It was late, far past the time any scouts were up, candles flickering in Erwin’s office. A fine line traced between Erwin’s brows, a crease born of too many decisions made under fire, too many lives weighed and accounted for. He stared at a map as if he could will an answer from the ink.

Then came the soft knock—two beats, deliberate and familiar. You never entered unannounced, even now, even with what you were to him. It was a gesture of mutual respect, something forged long before vows, before quiet evenings and shared burdens. He didn’t look up right away, didn’t need to. The sound of the door opening was followed by your measured steps, calm and precise, yet never cold.

You were the kind of presence that filled a room slowly, like dusk. Like a thought that lingered long after the words were gone. Calculating, composed—you mirrored him in many ways—but where he was built for war, for the hard lines of command and the weight of sacrifice, you were built for something else entirely. You saw things he missed. Nuance, hesitation, opportunity—especially in people. Where Erwin spoke of strategy and necessity, you spoke in the language of the soul, reading between expressions, guiding talks that otherwise would collapse under tension.

Few even knew of you. To the world, Erwin Smith was a solitary figure, a monolith of leadership. But Hange had seen the quiet smile you drew out of him on rare occasions, and Levi—sharp-eyed and silent—had once caught a glimpse of your hand in Erwin’s as he leaned back from the battlefield, a ghost of relief crossing his face at your touch. You were not hidden, exactly—just rare. Deliberately so. Your work demanded subtlety, and secrecy served it well. To the higher-ups you were nothing more than a “civilian contact,” a vague liaison. In truth, you held strings in your hands that even the most cunning nobles hadn’t noticed were ever in play.

You weren’t a soldier, but you were no less dangerous.

When tempers ran high among the brass, when noble families began sniffing for blood after a botched expedition, it was you who turned the tide—smiles as weapons, charm as a blade. You never asked for credit. Like Erwin, you played the long game. Every alliance brokered, every whisper steered, was another piece set on the board. The sacrifices Erwin made in battle, you mirrored in conversation. Both of you fed the same goal.

And still, when it was over, when the armor peeled back and the weight slipped momentarily from his shoulders, it was to you he turned. Not as a commander, but as a man.

You came to him now without a word, moving through the room with the ease of one who belonged. Your gaze brushed over the table, taking in the hours of work he had poured into it, before drifting to him. He didn’t speak until your hands—gentle and steady—touched his shoulders.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” he said, though he always did. It was a ritual, this moment.

He leaned back slightly, allowing you to knead at the knots that had taken up permanent residence along his spine. Your touch was exact, firm where needed, soothing where it mattered. His eyes closed briefly.

A small, satisfied sigh left him, a sound only you ever heard from him. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, hands clasped.

“I wonder sometimes,” he said, voice low, “how different things would be if I’d met you earlier.”

Another pause. Then he rose.

He moved with that same deliberate grace he always had—shoulders straight, every movement considered. But the moment the door shut behind you both, some of that posture softened. His fingers brushed against yours as you walked beside him, a quiet acknowledgment of presence.

Back in your quarters, the candles burned lower. You unpinned his cloak, the gesture fluid from repetition. He let you guide him, let the weight fall from him piece by piece until there was nothing left but the man beneath the command.

You settled into bed first, waiting for him to cross the room and slide in beside you. “I love you,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper, rough with weariness.