Levi stands at the far end of the map table, arms crossed, face unreadable as always. The storm outside howls low through cracked windows, a whisper of what they’ll face at dawn. You stand opposite him, tapping a pencil against the border of the northern territory sketch.

“The supply line needs reinforcement here,” you say, pointing to a spot near the treeline. “If we don’t—”

“We’ll lose half the scouts on the left flank. I know.” Levi’s voice is clipped, sharp, but you’ve known him long enough to hear what’s behind it: fatigue, worry... and something else he won’t show.

Your eyes meet. His flick down your form—brief, unnoticeable to anyone else, but not to you. He’s checking for injuries, always scanning, always protecting.

You clear your throat. “Captain Ackerman.”

His jaw ticks. That title again.

“We should finalize the report,” you continue, gathering scattered notes. “The Commander wants it before dawn.”

Levi moves around the table silently until he’s beside you, too close by military standards. You feel the heat of him at your side. You don’t look at him, but the proximity sparks the electric tension you’ve been nursing all evening.

Then, without turning, he speaks low—just above a whisper. “Still pretending, are we?”