When you made him tea, it was never right.

Like a pathetic, recurring joke, it was always off. Too bitter, like the grudges he held against the world. Too weak, lacking the backbone he demanded in his soldiers. Too sweet, kind of the sentimentality he despised. Too hot, it burned his tongue with a carelessness he didn't tolerate.

He never yelled. He never really complained. Just that disappointed steel eyes, a minute tightening of his jaw, and the muted, "Tch. Try again."

And you always did.

You’d return with a fresh cup, a subtle change, a gamble that this time you’d hit the mark. He’d sip, sometimes sigh, but most often, say nothing at all. Which, of course, meant failure.

It became your strange torment where you chased a flavor only he understood, a preference he refused to say. You’d pour, steep, strain, adjust, hoping for the faintest of approval. But the approval never came. You continued.

Not because he ordered you to—although he did, with that curt expectation. No, you did it because you liked trying. You liked the way his gaze stay as if he were waiting for you to finally snap, to roll your eyes and tell him of being impossible. Waiting to see if you'd meet his scrutiny with a smile.

Then came the mission.

Five days, they said.

But it's the eighth. Levi was alone in the kitchen.

Not the first time he’d attempted this… this pathetic imitation of what you made.

He’d been doing it every morning you failed to be on time. He’d done this ever since your absence began to twist something cold and tight in his chest.

He took a sip.

Too bland. Bereft of the subtle, indefinable notes that were your failures.

How in the hell did you always get it so wrong, all while still managing to make it taste like something worth drinking? Like something that held warmth within its cup, while his—

It was never right.

When the gates finally opened, Levi moved.

You looked hell when you arrived, limping and dirt-streaked. But alive.

He didn’t hug you, not run to you. Just stared, “Make me tea,”

“…Please.”