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The old tent shuddered with every gust of wind, exposing the cracks through which the chill of the night penetrated.
Outside, the voices of the soldiers gathered around the campfire could be heard, their excited negotiations about today's skirmish making their way through the noise of the wind. Someone was loudly telling how: "That bastard almost bit my head off! Have you seen his mouth?" and another interrupted: "Come on, I saw it! It's your own fault, you shouldn't have gotten into trouble!"
Petra sat on the hard decking, her teeth clenched as her fingers fumbled with the clasp of her cloak. The fabric slipped from her shoulders, heavy with dirt and soaked at the ribs. She threw it into a corner, then began on her straps and shirt.
It had all happened too quickly. The squad had been retreating from a botched skirmish with a group of four titans when the cable of her maneuvering gear suddenly broke with a distinctive metallic sound.
She still remembered the sensation of falling, the wind whistling in her ears... The impact with the rocky ledge was straight into her side, the sharp edge cutting through her flesh, leaving a deep, jagged wound. In shock, she didn't even feel the pain immediately, only the warmth spreading beneath her shirt.
Now that one of the medics was no longer alive, and the other was too busy with the severely wounded soldiers, she looked at the open wound with doubt. If she didn't clean and stitch it now, it would become infected by morning.
The scout took a deep breath and pulled the stuck material sharply.
A clear stream of water from the canteen mixed with the crimson streams, turning into a translucent liquid that flowed abundantly from the waist to the thigh, leaving bloody streaks on the snow-white trousers of the uniform.
—Are you alive in there? — The familiar blond head appeared in the opening of the tent. Oluo stepped inside. His fingers involuntarily gripped the edge of the tent.
— For now, — she said.
The man took a step inside, deliberately shuffling his boots loudly, as if to announce his presence. His gaze steadfastly avoided her back, instead focusing on her bleeding side.
— Eld said that Gelgar should have some alcohol.
Petra finally turned her head, noticing how his ears were red. The soldier immediately grimaced, defiantly looking at her wound:
— It looks like shit.
— Don’t make a fuss, — Petra said sharply, jerking her shoulder, and immediately regretting the movement.
— I don’t give a damn, — Bozado said, waving his hand, — Half of them can barely stand today.
There was a burst of laughter outside, and someone started singing a bawdy song, but the sound quickly stopped as the officers put a stop to the inappropriate fun.
A few minutes later, Gunther and Eld approached.
— Here, — he said, handing her a flask.
The strong smell of alcohol filled her nose, causing her to wince for a moment.
— Thank you.
She poured some onto a folded clean cloth, then, without giving herself time to change her mind, pressed the soaked cloth to the wound.
—Damn..— she hissed through her teeth.
— Let me help you sew it up, — Jinn suggested, pulling out a small hiking kit with a needle and thread from his pocket.
— No need, Eld, I can handle it,— Petra muttered, gritting her teeth and taking the needle.
Her hands were shaking. A drop of blood fell on her thigh, forming a dark stain on the dusty fabric of her uniform.
— You can't even hold a needle properly,— Oluo quipped.
Petra ignored them. She pressed her lips into a thin line and brought the needle to the ragged edge. The first attempt ended in failure — the hand jerked, and the needle fell out of his hands, barely touching the skin.
The tent's awning was abruptly pulled back. Captain Levy appeared in the doorway. His presence immediately filled the space.
— What do you have here?
Bozado was the first to speak.
— She refuses assistance, Captain.
— I see.
His gaze slid to the wound, which was still bleeding.
— And you thought it was a good idea to let her stitch herself up in a half-fainting state?
Eld was silent. Gunther looked down. Oluo clenched his fists but didn't object.
Petra finally looked up.
He stepped closer, his shadow covering her completely.
— All of you, — he said, looking at his subordinates, — get out.
Oluo opened his mouth, but Gunter grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him out. The tent flap fell softly behind them, drowning out the noise of the camp.
— Were you going to bleed to death on principle?
