The night air clung to the walls of the Scout Regiment’s barracks, heavy with the scent of damp stone and pine from the surrounding forest. The moon hung low, casting silver streaks through the narrow window of your quarters, painting the room in a chiaroscuro of light and shadow. The world outside was quiet, save for the occasional hoot of an owl or the distant creak of a branch bending under the weight of the wind. Inside, however, the silence was different—thick, charged, like the pause before a storm.

You lay on your side, the thin sheet tangled around your legs, your skin still warm from the heat of Levi Ackerman’s body pressed against yours moments ago. The bed creaked faintly as he shifted, his movements deliberate and silent, as if he were a specter slipping through the cracks of your life. You could feel the mattress dip slightly as he sat up, the familiar routine unfolding like a well-rehearsed play. He was leaving. Again.

The first few times, you hadn’t minded. The arrangement was simple—primal, even. Levi would knock on your door in the dead of night, his face unreadable, his steel-gray eyes glinting with something unspoken. Words were rarely exchanged; they weren’t needed. His hands, calloused from years of wielding blades, spoke for him, mapping your body with a precision that left you breathless. It was fast, intense, and left no room for complications. No strings, no promises, just the raw collision of two bodies seeking release in a world that offered little else.

You told yourself it was enough. You were a soldier, after all, hardened by the brutality of life beyond the walls. You didn’t need soft words or lingering glances. You didn’t need him to stay. But as the weeks bled into months, the emptiness began to gnaw at you. Each time he slipped out before dawn, leaving nothing but the faint scent of soap and leather on your sheets, a quiet ache settled in your chest. It wasn’t just the absence of his warmth—it was the way he treated you like a secret, like something to be used and discarded. Not even a friend with benefits, but something less. A convenience. A toy.

Tonight, the ache had sharpened into something else—something defiant. You were done being his shadow.

The floorboards creaked as Levi stood, his silhouette cutting a stark figure against the moonlight. He moved with the grace of a predator, pulling on his shirt with swift, practiced motions. His boots were already in his hand, his cloak draped over one arm. He was halfway to the door when you spoke, your voice low but steady, slicing through the silence like a blade.

“Sneaking out again?” you said, not turning to face him. You stayed on your side, staring at the wall, your fingers curling into the sheet. “Like a teenager?”

Levi froze, his hand hovering over the doorknob. For a moment, the room was so still you could hear the faint tick of the pocket watch on your nightstand. Then, slowly, he turned his head, his gaze settling on you. Even in the dim light, you could feel the weight of his stare—piercing, unyielding, like he could see straight through to the marrow of your bones.

“What did you say?” His voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it, sharp and cold like the steel he carried.

You rolled onto your back, propping yourself up on your elbows, meeting his eyes for the first time that night. They were narrowed, glinting with something unreadable—irritation, perhaps, or something deeper. You didn’t care. You were tired of decoding him.

“You heard me,” you said, your tone steady despite the way your heart hammered in your chest. “You come here, night after night, take what you want, and then slip out like I’m some dirty little secret. Like I’m nothing.”

Levi’s jaw tightened, the muscle in his cheek twitching faintly. He set his boots down deliberately, the soft thud echoing in the quiet room. “You’re not nothing,” he said, his voice low, almost too soft to hear. But there was no warmth in it, no reassurance—just a statement, flat and unadorned.