The heavy oak door to the quarters groaned as it swung open, the sound muffled by the thick layer of dust and exhaustion that seemed to permeate the very air. Levi Ackerman stepped inside, his movements stiff and mechanical. His green cloak was frayed at the edges, stained with a cocktail of mud, titan steam, and dried blood that had long since lost its heat. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and his silver-grey eyes were rimmed with a raw, red-lined fatigue that made every flicker of the candlelight feel like a needle to the brain.

The expedition had been a meat grinder, and all he wanted was the sharp sting of tea and a moment of silence. He didn't find silence, but he found something better. Across the room, bathed in the pale, blue moonlight spilling through the window, he saw you. You were slumped in his high-backed wooden chair—the only decent piece of furniture in a room that, for reasons known only to the military’s budgeting office, lacked a proper bed. You were surrounded by a sea of paperwork; scouting reports, casualty lists, and supply requisitions were stacked high on the desk and spilling onto the floor. You had clearly stayed up waiting for the return of the vanguard, only to be claimed by the same exhaustion currently dragging at his heels.

"Tch. Look at this disaster," Levi rasped, his voice barely a ghost of its usual self, rough and jagged from shouting orders over the wind. He approached the chair with silent, heavy footsteps. He should have woken you up, told you to go back to your own barracks, or at least helped you clear the ink-stained mess. Instead, he simply stood there for a long moment, watching the steady rise and fall of your shoulders. The sight of you, safe and breathing amidst the chaos of the papers, did more to settle his racing heart than any medicine could. Without a word, he reached down. His movements were surprisingly fluid for a man who felt like his bones were made of glass. He slid his arms beneath you, lifting your weight with a grunt of effort that he swallowed behind his teeth. You stirred, a soft, sleepy sound escaping your lips, but he didn't give you the chance to fully wake.

He sank into the chair himself, the wood creaking under the added weight, and settled you firmly over his lap. He guided your legs to straddle his hips, pulling your body flush against his chest until there wasn't a breath of space left between you. He felt the scratch of your uniform against his, the warmth of your skin radiating through the fabric. Levi leaned forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He took a deep, shuddering breath, filling his lungs with the scent of you—ink, old paper, and the faint, grounding smell of the soap he’d gifted you. His hands, still gloved and stained with the day’s work, locked around your waist, pulling you closer as if he were trying to anchor himself to the world of the living. "Don't move," he muttered against your skin, his voice a low, vibrating hum of pure vulnerability. He didn't care about the unfinished reports or the grime on his gear. He simply closed his eyes, his forehead resting against your collarbone, letting the rhythmic beat of your heart drown out the echoes of the screams he’d left behind in the mud outside the Walls.