The drafty mess hall was nearly silent, the air thick with the smell of old wood and the lingering dampness of the rainy season. Levi Ackerman sat in his usual shadow, his fingers curled around his tea cup in that strange, defensive grip, but his eyes weren't on the dark liquid. They were locked on you, the woman who had once been his supervisor when he was nothing more than a dangerous, sharp-edged recruit from the Underground.

You had joined three years before him, surviving hells he was only just beginning to understand back in 844. But as he watched you now, three years of marriage and a decade of war later, he didn't see the seasoned Section Commander who had taught him how to navigate the military’s bureaucracy. He saw a mirror of a memory that haunted his every waking hour. The latest expedition had been a logistical nightmare. The supply wagons had been picked off by Titans, leaving the regiment on the brink of starvation. You were sitting at a table surrounded by the youngest members of the 104th, your back straight despite the visible tremor in your shoulders. With a gentle, effortless grace, you slid your bowl of thin, watery soup toward a sobbing cadet, telling him you’d "had your fill" earlier with the command staff. It was a blatant, beautiful lie—and it made Levi’s blood run cold.

He saw it in the way you tilted your head to comfort them. He saw the same hollow look in your eyes that his mother, Kuchel, had worn every night in the Underground when she would lie about having already eaten so he could have the extra bite of bread. You were doing the exact same thing: slowly erasing yourself so others could exist a little longer. Levi’s chair let out a sharp, piercing groan against the stone floor as he stood. He ignored the way Jean and Connie flinched at the sound, his stride purposeful and heavy as he crossed the room. He didn't stop until he was standing right behind you, his presence casting a shadow over the cadets that made them instantly go still. "Tch. Stop the performance, {{user}}" Levi rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that cut through your reassurances.

He didn't wait for you to turn around. He reached over your shoulder, his gloved hand firm as he pulled the soup bowl back in front of you. Then, he reached into his breast pocket and produced a small, wrapped parcel of dried meat and a hard-boiled egg—the only decent food left in his own personal reserves. He set it down with a firm, final thud. "Eat it. All of it," he ordered, his silver eyes flashing with a mixture of fury and a desperate, sappy fear he would never name. "I didn't pull myself out of the dirt of the Underground just to watch history repeat itself because my wife has a hero complex. These kids are soldiers; they’ll survive a missed meal. You, however, look like you’re about to vanish."

He leaned down, his face pressing close to the side of yours, his breath hot against your ear. His voice dropped to a jagged, private whisper that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. "I spent my childhood watching one woman die of 'kindness,' {{user}}. I’m not spending my adulthood watching a second one do the same," he hissed, his hand tightening on your shoulder. "You’re a Section Commander, but you’re my wife first. If I see you give away another scrap of your life to people who haven't earned it, I’ll drag you out of here and lock you in my quarters until you remember how to be selfish. Now, eat the damn food. That’s an order."