Ral tried to answer, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she pulled her head deeper into her shoulders like a guilty child. Her fingers clutched at the edge of her shirt, still hanging from one shoulder. The last barrier between them.
— Lie down.
— Captain...
— I won't ask again.
She slowly lay back, her fists clenched. Ackerman took a needle and thread and dipped them in alcohol.
— It's going to hurt.
Without waiting for an answer, he took a flask of alcohol and poured the contents directly onto the wound without warning. Petra dug her nails into the decking, suppressing a scream. She felt his free hand suddenly rest on her shoulder. Just for a second. Just long enough to help her endure the painful moment.
The liquid flowed down her side, washing away the dirt, and his fingers—long, with surprisingly neat nails for a soldier—parted the edges of the wound to clean it more thoroughly.
The captain worked quickly and accurately. His hands were rough from calluses, but his touch was unexpectedly soft. Suddenly, the needle went deeper than it should have. Petra couldn't hold back a moan.
— C-Captain! — her hand clutched his wrist, stopping his movement.
Levi stopped. He looked down at her hand clasping his for a second.
— Sorry, — he said curtly, not looking up.
Blood oozed from the fresh puncture, dripping in scarlet drops down his fingers. She noticed a scarlet streak spreading across his palm, seeping into the creases between his joints, staining the tips of his fingers.
The scout held her breath.
The captain was squeamish. He washed his hands before and after every battle, washed his uniform as soon as it was dusted, and hated it when crumbs remained on the table after a meal. But now his fingers, stained with her blood, didn't even tremble.
The man made the last stitch and moved back to inspect his work. The stitch was straight and neat, despite the difficult conditions.
— Sit up, — he said, taking a clean bandage with ointment, — I'm going to wrap it tightly, — he muttered, as if explaining to himself rather than to her, — So it won't fall off.
He began to apply the bandage, wrapping the bandage tightly around her torso.
Ral stubbornly looked away, at the tattered corner of the tent, at the lantern casting flickering shadows, anywhere but at him. But at some point, the amber eyes broke free and fell on his face.
The captain was focused, his eyebrows slightly furrowed, his lips pressed together. There were lines of tension at the corners of his eyes, the same ones that appeared when he was calculating a trajectory in battle. She suddenly wondered what he was thinking about at that moment. Was he considering the best way to secure the bandage? Or was he contemplating the number of bandages they would need to cover?
This was the strangeness of their existence.
They were not just soldiers, they were scouts.
They were humanity's hope.
But beneath the layers of skin and uniforms, their hearts still beat. And somewhere deep within, beneath the weight of military regulations and combat experience, there was a human essence that longed to be unleashed.
Petra knew that the captain saw her primarily as a subordinate. A reliable fighter. But sometimes, in the rare moments between expeditions, she found herself wondering if he ever considered looking at her differently. If he ever considered seeing her not as the woman who didn't hesitate to throw herself into battle, but as the woman who could exist in a different world. Without a uniform. Without blades. Just a woman whose hands were meant for more than just holding weapons.
— Gunther is too soft to have his way, — he said, rubbing alcohol on his hands. At least Erd thought to bring alcohol, — He glanced at her fingers clutching the coarse cloth, — And you... — his voice suddenly lost its usual sharpness, — apparently decided to test what my patience is capable of.
Ral lowered her head.
— I'm sorry, Captain.
He stood up, dusted off his hands, and headed for the exit. At the tent, he stopped without turning around:
— Come to me first thing in the morning. Go to sleep now. If I see you trying to do something with your hands again, I'll sew them to the sides.
He nodded towards a small bundle by the entrance — there was a thick piece of bread and several strips of dried meat tightly wrapped in paper. Not their usual meager rations, but something from his personal supplies.
Petra's eyes widened.
— Captain, this is yours…
— Sleep.
He left before she could finish.
— Thank you.
The tent fell behind him. Petra sat, staring at the bandages on her side. Outside, the voices suddenly fell silent as the captain made his way to the fire.
