The infirmary had long since gone quiet. The lanterns had been dimmed to flickering halos on the walls, casting soft amber shadows across the beds. The nurses had retired. The halls were silent. Outside, the wind whispered low through the windows, brushing against the glass like a lullaby only ghosts could hear.
But no one in this room was asleep.
Not her.
And definitely not him.
Beatrice lay still, cradled by the dull ache of her healing body. Her wounds were slowly closing, her lungs drawing fuller breaths with each passing night. The cut on her arm—small, harmless, but enough to stir a storm—had been freshly cleaned, the bandage replaced, the skin tender. But her mind?
Clear.
Awake.
Sharp in the way only people who have seen death too closely can be. She turned her head, wincing at the tug in her spine, and found him exactly where he always was.
Levi.
He sat beside her in the same position he always did—spine straight, elbows braced against his knees, hands clenched on either side of his thighs. His jaw was locked. His mouth pressed into a hard line. And his eyes… God, his eyes hadn't left her. Not once. Since that day. Since the scalpel. Since the outburst that still hung on the walls like smoke.
He hadn't spoken. Not since the door had closed behind Hange. Not since he unbuckled her restraints like they were shackles. But she saw him. She saw him—and that mattered more than words. His whole body was trembling. Just barely. But unmistakably. A small, quiet quake beneath his skin, like something inside him had been rattled loose and couldn't be put back together.
She didn't hesitate.
"Levi."
He blinked. But said nothing.
"You're shaking."
His voice was low, gruff, too fast.
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
A pause. He didn't argue again—but he didn't move, either.
So she did. Slowly, painfully, she lifted her hand—fingers twitching, still clumsy from nerve damage—and reached for him. He flinched when she touched his sleeve. It startled him. Like he'd forgotten she could touch him.
"Come here."
He didn't move. Didn't breathe. She said it again—this time softer, pleading.
"Please."
And that—That broke whatever wall he'd braced around his chest. He stood with stiff joints, like he was unsure if he was allowed. And then slowly, deliberately, he lowered himself onto the edge of her cot. Didn't lie down. Didn't relax. Just sat there, arms too careful, legs coiled with restraint. He looked so small like that. So unsure.
Not the strongest soldier in the world. Just a man afraid to touch something that might vanish again. She tugged at his sleeve again.
"Lie down. Just for a minute."
"It's too small."
"Then hold still."
He sighed—rough, tired. But the sound cracked at the edges, like a breath he didn't want her to hear. And then, slowly, he lowered himself onto the cot beside her. His body hovered—one arm angled carefully away from her ribs, the other resting uncertainly at his side. He didn't even breathe deeply, as if afraid it might hurt her.
They were so close. Their legs brushed. Her hair touched his shoulder. He was holding still like a man standing on a cliff edge with no rope.
Beatrice turned her head, watching him.
Really watching. The light touched his cheekbones. The scar near his jaw. The lines beneath his eyes that weren't from war—but from watching her. Eyes rimmed red. Not from tears. But from not blinking. From not sleeping. And softly—barely a whisper—she asked,
"Why do you keep looking at me like I'm a secret you don't want to lose?"
Levi didn't answer. He froze. Completely. The air between them went still, as if the entire world was holding its breath for his response.
She didn't push. Didn't repeat it.
Just let it sit there. Open. Honest. Offered.
And finally— After what felt like hours—
He whispered:
"Because you are."
She blinked. Eyes soft. Blinking slowly. And he turned his head, finally, to meet her gaze.
There it was.
Raw.
Unfiltered.
Exposed.
"I look at you like that," he said, voice low and unraveling, "because you're the one thing they don't get to take from me." The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was sacred. Held between them like a vow spoken in another life.
She blinked again. This time, her lashes shimmered with something wet.
"You're not going to lose me," she said quietly.
"You almost died."
"But I didn't."
"That's not good enough."
His voice broke on that last word. Like something inside him shattered quietly.
"Levi…"
She reached under the blanket and found his hand—fingers calloused, cold, rigid with tension. She wrapped hers around it.
And that— That undid him.
"If you died," he whispered, like it hurt, "I wouldn't know how to stay."
She didn't answer. Didn't argue. Just moved—gingerly—closer. Bit by bit. Until her head found the space beneath his chin, and her breath found the quiet place beside his collarbone.
Levi's arm slid around her automatically.
No thought.
No strategy.
Just instinct.
The kind that remembered what it meant to be for the first time in weeks—
He stopped shaking.
