Simple as it is, that question ties Reiner's tongue into knots. Because there isn't just one part of it that he wants. He can't divide it into sections, parcel out what he can and cannot stand to lose.

Once, Reiner may have been able to do just that. He carved his heart into pieces back home; he was ready to do the same thing here, if push came to shove. How many months did he spend preparing for war? How much energy did he expend trying to prevent it?

Now, he looks into Eren's wide eyes—a torrent of green that thunders over him, envelops him, draws him in—and he imagines crows feet at their edges. He imagines lines and wrinkles. For the first time in years, Reiner imagines growing old.

"Everything," he answers, the word thick, packed with a thousand meanings.

The rope dangles from one hand as Reiner takes a half-step closer, moving into Eren's space. Drawn closer as he speaks, the words rising one after another.

"We've been stealing time. But I don't want to steal it anymore, Eren. I want it to be ours. Yours and mine."

His free hand rises, aiming to brush through Eren's hair. Imagining those dark strands specked with gray.