Chapter Text
Arrival
The rain starts before you even reach Erwin's lake house.
It's the kind of autumn rain that feels inevitable—grey and persistent, turning the world soft at the edges. Your windshield wipers work overtime as you navigate the winding road through the trees, their leaves already surrendering to the season in shades of amber and rust. The GPS announces your arrival just as the house comes into view: a modern structure of wood and glass nestled against the shoreline, warm light glowing from every window like a promise.
You park beside two other cars and make a run for it, your bag clutched against your chest. The front door swings open before you can knock.
"There she is!" Erwin's grin is as bright as ever, his blonde hair slightly damp like he's been outside recently. He pulls you into a hug that smells like woodsmoke and coffee. "The graduate herself. Come in, come in—you're soaked."
The warmth hits you immediately. Inside, the house is everything you hoped: open and inviting, with exposed beams and a stone fireplace already crackling in the living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the lake, where rain dimples the grey water. Someone's put on music—something low and jazzy that fills the space without demanding attention.
"Let me take that." Erwin relieves you of your wet jacket. "Hange and Jean are already here. Mike's running late, and Petra texted she's ten minutes out. Oluo's... somewhere. Probably raiding the kitchen."
"Sounds about right." You follow him deeper into the house, taking in the details: the built-in bookshelves, the cozy reading nook with its window seat piled with cushions, the open kitchen where Hange is indeed investigating the contents of the fridge.
"Graduate!" Hange spins around, glasses slightly fogged. "Erwin's been talking about this weekend for weeks. We're celebrating properly—I brought champagne and terrible board games."
Jean waves from the couch, beer in hand. "Congrats on escaping academia. How's freedom feel?"
"Ask me again in a week when the existential dread sets in," you say, and they laugh.
Erwin hands you a mug of something hot—tea, you realize, the kind he remembers you like. "Your room's upstairs, second door on the right. Get settled, warm up. We're doing a late lunch once everyone's here."
You're halfway up the stairs when you hear another car pull up outside.
"That'll be Petra," Erwin calls. Then, almost as an afterthought: "Oh, and Levi's coming too. Should be here soon."
You freeze on the landing.
Levi.
Levi Ackerman.
Your former professor. The one whose literature seminars you sat through for an entire year, absorbing every carefully chosen word, every precise observation. The one you definitely did not develop an inconvenient awareness of, because that would have been inappropriate and pointless and—
"You okay up there?" Erwin's voice floats up.
"Fine!" You force yourself to keep moving. "Just—Levi's coming?"
"Yeah, you remember him, right? We ski together. Figured it'd be good to have him around. He doesn't get out much."
You remember him.
You remember the way he moved through the classroom like he was conserving energy, every gesture deliberate. The way his voice could make nineteenth-century poetry sound like a threat or a promise depending on his mood. The way he'd occasionally look at you during discussions with something that might have been approval or might have been nothing at all.
You remember being very, very careful not to read into any of it.
Because he was your professor, and you were his student, and that was a line that didn't get crossed.
But you're not his student anymore.
The thought arrives with a strange flutter in your chest that you immediately suppress. You're here to celebrate with friends. That's all. The fact that Levi Ackerman will be sleeping under the same roof for three days is irrelevant.
Completely irrelevant.
You drop your bag in your assigned room—simple and comfortable, with a view of the rain-soaked trees—and take a moment to breathe. Then you head back downstairs, where Petra has arrived in a burst of energy and damp curls.
"Sorry, sorry! Traffic was insane." She's shaking rain from her jacket, laughing. "Hi! You must be the graduate. I'm Petra—I work with Erwin."
"Nice to meet you." You like her immediately. There's something warm and genuine about her smile.
The group reconvenes in the kitchen, where Erwin's started assembling lunch ingredients. You're chopping vegetables and half-listening to Hange's story about a disastrous work presentation when you hear it:
The front door opening. Footsteps. A quiet voice saying something to Erwin that you can't quite make out.
And then he's there.
Levi Ackerman walks into the kitchen, and the air changes.
He looks exactly the same—dark hair, sharp features, that particular way of holding himself like he's always slightly removed from whatever's happening around him. He's dressed simply: dark jeans, a grey sweater, rain speckling his shoulders. His eyes sweep the room with characteristic precision, cataloging faces.
They land on you.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
"Levi!" Petra's voice breaks the spell. "You made it!"
"Traffic," he says, his gaze still on you for a beat longer before he turns to acknowledge the others. His voice is exactly as you remember: low, controlled, with that faint edge of perpetual skepticism.
Erwin makes introductions, even though you don't need them. "Levi, you remember—"
"I remember." Levi's eyes find yours again. "You were in my seminar. Nineteenth-century literature."
"That's right." Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "I graduated yesterday, actually."
Something flickers across his expression—too quick to name. "Congratulations."
"Thanks."
The moment stretches. Everyone else has gone back to their conversations, but you're hyperaware of him standing there, of the careful distance he's maintaining, of the way his attention feels like a physical thing even when he's not looking directly at you.
"Coffee?" Erwin offers, oblivious.
"Please." Levi accepts the mug and leans against the counter, close enough that you could reach out and touch him if you wanted to.
You don't want to.
(You do.)
Lunch happens in a blur of conversation and laughter. The group settles into easy rhythms—Hange tells increasingly absurd stories, Jean and Oluo bicker good-naturedly, Mike observes everything with quiet amusement. Erwin plays host with practiced charm, making sure everyone's comfortable.
And Levi... Levi is quiet, but present. He contributes occasionally, usually with dry observations that make people laugh. You notice he drinks his tea without sugar. You notice the way his fingers wrap around the mug. You notice entirely too much, and you're annoyed with yourself for noticing.
At one point, Petra says something that makes him almost-smile—just a slight curve at the corner of his mouth—and you feel something twist in your chest.
Then it happens.
You're refilling your water glass at the sink when you glance back at the table. Petra's leaning toward Levi, her hand resting lightly on his forearm as she laughs at something he's said. It's casual, comfortable. The kind of touch that speaks to familiarity.
Levi doesn't pull away. In fact, he responds with something that makes her laugh harder, and there's an ease between them that makes your stomach drop.
Of course. Of course they're—
You turn back to the sink, gripping the counter. It makes sense. Petra's lovely and warm and exactly the kind of person someone like Levi would—
"You alright?" Mike's appeared beside you, his voice low.
"Fine." You manage a smile. "Just tired from the drive."
He nods, unconvinced, but doesn't push.
The afternoon unfolds in comfortable chaos. The group migrates to the living room, where Hange breaks out the promised board games. You end up on the floor with your back against the couch, trying to focus on the game and not on the fact that Levi's sitting in the armchair to your left, close enough that you can feel the weight of his presence.
He's watching you. You know he is, even when you're not looking. You can feel his attention like heat.
But then Petra sits on the arm of his chair, and they exchange a few quiet words you can't hear, and you remind yourself: it doesn't matter. Whatever you thought you felt, whatever you imagined might be possible now that you're no longer his student—it's not real.
He's with someone.
The rain continues outside, steady and relentless. Inside, the fire crackles and the group laughs and you smile at all the right moments. But something has shifted. The weekend you'd been looking forward to suddenly feels complicated in ways you hadn't anticipated.
That night, after dinner and drinks and more conversation, you escape to your room early. You can hear the others still downstairs, their voices a comfortable murmur through the floorboards.
You lie in bed listening to the rain and trying not to think about grey eyes and careful distance and the way Petra's hand had looked resting on Levi's arm.
It's going to be a long weekend.