It was early. Too early for nurses. Too early for orders. The kind of early where the world still held its breath, suspended between the final threads of night and the trembling promise of day. Outside, the sky had begun to soften, blushing with the lightest hue of pink, like the earth had been kissed gently by morning's hand. The golden glow filtered through the infirmary windows, painting long shadows across the tiled floor and catching in the dust that danced lazily through the still air.
The infirmary was hushed. Sacred. Almost untouched. And in the cot tucked away behind a half-drawn curtain, they were still asleep.
Beatrice lay curled on her uninjured side, face tucked beneath the firm line of Levi's jaw. Her lips parted in a soft breath. Her bandages—stark against her skin—still held the shape of pain and survival. But her hands, weak and thin, clung to him. Fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like her subconscious still needed to be sure he was real.
Levi lay beside her. Not upright. Not on guard. Not even scowling. But still. One arm draped over her waist, shielding. Not gripping. Just there. Anchored to her as if the space between them might betray him if he let go. His boots were still on. His cravat was still knotted. But his jaw, usually locked like a vice, was slackened in sleep. And his brows, though faintly furrowed, didn't carry the weight of the world for once.
The rarest truth of it? He hadn't let go. Not even in unconsciousness. Not through the night. Not when she twitched from pain, or murmured in the haze of healing dreams.
He hadn't moved. He'd stayed.
The curtain rustled.
A nurse, young and unassuming, stepped into the room with a tray of fresh linens and a chart held lightly in her hand. She had expected what she always did—quiet, vacancy, a sleeping patient alone. She turned the corner toward the last cot. And stopped dead. Her eyes widened. Mouth parted in surprise.
There, in front of her, Levi Ackerman. Asleep. Entwined with someone. As if he belonged there. As if it were the most natural thing in the world. The nurse instinctively took a step back, already whispering apologies in her head. But before she could retreat fully—
Levi stirred. His eyes cracked open. Sharp. Alert. Lethal. They met hers.
For one breathless moment, she froze.
But then, He looked down at Beatrice. Still warm. Still breathing.
And the nurse witnessed something she never expected.
He didn't care. Didn't rush to untangle himself. Didn't bark. Didn't threaten. He simply adjusted the blanket over Beatrice's bare shoulder. Tucked it gently in place. And then—without a word—He closed his eyes again.
He didn't sleep long. He never did. The first slant of gold across the window found him awake again, body still stiff, breath slow and careful. He hadn't moved from the bed—just shifted slightly, turning his head to look at her.
Beatrice stirred seconds later. The movement was small. Her hand flexed against his chest where his coat had creased overnight. Her eyes fluttered open, still heavy from healing fatigue. She looked up. Met his gaze. And smiled—soft and small.
"...You stayed."
His reply was immediate. Rough. But quiet.
"Of course I did."
She reached for his hand beneath the blanket, brushing his knuckles. But even as she held him— She felt it.
That tension. That hum beneath the skin. His breathing was steady, but detached. His eyes… distant.
"Levi," she whispered.
"You're somewhere else right now."
He didn't deny it. Didn't move. Just looked past her—at something only he could see. She reached higher, her fingers brushing his hand with featherlight insistence.
"What is it?"
A long pause. Then—
"Zackly pulled me aside before the mission."
Her brow furrowed. She waited. He exhaled.
"Told me if I wanted to protect you… I should convince you to go live behind the Inner Wall."
That stunned her. Her breath hitched.
"What?"
"He said… If I loved you, I'd want you far from all this."
He looked down then. Finally. And she saw it. Not fear. Not anger. But war. A silent, desperate battle was being fought inside the hollows of his ribs. The war between holding on and keeping safe.
"Levi…" she began. But he beat her to it.
"I've watched too many people die." His voice cracked, barely. "I've held too many hands after the life left them. If keeping you safe means losing you…"
He stopped. The words didn't come. But she heard them anyway. All of them. She didn't speak immediately. Didn't press. She just watched him. Eyes soft. Unflinching. And then, slowly, she reached up. Fingers trembling slightly. She touched his cheek.
Light.
Tender.
"Then don't lose me."
He closed his eyes. His hand found hers again, twining their fingers together under the blanket like a man clutching rope during a storm.
And after a long moment, He leaned down. Forehead to hers. No armour. No walls.
Just Levi.
Fragile and human.
"I don't know if I can survive it again."
But her hand stayed in his. Her breath brushed against his skin. And her answer, when it came, was quiet but certain.
"Then stay."
And in that moment, wrapped in the warmth of sunrise and shared survival—
He did.