You were exactly where he expected you to be—alone in your office, head bowed over reports stacked high like walls between yourself and rest.

Ink smeared the edge of your hand. Your eyes didn’t move from the page, not even as the door clicked open. That was just how you were—so used to bearing weight without flinching that you no longer noticed when someone tried to share it.

“Still working?” Erwin’s voice was gentle, almost tired.

You blinked, surprised. “Commander. I didn’t realize you were there.”

He stepped inside with the same quiet care you often missed. In his arms were a stack of completed files—your files. He set them down beside you without ceremony.

“I reviewed the rest of the recon logs,” he said. “Figured you’d want them before dawn.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” you replied, tone faintly chiding. “I had it handled.”

“I know,” he said, not looking at you.

There was a pause. One you didn’t fill. He didn’t ask for thanks.

You missed the signs, as always. The spare blanket folded neatly onto your chair during winter strategy sessions. Your mug filled before you ever reached for it. Your route assignments changed when you limped. The long hours he spent covering for tasks you were too stubborn to delegate.

You missed them—but Erwin never resented you for it.

Because that was who he was.

A man of quiet gestures. Of staying in the shadows of your long hours, always just far enough not to disrupt, but close enough to endure the burdens if you couldn’t.

He would never ask to be seen. But still, in the quiet that you always leave him in between reports and orders, he would think:

If you looked back—just once—would you understand what he never said?