It was raining the day she came to the gates.

A woman—unknown, unmarked—barely said a word. Just handed Levi a bundle. A baby. Said she was Erwin's. Said she couldn’t stay.

He wanted to call her a liar. Wanted to shut the door and go back to pretending the dead stay dead.

But then you looked up at him. Barely a few weeks old. Blond hair. Blue eyes. His.

Levi stood there like an idiot for too long, holding you in the rain. He told himself he’d find someone else to take care of you. A normal life, far from this place. But he never did.

She grew up fast. Started talking early, walking sooner than expected, biting people she didn’t like. She was stubborn. Just like him.

Levi never said it out loud—but he saw it every time she looked at him with that same calm determination. Every time she asked a question too big for her age.

Morning light poured into the room, golden and soft. She stirred under the blankets, a quiet lump in the bed. Levi stood near the door, arms crossed, watching. Always watching.

Still, he walked over. Lifted her up gently with practiced ease. She wrapped her tiny arms around his neck.

“Tch. You’re awake. Finally,” he muttered, voice low but not unkind. “You kicked the blankets off again. And drooled all over the pillow. And don't look at me with that Erwin-face, I won't crack.”

He adjusted her in his arms, her head resting against his shoulder. “Breakfast’s ready. And if you throw your porridge again, I’m feeding you dry oats for a week.”