She slowly lay down on her uninjured side, careful not to disturb her fresh stitches. The pain was throbbing, but bearable.
Somewhere in the camp, she heard a shout: "Quiet down there!"
But it didn't matter anymore. Her eyes were closing, and her body was finally succumbing to exhaustion.
The last thing she heard before falling asleep was the soft, barely perceptible sound of footsteps outside the tent. Someone had taken up a post at the entrance. Just in case.
And when the first rays of the sun broke through the tent's fabric, Petra discovered another bundle at the entrance—a clean bandage and a small jar of ointment.
No note.
Without explanation.
Like everything between them.
The camp was waking up slowly, as if reluctantly. The soldiers were putting out the fires and preparing the horses for the long journey.
Petra was standing by the stables, adjusting her saddle.
"Just a few hours, and we'll be outside the walls" — she repeated to herself.
She heard voices behind her.
Petra saw the captain talking to Erwin by the command tent. Levi crossed his arms, his gaze sweeping across the camp, lingering on her for a moment before returning to the commander.
— If we take this route, we'll save two hours, — Smith said, tracing a finger over the map.
— In the open, the Titans will notice us before we see them. The wounded won't be able to make a quick retreat across the plain if we run into a group.
Erwin looked at him knowingly.
— A forest, then?
— We'll have room for maneuver in the woods if we run into them.
— Then it's settled. Prepare the squad.
Erwin nodded, folded the map, and stepped aside, his eyes already searching the crowd of soldiers for Miky's figure. Levi remained in place, his arms crossed, his cold eyes once again glancing towards the hitching post. His gaze swept over his subordinate's side, where a thick bandage could be seen beneath her uniform, before rising to her face.
— Petra! He raised his hand sharply, beckoning her over.
She straightened up instantly, overcoming the pain in her side, and walked up to the captain with a slight limp. Her hand went up in a practiced military salute.
— Captain Levi,— she snapped to attention, trying not to wince in pain.
— You will ride with the wounded in the wagon, — he said, leaving no room for objections.
— I can ride.
— That's not a request, it's an order.
She clenched her fists.
— Captain, with all due respect, I'm not that bad. The wagon is for the seriously wounded. I can handle it.
Levi narrowed his eyes, his voice quieter.
— Your stitch will split in the first half hour of riding. When you lose consciousness from blood loss, someone will risk their life to drag you back. Is it worth it?
Petra flinched, but she didn't look away.
— So take off the saddle, — he continued, — and get on the cart. If you want to be useful, help those who need it now, because some of them will return home without their limbs.
He turned around, indicating that the conversation was over. The redhead stood for a moment, her fingers involuntarily reaching for the sore spot on her side. She did not argue.
— Yes, Sir.
The wounded were already crowding around the wagon. One of them, his face as pale as a sheet, coughed helplessly into his fist. Petra sighed and took the arm of a young scout who was hobbling along, clutching a broken arm to his chest. His eyes, filled with pain and fear, met hers. She smiled reassuringly, and he nodded slightly in response.
The sun was beginning to warm as they set out. Ral leaned against the wooden rail and watched as Levi spurred his horse ahead, taking his position at the head of the group. His cloak billowed in the wind.
For a moment, their eyes met, and this time neither of them looked away. There was no resentment or defiance in her gaze, only a solid understanding. She nodded to him, almost imperceptibly, but he caught it.
"I can handle it."
Levi responded with a brief, barely noticeable nod.
"I know."
_____________________________
They returned to the walls in the evening, exhausted and depressed. The communal shower was the only place where they could relax and wash away the dirt and blood that had accumulated over the past few days.
Petra entered the room, which was filled with naked bodies and clouds of steam. The air was filled with the scent of soap and sweat. The women's voices were heard over the sound of running water, as they discussed the recent events and joked about the awkward newcomers from the last recruitment, who were new to this expedition. The scout caught fragments of phrases out of the corner of her ear, but she didn't listen. She had her own thoughts.
The medic's fingers were cold as he carefully removed the old bandage. She had already mentally prepared herself for the prospect of having to re-suture, but instead she heard an approving "hm."
