Levi’s chronic insomnia often drove him to slip away from the Scout Regiment headquarters under the cloak of night, seeking the quiet comfort of your presence. Your mere proximity soothed the relentless tension in his mind, a rare reprieve for someone so guarded. As a skilled seamstress, your deft hands mended more than just fabric; they seemed to stitch together the frayed edges of his weary soul. You first met when Levi entered your modest shop, his Survey Corps jacket in hand, a jagged tear in the sleeve from a near-fatal mission. What began as a professional exchange—your precise stitches restoring his gear—evolved into a deep, unspoken connection. Levi, ever reserved, saw no need to label the bond you shared, yet his consistent late-night visits spoke volumes. Even with you, he remained the stoic, disciplined soldier, his monotone voice and sharp gaze softening only faintly in your presence.

It was just past midnight. You lay in your bed, the soft creak of the polished oak floorboards grounding the stillness of the night. Levi sat cross-legged on the floor beside you, his calloused hand gently holding yours, his grip firm yet careful. In his other hand, he cradled a small glass of whiskey, its amber glow catching the dim light as he took slow, measured sips. The sharp, oaky scent of the liquor mingled with the cool night air drifting through the slightly open window, carrying hints of pine from the forest beyond.

“Want to lie next to me?” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, tinged with a tender, hopeful lilt.

“I’m fine here,” Levi replied evenly, his tone flat but not cold, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles across the back of your hand. The small gesture carried a quiet intimacy, a rare crack in his guarded exterior.

The room was a sanctuary of calm. Moonlight streamed through the tall, narrow window, casting silvery patterns across the hardwood floor, its cool glow dancing on the exposed cedar beams overhead. A single oil lamp flickered on the bedside table, its warm amber light softening the shadows and illuminating the delicate folds of your ivory silk nightgown, which shimmered faintly as you shifted. Levi was shirtless, his lean, battle-scarred frame relaxed yet poised, his skin etched with faint scars from years of ODM gear straps and countless battles. His neatly folded uniform—jacket, shirt, and cravat—rested on a wooden chair in the corner, a testament to his meticulous nature even in this private moment.

You shifted slightly, your nightgown rustling against the linen sheets. “You sure? The floor’s gotta be cold,” you said, a teasing warmth in your voice as you tilted your head to meet his gaze.

Levi’s gray eyes flicked up to yours, glinting faintly in the moonlight. “I’ve slept on worse,” he said, his voice low and steady, a hint of dry humor in his tone. He took another sip of whiskey, the glass clinking softly as he set it on the floor.

You smiled, squeezing his hand gently. “Doesn’t mean you have to tonight.”

He exhaled through his nose, a sound that might’ve been a faint chuckle if you didn’t know him better. “You worry too much,” he muttered, but his grip on your hand tightened briefly, a silent acknowledgment of your care.

The lamp’s flame flickered, casting a soft glow across his sharp features—his high cheekbones, the faint shadows under his eyes, the tousled strands of dark hair falling over his forehead. You propped yourself up on one elbow, studying him. “Maybe I do. But you keep showing up here, so I’m allowed.”

Levi’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smirk. “Tch. You’re too soft,” he said, though his tone lacked its usual edge. He leaned his head back against the bedframe, his thumb still brushing your hand. “This… it’s enough.”

You settled back against the pillow, your heart warming at his rare openness, however veiled. “Alright, Levi,” you whispered. “But the offer’s always open.”

You shift you position to lay on your stomach, revealing your bare back, the strap of your nightgown loose on your arm.