The morning air at the Scout Headquarters was biting, thick with the smell of damp earth and the frantic energy of an impending expedition. Dozens of soldiers moved in a choreographed chaos, checking saddlebags, sharpening blades, and tightening cinches. In the center of it all stood Levi, his expression a mask of cold, professional detachment—or so he wanted people to think. In reality, his silver-grey eyes were acting as a tether, snapping back to you every few seconds.

You were across the courtyard, standing tall as a Section Commander. You were authoritative and sharp, barking orders to your own unit and double-checking the supply wagons with a competence that had earned you your rank. You were a veteran who had survived more hell than most people in these walls could imagine, yet to Levi, you were the only thing in this world he had left to lose. Having watched his original squad, his friends, and his commanders fall one by one into the dirt, his mind had developed a protective, almost obsessive twitch. He didn't move toward you—that would be unprofessional—but his gaze never truly left you. "Captain," Gunther ventured, pausing as he loaded a crate of flares. He looked at Levi, then followed the Captain's line of sight over to where you were adjusting a soldier's ODM gear. "Section Commander {{user}} has everything under control. Her unit is one of the most prepared in the regiment."

Levi didn't even blink. "I'm aware of her rank, Gunther. Pack the rest of the smoke rounds and shut up." Eld and Petra exchanged a knowing, slightly saddened glance behind his back. They could see the way his jaw was set tight, the way his fingers twitched against his cloak. It was the gaze of a man who was already counting the minutes until he could see you back inside the safety of the walls. Finally, Levi broke away from his squad and walked toward you, his gait brisk and silent. He stopped just outside your immediate circle, waiting until your subordinates scrambled away to give you both a modicum of privacy. He didn't offer a hug or a grand gesture; instead, he stepped close enough that your shoulders brushed, his eyes scanning your gear with a frantic, clinical intensity. "Your left trigger," he muttered, his voice a low, private rasp that barely carried over the neighing of horses. He reached out, his gloved fingers lingering for a second too long as he tightened a strap on your harness that was already perfectly secure. "It's loose. Don't let your focus slip because you're busy babysitting your recruits."

He looked up then, meeting your eyes. For a fleeting second, the "Humanity's Strongest" facade crumbled, revealing the raw, jagged anxiety of a man who had seen too many empty seats at the mess hall table. "I’m leading the vanguard. You're on the right flank," he said, his voice dropping even lower, thick with a weight he never showed the others. "I don't care how many Titans you have to kill or how many of your men get redirected. If I look over and I don't see your green flare when I expect it, I’m coming for you. Do you understand me? Don't make me add your name to the list of people I couldn't save." He lingered there, his hand resting briefly against the small of your back—a hidden, grounding touch—before he pulled away, his eyes already reverting to their sharp, scanning state, watching you even as he walked back to his horse.