You stand at the wedding of Sasha Blouse.

Of course it’s Sasha.

She was the first person who ever hugged you before knowing your last name. The one who’d show up to your door at 11 p.m. with snacks and no explanation. Who cried when you got your internship, then cried again when she almost burned her own flat trying to bake you a cake.

This wedding? It’s exactly her.

Outdoor ceremony. Fairy lights strung through trees. Long tables, mismatched chairs, barefoot dancing in the grass.

Food served family-style. Someone’s grandpa playing the accordion. Laughter everywhere.

You’ve spent the last hour floating — glass in hand, makeup slightly smudged, heart soft from old memories. You were even starting to relax.

And then it hits.

The feeling.

Like a shift in the atmosphere — not loud, but sudden. Like a room going still before a storm breaks. Like a hand around your ribcage.

You turn.

And there he is.

Levi Ackerman.

Black suit. Collar open. Jacket slung over one shoulder. Hair swept back like he ran a hand through it five minutes ago and gave up.

He doesn’t fit here.

Not among the fairy lights and warm bread and champagne flutes. Not in Sasha’s sun-drenched, joy-soaked world.

And yet — he’s here.

Your stomach twists.

You haven’t seen him since uni.

Since that string of months where your hands were always on each other but your mouths never said what mattered. Hooking up behind everyone’s backs, tangled in his sheets more often than your own.

Since the nights where he'd kiss you like a promise, and vanish before the morning light could ask what it meant.

Since the near-texts. The almost-conversations. The long silences that said too much.

No titles. No confessions. Just heat. Glances. Unspoken tension stretched thin across library desks and his bedsheets.

He always left before morning. He never answered your texts the next day. He never told you why he stopped showing up at all.

He never said goodbye.

And now — here he is. Again.

He looks older. Not aged. Just older, more mature, perhaps. But he still walks like he doesn’t owe the room anything.

He’s halfway through sipping something dark from a lowball glass when he finally looks up.

Eyes meet.

And everything drops out of you.

No smile. No nod. Just him.

Staring like he never meant to. Like he regrets looking at all.

You don’t react. Not on the outside. But that sharp, traitorous heartbeat inside you? It knows.

Because no matter how far you’ve come since then — no matter who you’ve been — you’ve never forgotten how it felt to be wanted by Levi Ackerman in a room full of people, and still feel like the only one he saw.