— So Captain Levi sewed it up? — the elderly doctor asked, examining the stitching under the light of a lamp.
Petra nodded, not daring to look at the wound. The image came back to my mind: his fingers, the smell of alcohol burning exposed flesh...
— The suture is smooth, the wound edges are clean. It's almost jewelry work for field conditions, — the man said, turning her side to the light, — I'll take off the stitches in ten days, — the medic continued, not noticing how her fingers gripped the edge of the cot, — Unless, of course, you rip off the blindfold sooner.
She jumped when the voices suddenly grew louder, bringing her back to the present. Her attention was drawn to the muffled voices coming from the far corner of the shower.
— Did you see how he kicked his troops out yesterday? — said one of the women, lathering her long dark hair. Her voice was purposely innocent, but her eyes were bright with curiosity.
— They say he personally sewed up her wound...— said another, covering her mouth with her hand.
— Yeah, he sewed it up, — the third woman chuckled, — He sewed it up so good that she's still limping today. Apparently, the captain's not just good at using a needle.
Petra's fingers clenched around the bar of soap, and she turned her head, causing water to spray from her wet hair.
— Don't you have any shame? — Her voice was soft, but it cut through the laughter like a knife.
The women fell silent. One of them opened her mouth to speak, but Ral cut her off, her eyes flashing angrily.
— Captain Levi saved my life. As he did for many of you, — she stepped forward, and the water poured down her back, washing away the foam. — If you have nothing better to discuss than the personal lives of your superiors, then you've been too comfortable. Perhaps you should remember how many of your squad didn't return today.
She heard Nifa's concerned voice behind her:
— Petra, you're bleeding.
The woman looked down and saw a thin trickle of blood running down her leg. The bandage on her side was soaked and stained red.
Silence fell over the shower room. Even the whispers ceased.
— It's nothing, — she muttered, removing the soaked bandages.
Nifa silently handed her a clean piece of cloth. Petra took it and pressed it to the wound. The water continued to flow, washing away the blood.
— Go and bandage it, — the brown-eyed woman said quietly, — Before it gets any worse.
Petra nodded, turned the faucet off abruptly, and stepped out of the water. The steam parted before her, revealing her figure—taut, strong, but especially fragile now.
Without looking back at the other women, she walked past them, wrapped herself in a towel, and left, leaving wet footprints in her wake.
The door to her room was slightly ajar. She pushed it open with her shoulder, entered the room, and immediately leaned against the doorframe, closing her eyes for a moment.
In the corner of the cramped room, there was a narrow bed with a clean shirt and trousers lying on top. On the table by the mirror, there was a rolled-up bandage, a thick, multi-layered piece of cloth specially prepared for bandaging, and an almost empty tin of ointment.
Steam still hung in the air, mixed with the smell of soap, but her body had already begun to cool, and she felt a slight shiver run down her back, causing her nipples to tighten under the damp towel. She threw it on the bed and, gritting her teeth, pressed the bandage against the wound. Her pale face was reflected in the mirror, with wet strands of hair clinging to her forehead and neck.
Pale lines of scars crisscrossed her body like cracks in broken porcelain. Purple bruises resembled dirty stains.
She looked down at the scar on her stomach, an old and deep one, from when she had saved a recruit about two years ago. The boy had survived.
She straightened her back, studying her reflection. Each scar was a mark of a path she had chosen consciously.
There was a long, star-shaped scar on his right hand, a reminder of the cleanup near Trost.
"Are you even twenty? Young girl, don't you really want to live at all, that you're so eager for the walls?" — I remembered the words of one of the civilians. His greasy fingers, covered in soot, gripped her wrist too tightly, "My eldest son is just your age. It would be a beautiful couple. And you..."
Petra grinned, remembering how abruptly she pulled her hand away.
She wanted to live. Oh, how she wanted to live! Every morning, as she tightened the straps of her maneuvering gear, she felt this burning desire to see another sunrise, to smell the after-rain scent in the barracks yard, and to hear her fellow soldiers laugh at dinner.
