The mess kitchen was alive with the sound of clattering pans, boiling water, and the dull scrape of peeling knives against cheap iron sinks. It was noon, the sun high, and Levi Ackerman was elbow-deep in a mountain of potatoes that somehow multiplied every time he blinked.

Scrub. Scrub. SCRUB.

"Don't forget to peel around the eyes, cadet," the kitchen officer barked as he passed, only to instantly reconsider once Levi's dead-eyed glare met his soul. The officer retreated with a cough.

Levi turned back to the offending vegetable. It was covered in dirt. It mocked him. So he scrubbed it harder. As if scrubbing hard enough might erase the image currently burned into the back of his eyelids. Because he'd just seen them.

Her.

Beatrice. Wearing that stupid knit shawl someone (him) had adjusted earlier, walking with that stupid tilt to her step because her ankle still wasn't healed, trailing a faint smile like she didn't even know what that did to people. She was surrounded, of course—because Beatrice never tried to draw people in, but she did anyway. Isabel on one side, talking animatedly about animals or maybe birds or possibly exploding soup. And on the other side?

Farlan. With his soft smile. And his soft hair. And that lovesick puppy look in his eyes.

Levi had watched the way Farlan leaned in whenever Beatrice spoke, like every word she said was a sacred hymn. He always reached forward first to steady her elbow, or brush a leaf from her shoulder, or ask if her ankle still hurt. How Beatrice just blinked at him and smiled—like she didn't realise Farlan was one heartbeat away from writing her a poem and dying about it.

SCRUB SCRUB SCRUB

The potato in his hand now resembled a deflated sponge. Levi dropped it into the rinse bucket with a wet plop, then grabbed another like it had insulted his ancestors.

From the open kitchen archway, voices filtered in.

"I told you not to put salt in before it boils, Isabel!"

"Well maybe if you helped more, lovebird—"

"I am not—!"

"—And Beatrice, tell him he's making weird eyes again!"

"I… don't know what weird eyes are supposed to look like…"

Levi stiffened.

Beatrice's voice. Soft. Confused. Like always. Like she'd never realise Farlan was all but courting her with every breath. He stared down at the potato. Then stabbed the peeler into it with surgical precision.

SCRUB.

"Levi-bro?"

He didn't look up. "What."

Isabel leaned over the counter, upside-down like a bat. "You're cutting potatoes like they insulted your mother."

"Did they?" Farlan added, appearing beside her with Beatrice quietly at his back, head tilted as she observed the disfigured pile of potato corpses beside him.

Levi's eye twitched. "What do you want?"

"I came to return the kitchen pass. Beatrice wanted to say hi." Isabel chirped innocently.

Beatrice blinked. "Oh. No I—"

"You did," Isabel grinned.

"I said I wanted to give him berries," Beatrice mumbled, fumbling in her pocket.

Levi's hands froze.

Beatrice shuffled forward. "I saved them from breakfast. They're still good. I thought you'd… um. Like them."

She held out her palm.

Four boysenberries. Small. Juicy. Lopsided. Hand-picked.

Levi stared at them. He reached for a towel. Dried his hands. Reached out—and paused. Beatrice gently tipped her hand, letting the berries drop into his palm. He didn't say anything. But she smiled anyway.

And then Farlan—sweet, stupid Farlan—stepped forward with that look, brushing a hand against Beatrice's shoulder to steady her again. "C'mon, Bea. Let's go sit. You need to rest that ankle."

She nodded, her gaze flickering briefly back to Levi.

"Thank you for peeling all our potatoes," she said quietly, completely sincere.

Levi didn't answer. Didn't even look at her. He turned back to the sink, dropped the towel, and picked up the next potato.

SCRUB.

Farlan laughed softly as they left. "You know, you're kind of amazing, Beatrice."

Beatrice blinked, tilting her head.

Levi scrubbed harder. When he finally popped a berry into his mouth, it tasted sweet. But not as sweet as it did the night she fed them to him, hands stained, arms around his neck, soft snores against his back.

That night. That damn night.

SCRUB.

He stared at the sink and muttered to himself, barely audible.

"…Stupid berry girl."

The training barracks had long since gone quiet. Candles had been snuffed out. Boots kicked off. Breathing slowed. Night had draped herself gently over the roof of the world, and the soft hum of cicadas in the grass below carried into the open windows of the dorms. But Beatrice was awake.

