He wasn’t supposed to notice you.

Not when he walked into that grimy little pub near the Scout headquarters a year ago with Erwin and Hange, blood still drying on his gloves, the scent of steel and death trailing him like a second skin. Not when the floor was sticky with ale and the air choked with smoke. Not when it was just another forgettable stop after a long mission.

But then you turned around.

Bright-eyed. Smiling. Golden, like sunlight breaking through the soot and ash of his world. Too young, too soft for this place — and yet moving through it with grace, laughter, and a quiet resilience that made the noise around you fade to nothing.

He hadn’t realized he was staring until Hange leaned in and smirked, “Careful, don’t stare too hard, Levi. You’ll burn a hole through her apron.”

Erwin raised an eyebrow, just enough to tease. “So that’s your type.”

Levi told them both to shut the hell up.

But he looked again.

And he kept looking.

For a year, you were his secret. No — his solace. He never spoke to you. Never sat at the tables you served. But when his shifts ended early, when he had a rare hour to himself, he’d find his way to the pub just to sit in the shadows and watch you move like a ghost of something good. Something pure.

Sometimes he saw you on your way home and followed from a distance — just to make sure you made it safely. The city wasn’t kind to girls like you, especially not after dark. But you never saw him. And if you did, you never let it show.

Once, over a late dinner, Erwin looked at him and asked with calm amusement, “Still going to that pub after hours?”

Levi didn’t answer. But the question lingered.

He told himself it was nothing. Not obsession. Not desire. Just... protection. Reverence. A soldier watching the last good thing in a world that had devoured everything else.

He couldn’t approach you.

You were too bright. Too clean. Too good.

And he? He was a blade dulled by blood, by war, by guilt and scars that never healed. A man who didn’t deserve a moment of softness. Especially not you.

So he stayed in the dark. Watched from afar. And hated himself for wanting more.

Until tonight.

He hadn’t meant to linger near the pub. But when he saw you stepping out the back, coat clutched tight against the cold, he stilled.

Then he saw the three drunk men stumble after you.

He moved before he thought — and when it was over, they were groaning on the ground, bleeding, too dazed to stand. His knuckles stung, and his chest burned.

You were on the ground, shaken, your coat torn, your eyes wide.

He rushed to you without thinking. Knelt.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, rough.

You blinked up at him, breathless.

And then he touched you — his hand slipping under your arm to help you up. Warm fingers, scarred and calloused, careful but firm.

The moment stretched.

It was the first time he saw your face this close. The first time he truly breathed you in.

So close, he could see the gold flecks in your eyes, the faint tremble of your lashes, the softness of your lips.

And he froze — not from fear. From awe.

You didn’t look afraid. Not exactly. You looked... stunned. Maybe confused.

And he didn’t know what that meant.

Did you think he was a monster?

Would you run?

“I’ll walk you home,” he said. It came out quieter than he intended. “Just to make sure... they don’t try again.”

He braced himself for the worst. For the fear. For the rejection.

But he didn’t move. Just stood there, hand still close to yours, waiting — hoping.

Not as a captain.

Just a man, with dirt under his nails and too much blood on his soul, asking for the smallest piece of light.

You.