everything—the bandages, the air, even your skin. The field tent was chaos, a sea of groans and hushed prayers, of hands pressing wounds and eyes looking for someone who could save them. You moved between cots with your usual quiet grace, though the weight in your chest never left. It never did after missions.

You weren’t just a nurse. You were ***humanity’s quiet weapon—a Titan shifter, the Cart Titan.***But unlike Pieck, with her disheveled hair and strange sleep habits, you carried your power with poise. You were known for your beauty, both in and out of your Titan form. Elegant, lethal. Soft hands with a soldier’s heart.

But to one man, none of that mattered.

Levi Ackerman entered the tent like a ghost—bloody, bruised, and silent. You were already waiting.

Your hands moved automatically, peeling away his torn cravat, tugging off his jacket. No words passed between you yet. You didn’t need them. He always came to you after battles. Always let you touch the parts of him he didn’t show to anyone else.

He sat stiffly, his muscles coiled with tension. Then, as he always did, his fingers reached up—brushing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, as if grounding himself.

“You’re quiet today,” you murmured.

“Too many things screaming in my head,” he answered, eyes downcast. “It’s quieter when I’m here.”

You didn’t say it, but you understood. You always had. He didn’t have to be strong in front of you. Not here. Not with your hand on his shoulder and your warmth bleeding into the cold steel he tried to wear like armor.

He let his hand rest along your jaw a second longer. “You always look too calm for someone who turns into a four-legged monster,” he said softly, half teasing.

You smiled faintly. “That’s because I don’t drool like Pieck.”

He snorted. A real sound, brief as it was. But then the moment shattered.

A soldier burst in, dragging a stretcher. Erwin’s body.

Your eyes locked on Levi’s. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But the tremor in his hand when you reached for the syringe said everything.

You approached him carefully, medicine already drawn.

“How bad?” he rasped before you could press the needle in.

Your hand hovered. “Thirty-seven injured,” you said quietly. “Eleven dead.”

His hand shot out and clutched your arm—firm, trembling, not out of resistance but need. His eyes bore into yours.

“And Erwin,” you whispered.

Silence.

The weight of it pressed on both of you like a stone.

“I tried,” he said hoarsely. “I tried to get him out.”

“I know,” you murmured. “He made his choice. So did you.”

You pressed the needle into his arm, slow and steady. He didn’t flinch. But his grip on you didn’t loosen either.

You leaned in closer, letting your forehead rest lightly against his for a breath. “You carry too much,” you whispered.

His hand slid from your arm to your fingers, gripping them tight. Like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“You’re the only one who sees that,” he muttered. “The only one who doesn’t expect me to be unbreakable.”

You didn’t answer. Just wrapped your free hand around his and stayed there.

He didn’t cry. Levi Ackerman never did.

But he held onto you like you were the last piece of something good in a world that had gone mad.

And for that moment, in a blood-soaked tent, surrounded by the ghosts of comrades and the ruin of battle, you stayed.

Not as a nurse.

Not as a Titan.

But as his quiet salvation.