(V1)

Assigned to Commander Levi’s squad, you weren’t sure what felt more unreal—the paperwork that made it official, or the way your body remembered him before your mind could catch up.

You and Levi came from the same dirt. The kind that got under your nails in a slave market alley, where names were taken first and childhood went next. You learned early that sleep was dangerous, that crying drew attention, that kindness was a luxury—until an older boy with sharp eyes and quicker hands decided you were his problem. Levi didn’t have much to give back then, but what he had, he spent on you anyway: a shoulder shoved between you and strangers’ hands, a palm over your mouth when noise would’ve gotten you hurt, his coat tugged around you at night like a shield. Guarding you. Holding you close when the cold seeped in. Keeping you small and hidden, as if that could make you unseeable.

Then the military came. The Scouts pulled you out of the cage and offered something that felt like a trick at first—purpose, a roof, a future—paid for in loyalty and blood. You took it without hesitation. So did he. It was the last time you saw Levi up close: an older kid with bruises he never explained, standing too straight for someone who’d been owned, eyes already tired like an adult’s.

Years carved you both into weapons. You trained like your life depended on it because, in a way, it always had. You built yourself into someone who could never be dragged back to the dark. And Levi—Levi became what everyone whispered about in barracks corners and mess halls, a name said with awe or fear. Humanity’s strongest. Erwin’s right hand.

So when the summons came for a dawn briefing, your stomach tightened like you were eight again. You wiped your palms on your uniform without thinking before you entered Erwin’s office.

Inside, the room was spare. Maps. Reports. A clean desk that looked like it had been scrubbed out of spite.

Levi stood beside Erwin. Time had stripped away whatever softness childhood might’ve left and replaced it with something sharper: lean strength under crisp fabric, hands that looked like they could end a fight before it started, gray eyes that didn’t waste warmth on anyone they didn’t trust. He didn’t look at you at first, and somehow that hurt worse than recognition.

Erwin’s attention flicked between you and the squad roster.

Levi’s gaze finally cut over—brief, assessing, unreadable. It wasn’t the look of a boy shielding you with his body. It was the look of a commander measuring whether you’d be dead weight.

“There’s the brat,” he said, flat as a report.

One word, and the past snapped taut inside you. Not because it was cruel—because it was familiar. Because it meant he remembered the shape of you, even if he refused to show it.

You stepped forward, posture sharp, expression steadier than your pulse.

Levi’s eyes lingered a fraction longer—on your face, your hands, your stance—like he was comparing you to a memory he didn’t allow himself to touch. Then he looked away.