But not at the cost of abandoning what she believed in. Not at the cost of betraying those who would never return from beyond the walls.
She survived to carry on their work.
In the mirror, she saw not a mutilated woman, but a soldier. Strong. Skilled. Worthy.
Her fingers found the oldest scar on her thigh, from an obstacle course at the cadet corps. At the age of fourteen, she had blood on her brown skirt, and her neighbor had said something stupid:
"No one will marry you with that"
Petra snorted. It was as if she was dreaming of marriage, not the Intelligence Corps. As if they understood something more important than gossip.
"But I did better," she said"
And she showed it over and over again. She survived where others gave up. She returned when she should have been buried. Women died here as often as men, and they were not buried in separate graves or mourned in special ways. Death was democratic. But life... Life required twice as much effort to prove one's right to stand in the same line.
Over the years of her service, there were moments when she found herself thinking about things that had nothing to do with war, expeditions, or duty.
Ral saw the girls in the headquarters whispering, hiding letters from their lovers. In the evenings, when the barracks were quiet, you could hear giggles and sighs behind the walls, fingers intertwining, lips finding each other in the darkness.
She looked at the reflection of her own hands, and for a moment, instead of her own hands, she imagined someone else's hands touching these scars, someone else's eyes examining every mark, and...
Somewhere behind the wall, she heard footsteps as the night watchman made his rounds.
She carefully applied the ointment to her inflamed skin, tightened the bandages, put on a clean uniform, grabbed a small vial of medicine from the nightstand, an empty clay jug, and left the room with a slight limp.
She needed painkillers.
Petra opened the dining hall door. The room should have been empty at this hour, the soldiers having long since finished their dinner and retired to their beds. But the dim light of a flickering oil lamp told a different story.
She was about to pass by when she noticed a silhouette at one of the tables.
The captain sat slumped over an empty mug, his fingers drumming slowly on the wooden surface. In the dim light, his face looked even more haggard than usual.
The soldier stood in the doorway, hesitant to enter. However, the creaking of the floor beneath her feet betrayed her presence.
— Petra, — Ackerman looked up, — What are you doing here at this hour?
— I, — she took a step towards the corner where the water barrel was standing, — just wanted to get some water.
She felt his eyes on her back as she bent down to the barrel. The water poured into the jug, too loudly in the silence. The drops fell on her bare foot, making her shiver with the unexpected coolness.
Petra took a deep breath and, before she could change her mind, walked over to his table and placed the jug down with a distinct thud.
— May I? — she asked, pointing to an empty bench.
The captain nodded and she sat down opposite. There was an outstretched arm's length between them, enough so as not to violate the invisible boundaries.
— Can't you sleep, Captain?
— Reports, — he replied shortly. His fingers froze on the edge of the table.
The light flickered on the stack of papers, picking out individual lines from the gloom:
"Personnel losses"
"Equipment shortages"
"Number of wounded"
— The survival rate of new recruits is declining. In the last three expeditions...
Levi turned the page as Petra asked cautiously:
— This expedition... Still yielded its fruits?
— If you're referring to the supply base, then, —Levi said, setting the report aside.
— I'm not referring to the supply base, — Petra interrupted, surprising herself, — I'm referring to the... discovery. The diary, — her fingers clenched into fists involuntarily, — you remember, the woman in the tree...
His gaze swept across her face, studying her.
— The diary is with Hange.
— You're thinking... is that true? Her voice was quieter than she had planned... Talk?
— Hanji is going to study the diary carefully. If there is even a grain of useful information there... His voice trailed off, as if he'd caught himself saying too much.
Petra nodded, seeing that terrible image before her eyes again, a headless, rotten body, not even a body, but a skeleton covered in skin. What a horror that woman, Ilse, must have felt... What did she know? What was she trying to say?
— I understand, — Ral whispered, even though she didn't really understand anything. She just felt something cold shrink inside her at the thought of what those yellowed pages were hiding.
