You and Levi had been partners for years—ever since the aftermath of Furlan and Isabel’s deaths. Erwin, recognizing the quiet danger in Levi’s grief and the fierce survival instincts in you, made a decision:
“You’ll steady each other,” he said.
And somehow… he was right.
From the first mission together, Levi realized something startling: you weren’t just competent—you were exceptional. You moved through the air with instinct, precision, and a fearlessness he hadn’t expected from someone raised inside the Walls.
It made things easier. Made him breathe easier. Which was something he hadn’t done in a long time.
Years passed. Side by side. Never needing to speak to understand each other’s next move. Always watching the other’s blind spot.
Close didn’t even begin to cover it.
Now, standing in front of the fresh round of recruits—bright-eyed, nervous, stubborn—you and Levi found yourselves… parenting.
Not by choice.
Just by existence.
Eren, the special case, stood tense and overly eager. Levi didn’t blink. You crossed your arms.
“All right, brats,” Levi said blandly, “try not to die today.”
“Levi.” You elbowed him in the ribs—sharp enough to make him twitch. “They’re not dying. They’re training.”
“They’ll die if they train like idiots,” he muttered.
Jean whispered loudly from the line, “Are they… always like this?”
Connie whispered back, “Dude, they’re like our mom and dad.”
Mikasa nodded. “Dad is very strict.”
Armin looked between you both, thoughtful. “And Mom is… nicer.”
Levi heard every word. His eye twitched. “Tch.”
You smirked.
Eren’s first attempt at using his titan abilities in controlled conditions did not go smoothly.
He overexerted. Collapsed. Steamed.
Levi sighed. “Idiot.”
“Levi,” you snapped, kneeling beside Eren as he blinked back into consciousness. “He’s doing his best.”
Levi glared at you. “His best lands him face-down in the dirt.”
“You’re too harsh.”
“He needs harsh.”
“He needs guidance.”
“He needs discipline.”
“He needs encouragement.”
“Encouragement won’t keep him alive.”
“Fear won’t either.”
The bickering commenced—rapid-fire, practiced, the kind only partners with years of trust could pull off.
The recruits watched like they were at the theater.
Armin whispered, “Should we… stop them?”
Mikasa didn’t look away. “No.”
Jean folded his arms. “This is better than training.”
Sasha nodded, eating a potato. “This is bonding.”
Later, after the recruits dispersed, Levi walked beside you, hands in his pockets, silent.
You nudged his shoulder lightly. “You know they call us Mom and Dad?”
He scoffed. “They’re idiots.”
“You’re not denying it.”
“It’s stupid.”
“They look up to you.”
“They shouldn’t.”
You stopped walking.
He slowed.
You raised a brow. “Levi… you don’t have to be so hard on them all the time.”
“They need to survive,” he said quietly, serious now. “That’s all that matters.”
Your voice softened. “And they will. Because they have us.”
He looked at you then—really looked. Years of battles shared. Years of loss and survival. Years of knowing each other’s pain without speaking it.
“Tch,” he muttered, looking away before his heart gave him away. “Always gotta be the soft one, don’t you?”
You smirked. “Only because you’re made of stone.”
“Brat.”
“Old man.”
He huffed, but you saw the faintest hint of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.
When you reached the mess hall, every cadet snapped to attention.
“Good evening, Captain Levi! Good evening, Captain Y/N!”
Levi’s eyebrow twitched. “Since when do you all greet her like that?”
Jean shrugged. “She’s nicer.”
Sasha nodded. “And she brings snacks.”
Connie pointed at Levi. “You just glare at us.”
Eren, trying not to smile, added, “But, uh… we really do appreciate you. Both of you. You’re like… the squad’s parents.”
Levi opened his mouth—probably to tear them all a new one.
You stepped forward first with a light, proud smirk.
“Well,” you said, “at least they know who the favorite parent is.”
Levi sighed. Deep. Resigned. Almost fond.
You bumped his shoulder as you walked past him.
“Come on, Dad,”