The mid-morning sun beat down on the dirt of the training grounds, turning the sweat on the soldiers' brows into a stinging annoyance. In the center of the yard, the veterans were conducting a specialized hand-to-hand drill—a rare sight for the lower ranks, who had gathered near the edges of the barracks just to catch a glimpse of the leadership in action.

Levi Ackerman was a whirlwind of controlled, lethal motion. He was currently sparred off against Mike, his smaller frame weaving through the larger man’s reach with a speed that defied logic. He had discarded his green cloak and his jacket hours ago; he was down to his white regulation shirt, the sleeves rolled tightly past his elbows to reveal forearms corded with muscle and scarred from years of gripping ODM handles. Every time he pivoted or landed a strike, the fabric of his shirt clung to his damp skin, highlighting the lean, powerful physique that made him humanity’s most dangerous weapon. "Tch. You're slow today, Mike," Levi rasped, his voice carrying clearly across the silent yard. He didn't look at the crowd, but he didn't have to. He was acutely aware of the atmospheric shift every time he moved.

From the sidelines, the reaction was palpable. A group of female cadets were huddled together, their whispers hushed but their gazes intense, fixed entirely on the way the sunlight caught the sharp line of Levi’s jaw and the effortless grace of his movements. Even some of the seasoned veterans, women who had seen a hundred horrors, found themselves pausing in their own drills, their eyes lingering on the Captain a second too long. There was a magnetic, raw gravity to him that commanded attention, whether he wanted it or not. Erwin stood a few paces back, catching his breath after a round with Moblit. The Commander wiped sweat from his forehead, his blue eyes flicking toward the far balcony where you stood. As a Section Commander and his secret spouse of many years, you were supposed to be observing the drills for "tactical evaluation." You stood with your hands clasped behind your back, your expression a mask of professional stoicism that matched the cold stone of the barracks. But internally, the facade was under siege.

You watched the way Levi’s hair fell over his eyes, the way his muscles rippled under the thin cotton of his shirt when he threw a kick, and the casual, arrogant way he wiped a smudge of dirt from his cheek. You weren't immune to him—far from it. In fact, seeing the rest of the regiment ogle what belonged solely to you in the dark of night sparked a slow, burning pride in your chest. Levi suddenly landed a clean sweep, sending Mike stumbling back. He stood tall, his chest heaving slightly as he exhaled, and finally, his silver-grey eyes cut through the crowd. He didn't look at the blushing cadets or the admiring veterans. His gaze went straight to the balcony, locking onto yours with a sharp, possessive intensity that made your breath hitch.

He knew exactly what you were thinking. He knew the heat behind your "professional" gaze. A ghost of a smirk, so faint only you could recognize it, touched his lips before he turned back to the others. "Enough staring," he barked, the sound making the cadets jump and scramble back to their posts. "If you put half as much effort into your footwork as you do into gawking, maybe you wouldn't be such a liability on the field. Get back to work. All of you."