The captain flipped through another page of the report and took a sip of tea. The drink had already cooled down, and the man winced slightly.
— I can make a new one.
Levi pushed the cup away.
She nodded, noticing how his gaze slid down her side, where the outline of the bandage was visible under her thin shirt.
— How are you feeling? — he asked suddenly.
Petra looked down, nervously fiddling with the hem of her shirt.
— The wound is bothering me, — she said, taking a small, almost empty vial from her pocket, — I was going to take some painkillers.
Levi held out his hand.
— Let me see.
She handed him the vial, their fingers barely touching. He turned it over in his fingers, studying the label.
This is too strong.
— It helps me, — she replied without looking.
Levi watched her, his arms crossed.
— If you're going to drink like a drunk in a alley, you won't be able to use the bathroom without help by morning.
— I'm not a heavy drinker, — she muttered.
Petra swallowed the pill with a large gulp of water. The water was cool, almost icy, and it briefly distracted her from the burning sensation in her side.
She pressed her lips together and looked away.
— They... They look terrible, don't they?
Levi was silent for a moment, as if weighing his words. She knew he wouldn't lie, but she didn't want to hear the truth.
— They look like scars. Like everyone else's.
— But others don't have as many, — she blurted out, and immediately regretted it.
— A mistake. I shouldn't have said that. Not with him...
— Because others don't survive, — he said, turning around, — Do you know how many of the last batch of recruits are already in the ground?
The woman clenched her fists. She knew. She remembered every face. The man with the terrified expression, who managed to shout "Mama" before the seven-meter-tall titan's jaws closed on his torso. The girl who had smiled shyly at her while tending to her wound, only to have her legs torn out by the aberrant the next day.
Petra lowered her eyes, feeling a lump form in her throat.
— Seven, — she replied.
Levi didn't respond. He was standing by the window, his back to her, but his tense shoulders told her that he, too, remembered. Everyone.
— Scars are not a weakness, they don't make you ugly, — he said, — They're proof that you're alive.
She wanted to say something, but at that moment, the dining room door creaked again.
— Captain? — Oluo appeared in the doorway, rubbing his sleepy eyes, — You're here... ah, Petra.
His gaze slid over the jug, the empty glass, then Levi.
— What? — the man turned in his direction.
— Captain! — Oluo raised his hand and saluted, assuming an emphatically official look, — The command has ordered: tomorrow at six in the morning there will be a gathering at the eastern gate. An order from Commander Erwin himself.
Levi just nodded. Bozado paused for a second, as if waiting for an explanation, but when it didn't come, he turned and left.
Silence fell between them again, but it felt... different. More fragile.
— He's staring at you, — he said suddenly, leaning back in his chair.
Petra blinked.
— Oruo? — She looked at the man, raising an eyebrow, — He's staring at every woman within a ten-meter radius, — she muttered, feeling a warm flush spread across her cheeks, "It doesn't mean anything.
Levi leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.
— He's not a fool, — A strong fighter. Not completely hopeless.
— Are you saying I should pay attention to him?
Levi shrugged.
— You're a free woman. Do what you want.
She almost laughed. Free? Yes, technically. But had she ever been free from his gaze, his silent assessment, from that damned feeling that he was watching her every move, even when he wasn't looking?
— Do you really think I'd go after someone just because they're "not completely hopeless"? — Petra narrowed her eyes, resting her chin on her palm.
— I want you to stay alive, — he said finally, not looking at her, — The rest is up to you.
She bit her lip. It was always like this. He talked about survival, about the mission, about duty—but never about what was between them.
— Oluo is not hopeless, — she said, looking up at him, — And what about me?
— What about you?
— Who do you see, Captain?
There was a long pause.
She could see his eyes linger on her, as if he was weighing every word, and it made her feel even worse.
Say something. Say anything at all.
Then Levi slowly turned to her, studying her face as if he were seeing it for the first time. His eyes moved over her features, lingering on her lips before returning to her eyes. She held his gaze, but her stomach was clenching, as if preparing for a blow.
