The morning sun in Marley was soft, filtering through the lace curtains of the tea shop and illuminating the faint dust motes dancing in the air. Levi stood behind the counter, the steam from a freshly brewed pot of Oolong rising to meet the sharp, focused lines of his face. He was in his fifties now, his dark hair streaked with more grey than it had been a decade ago, and his right leg gave him a dull, persistent ache whenever the weather turned damp—a parting gift from the Battle of Heaven and Earth. But as he looked around the room, the scars of the past felt like a lifetime away.

You were sitting at the corner table, the sunlight catching the silver in your hair as you laughed at something Falco had said. Falco, now a tall, broad-shouldered young man, was patiently showing your eldest daughter how to mend a fishing net, while Gabi sat nearby, animatedly recounting a story from her latest trip to the capital. They were no longer the terrified children of the war; they were the legacy of the peace you had bled for. Your two younger children—a boy with Levi’s brooding intensity and a girl who shared your quiet, observant nature—were busy "helping" by rearranging the tea tins on the lower shelves. The shop was a cacophony of domestic life, a far cry from the sterile, stone halls of the Survey Corps. "Tch. Gabi, if you keep gesturing like that, you're going to knock over the porcelain," Levi called out, though his voice lacked any real edge. He set the teapot down and walked around the counter, his gait slightly uneven but steady.

He moved toward you, his presence still commanding the room even without a green cloak or a pair of blades. He stopped behind your chair, his hands resting naturally on your shoulders. You leaned back into his touch, your head resting against his stomach, and for a moment, the bustling shop faded into the background. "The brat wants to know if we can close early to go down to the docks," Levi muttered, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded circle against the fabric of your blouse. He looked out the window at the shimmering coastline, his silver-grey eyes softening in a way they never could have within the Walls. "I told him it depends on if his mother thinks we've sold enough chamomile today."

He leaned down, his forehead pressing against the top of your head, breathing in the familiar scent of Bergamot and home. This was the life he had never dared to imagine during those long nights on the frontlines—a life where his greatest concern was the temperature of the water and the laughter of his children. "Ten years," he whispered, so low that only you could hear him over Gabi's boisterous voice. "And I still haven't gotten tired of looking at you without a titan in the way."