Levi stood at the threshold of {{user}}'s quarters, report needing her signature in hand, fingers poised to knock — but he froze. The door was slightly open. Inside, bathed in the soft glow of oil lamp, she was perched on the vanity with a quiet grace he hadn’t expected. Loose strands of hair framed her face, flowing down freely as she sat brushing it with slow, absent strokes. Her nightgown was plain, almost modest, yet something about the scene struck him—elegant, unguarded.

He had seen her countless times in battle: fierce, ruthless, a storm wrapped in steel. But this...this was different. This was softness, calm—this was familiar. It reminded him of Kuchel, of a time before blood and orders and loss. The ache bloomed sharp in his chest, and yet, oddly, it soothed something too.

He lowered the report slightly, silent. Watching. Remembering.