She moved slowly, careful not to wake Isabel, who had somehow tangled herself in three blankets and was mumbling about goat milk in her sleep. Pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders, Beatrice slipped through the hall, past the creaky stairwell, and climbed the familiar ladder to the attic.

The roof hatch creaked softly. Her hands found the latch by feel. Then, the sky greeted her. A canopy of stars spilt across the heavens, bright and wild and free, just as she remembered it. And someone else was already there. Beatrice froze halfway through the hatch, blinking.

Levi.

Sitting on the slanted edge of the roof with his knees drawn up, arms resting atop them. The wind stirred his hair slightly. His face was tilted toward the sky, not hard or cold like usual, but quiet. Soft in that way, he never let anyone see. Balanced on one knee was a book. A very familiar book.

"Navigate the Night Sky: How to Identify the Stars and Constellations by Guilherme De Almeida."

Her breath caught. She hadn't seen that book in years. She'd spent hours in Darius' study growing up, poring over it, pointing out constellations with sticky fingers and wild theories, until her uncle made her a star map of her own.

"...You're late," Levi muttered without looking.

Beatrice blinked, crawling through the hatch. "You were expecting me?"

"No."

"Then why are you here?"

He turned a page. Didn't answer.

She moved to sit beside him, careful not to slide down the sloped tiles. "You took the book from Uncle Darius' library."

He shrugged. "You never shut up about it."

Beatrice smiled faintly. "You remembered."

Levi didn't reply. But she saw the faint twitch of his shoulder.

She looked up, brushing windswept hair from her face. "That's Lyra," she whispered, pointing to a cluster of stars. "See that one? Vega. One of the brightest in the northern hemisphere."

"Looks like a dot."

"They're all dots. It's the stories that make them beautiful."

Levi looked at her sideways. "You think getting shot in the forest makes a good bedtime story?"

Beatrice was quiet for a moment.

Then she reached forward and tapped another part of the sky. "That one's Cassiopeia. Chained to a chair for her pride. Forced to watch the world from above. Uncle used to say she reminded him of me."

"Tch. You're not that arrogant."

"No," she agreed softly. "But I've always been… stuck. Watching."

She hugged her knees to her chest.

Levi turned back to the book in his lap. "You're not stuck."

Beatrice glanced at him.

"You fought. You bled. You walked back." He flipped a page. "You scare half the instructors now."

A small laugh escaped her. "That's not the same."

He looked at her then, his silver eyes sharp and unreadable. "It is to me."

Beatrice's breath caught. They sat like that for a while—quiet, save for the wind and the soft rustle of pages. Levi's presence was steady. Like a mountain. Or a shadow that never left her side.

Then, slowly, Beatrice leaned back onto the tiles, arms folded beneath her head. "You come here a lot?"

Levi didn't answer immediately. "Sometimes," he said. "It's quiet. No one bothers me."

"You always sulk with a star map?"

He snorted. "Shut up."

She smiled. Then—softly, like a breeze—

"I like this," she whispered.

Levi's eyes flicked to her.

"This," she said again, gesturing to the sky. "This silence. The stars. Just… being."

A long beat passed.

"…Me too," Levi muttered.

Beatrice turned her head toward him, eyes reflecting the constellations. "Did you make a wish?"

"On what?"

"The meteor shower," she said. "The one from last month."

Levi was silent.

She watched him. Then, in a low voice, like it hurt to say it—

"I wish I'd been stronger."

Beatrice's eyes widened.

"I wish I could've stopped it before you got hurt," he continued. "Before you were bleeding in my arms. Before I thought—" he stopped, jaw tight.

She reached over without thinking, her fingers brushing his sleeve. "Levi."

He looked at her, eyes burning with something she couldn't name.

And she smiled.

His shoulders slackened.

The book in his lap slipped a little, forgotten. And slowly, quietly, he lay back beside her—shoulder to shoulder, gazing at the stars. The silence returned, warm and close.

After a few moments, Beatrice murmured, "Hey… I can teach you the rest of the constellations."

"You're gonna make me memorize the whole damn sky?"

"Well, only the ones that matter."

Levi scoffed, but didn't move. And as they lay there—two shadows under a silver sky, side by side like always—it was obvious to anyone watching:

They weren't just training together anymore. They were orbiting.