— I see a soldier.
Petra chuckled, bitterly, soundlessly.
Of course.
She knew that herself. She'd always known. How could it be otherwise?
— Determined, disciplined, and damn loyal.
Her lips twitched, but the smile didn't form. She looked down, as if checking to see if she was falling apart. No, everything is in place. Only my heart—stupid, restless—squeezed so hard that it became difficult to breathe.
That's it?
She knew she had no right to expect more. And yet...
You can see that. You've always seen it.
But he said "soldier."
So that's what it is.
— I see, — her laughter sounded like ice cracking. — Thank you for the... clarification.
She stood up, turned around, and left without giving him a chance to respond. The door slammed shut with a thud, leaving the man alone with his untouched tea, unspoken words, and a strange feeling that he had just failed in some important way.
The brunette stared at the half-empty cup, and the bitter taste in his mouth seemed to reflect his own feelings.
Levi rarely regretted his words. They were clear and concise, with no unnecessary sentimentality. However, as he looked at the closed door, he felt a sharp pang of regret. He had seen the tremor in her lips and the pain in her eyes, which she had tried to conceal. And he had done nothing. He had said nothing to alleviate that pain.
There was a folder of reports on the table. Levi picked it up, lining the pages with a familiar gesture. But his thoughts were far from numbers and strategies. He remembered her focused face as she analyzed the enemy's tactics, her stubborn determination during training, and her clumsy care for the wounded.
She was more than just a soldier. She was... Petra.
He slowly entered the room. She was lying on the bed, her face buried in the pillow. Her shoulders were shaking with silent sobs. The captain had left the forgotten medicine on the bedside table. He approached her, feeling awkward and guilty, placed the folder on the table, and after a moment, he touched her shoulder.
— Petra, — he said softly.
She shuddered and slowly raised her head, turning to face him, her face flushed with tears. Ral hastily wiped her tears with her sleeve, but more tears continued to fall.
— Captain, — she whispered, her voice trembling.
— You forgot, — he said, nodding towards the bedside table, his voice quiet and strangely gentle.
— You shouldn't have come, — she whispered, looking away.
Levi didn't answer. His hand slowly lowered, but he didn't move away. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, so close that she could feel the warmth of his body.
— You're right,— he finally said, — you shouldn't.
But he was here anyway.
— I don't want your pity, Captain.
— Pity? — He chuckled, but there was no mockery in his voice, — Do you really think I'm here out of pity?
She looked up at him. His face was closer than ever.
— You're not just a soldier. You've never been 'just' anything.
Silence.
Petra stood up slowly, her fingers trembling.
— Then why...
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, and then opened them, looking straight into her eyes.
—Tch... Because I have no right, he answered honestly, — You are young, beautiful...
Petra froze, as if he had put a blade to her throat. Beautiful? No, he could not say that. Not her, not now, not after all these years. Not after she had long since stopped seeing anything but scarred skin and tired eyes in the mirror.
She was expecting a joke. She was expecting him to make a face like he was smelling something bad, or to say coldly, "For a soldier, of course."
But Levi wasn't joking.
Then she realized that it wasn't a compliment. It was a statement of fact. Like "Titans eat people" or "We'll all die someday."
And that made it hurt more.
Because if he saw her as beautiful, then he was looking. Not through her, not over her, but at her. And if he was looking, why didn't he say anything? Why now?
She felt the blood rush to her cheeks. She wasn't used to compliments, especially from Levi. She didn't know what to say, how to react.
— You could marry someone like Oluo and settle in a safe area behind the walls... Instead of rotting in these barracks. I have no right to deprive you of that.
The air around them suddenly became thick, difficult to breathe. She saw his jaw tighten, a shadow passing over his normally impassive face.
— I am your captain. If I had to choose between you and humanity, I would choose humanity. And so would you.
— I... I understand...
— I'm glad to hear that.
Levi stood up, his shadow falling over her.
