The tone around Levi shifted. Not in any loud, declarative way. He didn't hold her tighter or suddenly start saying things he never would. He didn't confess, didn't cry, didn't even really change his expression. But she knew.
She felt it.
The space between them had become impossibly small. Like he was always reaching for her without ever extending his hands.
If she walked too fast down the corridor, he'd appear beside her out of nowhere, fingers curling gently around her elbow.
"You'll rip your stitches, dumbass."
If she forgot her gloves on the bench outside, they were already in his hand by the time she turned around.
"Don't catch a fever before you get benched behind a desk."
If she sighed while flipping a page in one of the endless post-injury recovery documents, a hand would set down a warm mug beside her.
"Stop frowning. You're making the room miserable."
He didn't name what he was doing. But she recognised it. He was memorising her. Soaking in every blink. Every twitch of her lips. Every time her fingers absentmindedly reached for his when she didn't think he'd notice. And she cherished it.
Because Levi Ackerman wasn't the kind of man who gave you words.
He gave you time.
The sun was just starting to sink when she found him. Under the old tree. Their tree. It had become their place long before either of them realised it. A silent post-mission ritual. A shared breath after death.
Now, he was sitting cross-legged on his coat, carefully unwrapping something from a linen cloth.
She blinked.
"Are those… berries?"
He didn't look up.
"Isn't this your favourite?"
A pause.
Then, muttered like a confession:
"Took them off a supply cart before the MPs loaded it."
Her heart did that thing again. That ache. Not pain. Not fear. Just love. Quiet and unspeakable.
She sat beside him. Warmth blooming in her chest. "You stole berries for me?"
"Tch. No one important needed it."
She laughed, soft and sincere.
"You're getting soft."
"I'm getting practical," he mumbled.
But when she reached for one, he was already pinching it. Carefully. Steady hands. He offered her the first piece without meeting her eyes.
When she bit into it, her eyes fluttered shut.
"Sweet."
He watched her chew like he was trying to burn the memory into his bones.
"Good."
She expected the same routine. The quiet goodbye. The faint sound of boots walking away. The soft rustle of the infirmary curtain. But he didn't move. He hovered.
Stiff. Uneasy.
Then finally—
In the gruffest voice possible, "You want me to stay tonight?"
She looked at him. Surprised. But not confused.
"Yes."
So he stayed. Without a word. Without hesitation. He curled up behind her on the cot, pulling her gently into his chest like he'd done it a thousand times before.
And when her head tucked beneath his chin, and his fingers began tracing slow lines up and down her back, she realised something:
This was home. This warmth. This silence. This man who didn't speak, but gave everything.
"You're going to hate it in there," he whispered.
"Probably."
"You're going to miss me."
"Absolutely."
He was quiet for a long time. She didn't answer.
Just held him tighter.
Everything became softer. But heavier. He stopped letting her carry her own things. Her tray. Her water canteen. Her damn boots. He walked her back to her room after every meal, every garden visit—even if she grumbled. When she couldn't lift her arms to brush her hair one morning, she barely managed a grunt before he was behind her, awkward but determined, brushing it out with slow, uneven strokes.
"You missed a spot," she teased.
"Tch. Next time, cut it all off."
"You'd hate that."
He was silent for a moment.
Then, softly, "I'd hate not being the one brushing it."
She didn't reply. Couldn't. Because it hit her like a wave.
That was the difference now. He wasn't hiding it anymore. He still didn't say it. But everything in him did.
He worshipped her in the quietest ways.
She couldn't sleep. Not because of pain. But because he was loving her too well. And she didn't know how to leave that behind.
He wakes up before me, just to be there when I open my eyes.
He scowls when I limp, but he never lets go of my arm.
He puts a knife in my hand and says, "Just in case," then adds, "call for me anyway."
He brushes my hair like he's learning a language.
He's never been this close. And now I have to leave.
She looked across the infirmary. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her boots in his lap, polishing them like it were sacred.
There was no reason. No ceremony. Just Levi—knees scuffed, shirt half-unbuttoned, lips pressed in focus—treating her like something worth preserving.
And she loved him.
So much it hurt. So much she didn't know how to say it. So she said nothing. Just watched. And let the tears fall silently into her pillow.