The city was still.

Not in the way Levi was used to—not the tense stillness before a Titan attack, not the silence of a battlefield after the blood has dried. This was different. Softer. The kind of quiet that came with warm bread cooling on windowsills and children laughing in alleyways.

He didn’t belong here.

And yet, he came anyway.

Always at the same hour, always with the same excuse—“checking the perimeter,” “scouting the district,” “just passing through.” No one questioned him. No one dared. But the truth was simpler than that.

He came to see you.

You weren’t a soldier. You weren’t trained to kill or survive or bury your comrades. You ran a small bookshop tucked between a bakery and a tailor’s shop, and you smiled at everyone like the world hadn’t already ended a hundred times.

People said you were too pure for this world.

Levi agreed. Not that he’d ever say it out loud.

He told himself it was nothing. Just curiosity. Just a moment of peace in a life that didn’t allow for softness. But every time you looked up from your counter and smiled at him—really smiled—something in his chest twisted.

He hated it.

He hated how clean your hands were. How gentle your voice was. How you offered him tea without flinching, even when his boots tracked in blood.

He hated how much he wanted to stay.

Today, he lingered longer than usual. You were arranging flowers in a chipped vase by the window, humming something under your breath. The light caught in your hair, and for a moment, Levi forgot how to breathe.

You turned. “Captain Levi,” you said, with that same soft warmth. “You’re early today.”

He looked away. “Tch. Patrol ended sooner than expected.”

You smiled again. “Would you like to come in? I just brewed something new—lavender and mint.”

He hesitated.

Just for a second.

Then he stepped inside.

And for once, the world didn’t feel like it was ending.