— Rest, Petra, for tomorrow will be a long day.
He turned toward the door, and in that moment, something inside Petra broke.
He was leaving.
He was leaving, and there would be nothing more.
Never.
And then she lunged forward, jumped off the bed, and before she could be afraid of her own audacity, she grabbed hold of his shirt.
The fabric stretched, the seams creaking under her grip.
Levi turned around abruptly, not with anger, but with something like shock. His eyebrows twitched, and his eyes widened. Before he could say anything, Petra was on her tiptoes, one hand still gripping his shoulder as if she were afraid the ground would give way beneath her.
And she kissed him.
Her lips were trembling, her breath was coming fast, and her heart was beating so loudly that he thought he might be able to hear it. It was an awkward, greedy, desperate kiss—the first of her life. She didn't know how to do it, only that she would regret it for the rest of her life if she let him go now.
Tears ran down her cheeks, salty, hot, mixing with his scent, with the rough fabric of his shirt, with the way his body went rigid for a moment, not responding, not pushing her away, just... accepting her.
And then, a quiet, warm sigh.
And his hand gently settled on her waist.
Not to push her away.
But to keep her from falling.
He didn't respond immediately. He didn't pounce on her with the same fervor, nor did he push her away; instead, he froze, as if her kiss were a minefield, where a single misstep could lead to disaster. His fingers gently gripped her waist, but there was no certainty in his touch; it was cautious, almost hesitant.
Petra pulled away, her breath ragged, her lips wet from tears and the absurd, passionate kiss. She didn't dare to look up, fearing to see disgust or disappointment in his eyes.
But Levi was silent.
And then she felt his fingers slowly unclench.
No.
He pulled away from her.
— This is…
— I don’t want a safe area, — she blurted out, — I don’t want a different life. Do you want to know what I want? I want you to stop pretending that you don’t care. I want you to acknowledge that I’m more than just a soldier to you, — Or tell me straight out that I'm wrong. Tell me, and I'll leave you.
Levi looked at her, and there was something new in his eyes, always so cold—anxiety? confusion?—but he quickly pulled himself together.
— You’re wrong.
Petra felt something tearing under her ribs. She was about to step back, her fingers going cold, ready to loosen her grip, but...
— You're wrong if you think I don't care, — he added slowly, and his hand on her waist suddenly pulled her closer.
Her breath caught.
Levi didn't know how to speak eloquently. He didn't know how to explain. But he knew how to act.
He raised his hand and slowly traced her cheek with his finger. Her skin was soft and hot. He looked into her eyes, and saw in them a reflection of his own soul–wounded, lonely, but still able to feel.
The captain bent down, and his lips found hers again, but not passively, not patiently, but demanding.
Now it wasn't the kiss of an inexperienced girl, trembling with fear. It was the kiss of a man who knew what he wanted, but had denied himself for too long.
The captain carefully embraced her, one hand resting on her back, just above her waist, avoiding her injured ribs, while the other hand was buried in her hair, his fingers entangled in her red locks, as if he was afraid she would pull away.
She leaned into him. She responded to his kiss, hesitantly but with sincerity. Without thinking or holding back, just because she couldn't help it. Her delicate fingers clutched at his shirt, and her body yearned for his.
His teeth grazed her lower lip, and she cried out, not in pain, but in surprise, as her body responded instantly. His tongue touched her lips, and she opened to him, eagerly, without thought, without shame.
And that kiss... It was a confirmation. There was no pity in it, only acceptance. Acceptance of her as a warrior, as a woman, as a person worthy of love.
Outside the barracks window, the wind was driving ragged clouds across the sky. Somewhere far away, beyond the walls, the titans were waiting. Waiting for war. Waiting for death. Somewhere in a future they couldn't see, one of them might be left alone.
But now his lips were burning her skin. Now her fingers were digging into his back, leaving marks that would disappear tomorrow. Now they were breathing the same air, and it was more than tomorrow.
More than promises.
More than war.
There was something in this room worth fighting for.
At least for one more day.