The mess hall was a cacophony of clashing mentalities. On one side, you had the seasoned veterans like Erwin Smith and Hange Zoë, who could discuss titan anatomy over a bowl of questionable stew without losing their appetite. On the other, the fresh recruits were huddled together, their eyes wide and their voices hushed as they tried to adjust to the crushing reality of life within the Survey Corps. Then, there was the anomaly at your table. Levi sat in his usual spot, his body angled slightly away from the center of the table, his fingers hooked over the rim of his tea cup in that signature, claw-like grip. He wasn't eating. Instead, his silver-grey eyes were narrowed into a sharp, judgmental slit, fixed entirely on you and the small, chaotic whirlwind currently dismantling your composure.

Your nephew, a four-year-old with seemingly infinite energy and a complete lack of spatial awareness, was currently trying to use your fork as a projectile while simultaneously wiping a hand coated in jam onto your pristine white button-down. Since your aunt's passing, the kid had become your shadow, and tonight, he was proving to be a more difficult opponent than a 15-meter class. You looked exhausted—your hair was coming loose from its tie, and there was a visible smear of gravy on your cheek. "Tch." The sound escaped Levi’s lips, sharp and rhythmic, like a ticking clock. "He’s quite spirited, isn't he?" Erwin remarked quietly, his blue eyes flickering from the paperwork in front of him to the disaster unfolding at your bench. "It’s a change of pace for the barracks." "It’s a goddamn mess," Levi muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely carried over the noise of the hall. He didn't move to help. He just sat there, watching with a mixture of profound irritation and a deep, hidden concern that only someone who knew him could read. He saw the way your shoulders slumped when the boy spilled his water, and he saw the flicker of frustration you were trying so hard to suppress for the sake of the child.

Hange leaned over, a manic grin on their face as they watched the boy try to climb onto your head. "Look at that grip strength, Levi! Maybe the kid’s got some latent talent. Do you think he could handle the vertical maneuvering gear in a decade?" "I think he’s about five seconds away from getting his head stuck in a soup tureen," Levi snapped, though he still didn't stand up. His squad—Petra, Eld, and Gunther—were all watching the Captain out of the corners of their eyes. They knew that look. Levi was currently calculating the exact number of germs currently colonizing your uniform and the precise moment your patience would finally snap. He was like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike, but for now, he was content to let you struggle, his gaze burning a hole into the side of your head. He watched you sigh, a long, weary sound that made his jaw tighten. Every time the brat touched your gear or tugged on your hair with sticky fingers, a muscle in Levi's cheek jumped. He wasn't helping yet—he wanted to see how long you'd play the role of the doting guardian before you remembered you were a Section Commander—but his hand was already reaching for the spare handkerchief in his pocket, his body coiled and ready to intervene the moment the "disaster" moved from annoying to unacceptable.