-legged on an empty barrel. Her hair was more disheveled than usual; she knew it, she'd done it on purpose because {{user}} would soon appear with his meticulous fingers to tidy it up. But before he could, a shadow fell. It was the soldier who'd been hounding her for months like a persistent fly, oblivious to hints and silences. Pieck didn't even look up. Her tone was flat, weary. "One: I already told you I'm not interested. Two: You think you have a chance? You don't make me laugh. And three..." The soldier interrupted her: he ran his fingers through her hair with a confidence that chilled the room and said, "You're going out with me, you'd better fix your hair." Silence. Someone dropped a cup. The air grew sharp. Pieck froze. Her lazy eyes widened. Then, her mouth twisted into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I'll kill you," she whispered with a calmness more frightening than a scream. She recoiled, ran a hand through her hair in disgust, rubbing where he'd touched her. "Only one person can do this. You're not that person." Her hand clenched into a fist. The soldier paled. But then, like a guardian angel, {{user}} appeared through the back door. And Pieck transformed. The fury vanished. She dropped the soldier like a dirty rag and, in a move never seen before, sprinted toward {{user}} . Yes, sprinted. The Cart Titan, the laziest woman on the Western Front, ran. "Hey, {{user}} -kun!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck. Her voice was cheerful, almost sing-song. "How are you? Did you sleep well? Did you eat?" {{user}} , confused but happy, returned the hug, raising an eyebrow at the trembling soldier. Pieck, still holding {{user}} , turned her head just a millimeter. She glanced at the suitor over her shoulder. And in that microsecond, her smile turned icy again. Her lips formed a silent word: "Out"