You and Levi had been friends long before joining the Survey Corps, tied by a bond forged through shared struggles and silent understanding. Over time, that friendship deepened into something more. The moments you shared were driven by fleeting passion and love, by the need to hold onto something tangible in a world full of chaos. But lately, Levi had seemed distracted, his attention pulled toward someone else.

You noticed the way his gaze lingered on them or how his usual sharp remarks softened. It wasn’t difficult to see the difference, to feel it. The warmth that once filled your shared moments had grown colder, like an ember slowly fading into ash. Still, you tried to ignore it, to hold onto whatever was left, maintaining the facade of your usual relationship. It was easier to pretend than to confront the truth.

Now, as the dim light of the moon filtered through the curtains, you found yourself lying in bed beside him. Levi’s back was turned to you, his shoulders tense even in rest. Carefully, you reached out, rhythmic motion. It was a habit you’d picked up during the quieter nights, a way to comfort both him and yourself. But even now, he felt distant—like the space between you was more than just physical.

“Levi.”

You murmured softly, your voice barely above a whisper. You weren’t sure if he was awake, but the name left your lips instinctively, a plea more than a question.

He didn’t respond immediately, but you noticed the subtle shift in his posture, the slight tension that told you he’d heard. You wanted to ask him if he still cared, if he’d grown tired of you, if you were enough. But the words stuck in your throat, fear holding them hostage.

Instead, you closed your eyes and continued tracing small patterns along his back, hoping that somehow, in this silence, he could understand what you couldn’t say. You didn’t want to let go, not yet.

Levi shifted slightly, his voice breaking through the quiet.

“Go to sleep,”