For Our Cherished One

Inside, the room was unexpectedly quiet. Unlike the bustling cafeteria I had imagined, it was a single, spacious kitchen. The countertops were polished, and copper pots gleamed under the light filtering in through high windows.

In the center of it all stood a single man, tall and poised, stirring something in a large pot.

I froze.

Soft brown hair framed his sharp features, and his honey-colored eyes focused intently on his work. His uniform was simple but clean, and his movements were precise and methodical, exuding a quiet elegance.

"Are we… near the canteen?" Fulgur whispered.

I didn't respond, too stunned to form words. Something about the man tugged at the edges of my memory.

Wilhelm, on the other hand, seemed to recognize him immediately. His face turned pale, and he stuttered as he grabbed my arm and Fulgur's, yanking us both down to the floor.

"W-we apologize for intruding, Young General!" Wilhelm's voice cracked as he forced us into bows.

The title jolted me out of my stupor. Young General?

My head snapped up, and my heart skipped a beat.

Huh?

I blinked.

This beautiful guy is Eren Lacquier?

Apparently, it wasn't the cold guy from earlier.

This one looked young and fresh...?

I couldn't help my wonder.

The third antagonist of the story.

 Even just the name carried weight in my mind.

In the story I had written, he was one of the most skilled knights under Countess Shanis Mysetria and a tragic figure who met his end three years after the climactic battle. I remembered him vividly as a stoic and unyielding presence, not... this domestic, flustered young man.

He was my age when I died—23 years old. But now, in the body of Evangeline Rullet and a year before the story's main events, I was 18, and he had just turned 20.

Eren turned to us, his honey-colored eyes resting on each of us in turn. His expression was calm but unreadable, and the room felt heavier under his gaze.

Soft brown hair and honey-dew eyes stared at us with a mix of confusion and exasperation.

He looked nothing like the cold and ruthless knight I had imagined from the story. Instead, he was dressed casually, with rolled-up sleeves and an apron dusted with flour. Without a word, he grabbed a ladle from the sink and bonked each of us lightly on the head.

The others winced in pain, groaning in protest. But I didn't react.

My focus was entirely on him.

"Young knights. Didn't we tell you not to wander around?" he scolded, his voice firm yet oddly gentle.

"Ugh! Sir, we were hungry..." Fulgur Dascht groaned, rubbing his head. Beside him, Wilheim Surn nodded in agreement, their expressions a mix of guilt and frustration.

Eren let out a long-suffering sigh, placing the ladle back in the sink. "But there's a rule against sneaking around," he reminded us, his tone weary but patient.

He reached out to help us up, one by one, brushing off the dust from our uniforms.

When his gaze finally met mine, I couldn't help but straighten up, my heart skipping a beat.

There was something disarming about his presence, something entirely different from how I'd envisioned him.

And before I could stop myself, I smiled and said, "You know, if you wanted to be more popular with the girls, you should announce how great of a cook you are."

At my sudden remark, Fulgur and Wilheim exchanged confused glances, clearly not understanding what had prompted such an outburst.

But Eren…

Ah. Stop. Don't grin like an idiot, Ellen.

His face turned as red as a beet.

The confident knight from the story was now completely flustered, his composure shattered in an instant. He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it, seemingly at a loss for words.

I bit back a laugh, savoring the rare sight of his embarrassment.

Maybe this version of Eren Lacquier wasn't so different from the man I had envisioned after all.

The sound of Eren clearing his throat brought me back to the present.

He turned away, his face still flushed, and busied himself with something on the counter. His movements were precise yet hurried, as if trying to shake off the embarrassment of my remark.

Finally, he placed three plates of food in front of us.

The dishes were simple but smelled divine—freshly baked bread, a hearty stew, and a small side of roasted vegetables.

"This isn't dinner," Eren said, his voice steady but tinged with a warning. "Dinner will be served in an hour at the proper time and place. I'm only giving you this because you seem half-starved. But," he fixed us with a firm look, "if you breathe a word of this to anyone, you won't find my kitchen so welcoming next time."

The three of us nodded in unison, like chastised children.

"Good. Now eat."

We didn't need to be told twice.

The moment I took the first bite, the flavors exploded in my mouth, and for a brief moment, the world outside the kitchen ceased to exist.

"Wow," Fulgur said around a mouthful of stew. "This is amazing, sir! You should seriously open a restaurant or something!"

Eren raised a brow but said nothing, focusing on cleaning the counter.

"Yeah, well," Wilhelm muttered, rolling his eyes, "it'll take more than good cooking to impress people. Especially when you're spurting blood from all your orifices during Phase 2 like someone I know."

"Hey!" Fulgur protested, his cheeks puffing indignantly. "I held my ground!"

"Barely," Wilhelm shot back, smirking.

Eren, still wiping down the counter, turned his gaze to me. "And you?" he asked, his tone hesitant but curious. "How did you find the test?"

I blinked, the stew halfway to my mouth, and answered simply, "It was fine."

"Fine?" Eren repeated, his brow furrowing slightly.

Before I could elaborate, Wilhelm jumped in. "She didn't even move. Not once. It was honestly creepy."

Eren's honey-colored eyes flickered with something—recognition, perhaps—as he studied me. "So you're the Unfathomable," he said softly, as though testing the words.

"Unfathomable?" I repeated, confused.

"Ah, yes," Wilhelm chimed in, grinning. "There's such a nickname going around."

Eren sighed and shook his head. "Don't spread this to anyone," he said, his tone serious, "but the higher-ups have given her that name themselves. She's… unique, after all."

I didn't know how to respond to that, so I stayed silent, listening as the conversation shifted.

Fulgur and Wilhelm seemed energized by the revelation, their banter growing livelier as they speculated about other nicknames or what the higher-ups might think of us.

Meanwhile, I kept my gaze on Eren, quietly observing.

Despite the casual apron and the domestic setting, there was something about him that felt undeniably knightly—a reserved strength and a sense of duty that lingered beneath his otherwise gentle demeanor.

The meal ended with Eren shooing us out of the kitchen, his tone gruff but not unkind.

As we made our way back to the cabin, Fulgur and Wilhelm chatted animatedly about the food, the nickname, and everything in between.

I, on the other hand, couldn't stop thinking about Eren Lacquier—the man who had once been a figure of tragedy in my story, now standing before me as a quiet, unassuming presence.

Perhaps, I thought to myself, this version of him wasn't entirely the antagonist I had written after all.