The light from the setting sun spilt through the infirmary window in slanted beams, catching in the glass like a memory trying to hold on. It stretched across the floor—gentle gold against stone—and climbed onto the pale sheets of the bed where Beatrice lay. It kissed the delicate curve of her cheek, brushed the tip of her lashes, lit the ridge of her brow.
She looked… peaceful. Fragile, yes. Her face is thinner than before. Her lips are dry. Her lashes stuck together with the remains of fevered tears. But peaceful. Still breathing. Still warm. Still herself.
And Levi—quiet, still, unmoving—sat in the same chair he'd carved his shape into these last eleven days. His hand rested lightly over hers. He wasn't holding it tightly. He never did. It wasn't about control. It was present.
He didn't grip. He didn't squeeze. He just… existed beside her. Fingers against hers.
A quiet bridge between life and everything waiting to take it.
Her hand was still small. He used to think she looked bigger in battle. Something about the way she moved—effortless and lethal, like a whisper before the blade. But here… she looked small. Human.
Not a weapon.
Not a legend.
Just Beatrice.
And he watched her like he was afraid to blink. As if blinking might take her away again. The sunset caught in her hair. Even matted and uneven, it glowed. And Levi, who hadn't spoken since Zackly asked the question that shattered something he wasn't ready to examine, leaned forward, elbows to knees, head bowed until a few strands of her hair brushed his temple.
He stared at their joined hands. Tried to memorise the shape of her fingers. The dips in her knuckles. The warmth of her skin. And then—
Soft. Almost inaudible.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do with you."
The silence didn't reject the confession. It held it. Like a wound being wrapped in gauze.
"You weren't part of the plan," he continued, voice low, as if admitting it too loudly would undo him.
"You just showed up. Quiet. Stupid strong. Didn't talk unless you had to."
He swallowed once. A hard, dry thing. It hurt to force it down.
"You weren't supposed to stay."
His thumb moved in slow circles across the back of her hand. A soothing motion. For him, more than her.
"And I started looking for you before I even realised it."
He gave a soft exhale. Not a laugh. Not a sob. Something in between. Like the sound grief makes when it wants to be tender, just for a moment.
"Every time I moved, you were already where I needed you. I thought it was convenient. That's what I told myself. It's easier when it's just us. Cleaner. Quieter."
Another pause.
Not because he ran out of things to say. Because it hurt to keep saying them. But he did. Because he always finished what he started.
"But that wasn't it."
"I stopped sleeping unless I could hear you breathe."
"I stopped fighting unless you were beside me."
"I stopped being alone without realising it."
He lifted his head. Not all the way. Just enough to see her face. Her lips parted slightly in sleep. A small crease between her brows. A heartbeat's worth of movement in her neck. Still here. And that—that—was what made his voice crack.
Just once.
"And then you almost..."
His grip tightened slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to feel. As if grounding himself against the fear that she might still slip away.
"You almost left me, and I didn't even have the fucking words to stop you." He leaned in. Closer. His forehead almost touched her shoulder, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her through the sheet.
Close enough to let the scent of her hair—shampoo, blood, old soap—steady the trembling in his ribs.
"I've buried everyone. Every fucking person who mattered."
"And now they're telling me to keep you safe by letting you go."
He closed his eyes. The quiet in the room thickened. Like it was holding its breath with him.
"But I can't."
"I don't know how to let you go."
"You're the only thing I have left that still makes me feel like a person."
And then— Finally— The truth. Ripped from the place he'd kept it hidden behind instinct and blade and strategy.
"I think…"
"I think I love you."
It wasn't said with flourish. It wasn't grand. It sounded tired. Scared. Like someone confessing to a grave. But it was real. And he didn't take it back. Didn't look away. Didn't breathe for a long moment. He just sat there, forehead pressed to her arm, hand in hers, heart wide open.
Waiting.
Not for her to wake. Not for her to say it back. Just for the silence to understand that it had taken enough.