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The first injury is small.
It happens on a quiet afternoon inside Headquarters while you sit at a long wooden table in the records room, surrounded by piles of expedition reports. The books have been handled so many times that the leather has begun to fray and darken. You drag your finger along the edge of a page as you turn it, and the paper bites you in retaliation. It’s a thin sting. You reel your hand back and bring it closer, watching a tiny line of red appear on the pad of your finger.
“Damn it,” you mutter under your breath.
It’s barely anything—just a paper cut—but it throbs with surprising insistence as you press your thumb against it to ease the pain. You glance around the room, making sure none of the other soldiers noticed your clumsiness, then you go back to sorting the reports.
Across the room, Captain Levi suddenly clicks his tongue and hisses through his teeth. You glance up just in time to see him staring down at his hand with visible irritation, his face twisting into the faintest scowl. He stares at his pointer finger.
The exact same finger.
Your stomach sinks. That’s not possible.
You look away immediately, forcing your eyes back down to the reports. Coincidences happen. Across the room, Levi doesn’t look at you, and you don’t look at him. The room stays silent except for the scratching of quills and the rustle of paper.
It’s nothing.
It has to be nothing.
.
Weeks pass before the next injury appears.
This time you wake up with a bruise across the side of your ribs. You notice it while changing into your training gear that morning, the dull purple mark standing out against your skin. You press your fingers lightly against it and hiss at the ache.
You must have taken a hit during training. You don’t remember when. Training is brutal enough that bruises aren’t exactly rare. Still, it nags at you as you head out onto the training grounds.
Captain Levi is already there when you arrive, standing with his arms crossed as the rest of the squad gathers, his expression as unreadable as ever while he surveys everyone. He looks perpetually disappointed with everyone. You fall into line with the others.
And then you notice the way he shifts. His hand moves along his ribs. Your heart stutters. Your eyes flick between him and your own bruise hiding beneath your shirt. Does he also have a bruise? The way he winces slightly confirms your suspicion.
Coincidence.
Levi is already barking the next set of instructions, unaware of your inner turmoil. You can’t stop noticing the way he occasionally presses his hand against his ribs throughout the morning. And you know—because you feel it every time you twist your torso—that it hurts.
.
After that, the injuries start appearing more often.
A scrape on your ankle after a clumsy landing with your ODM gear. Levi walks into the mess hall later that day with the same scrape beneath the hem of his uniform pants.
A burn from grabbing a kettle too quickly in the kitchen. Levi curses quietly in his office that afternoon while running his hand under cold water.
A small cut on your finger after you see Levi return from training with his squad. You hadn’t touched your blades or been near one all day.
Each time, the realization creeps closer. Each time both of you push it away. Levi refuses to acknowledge it outright. And you tell yourself you’re imagining things, because the alternative is terrifying. Because Levi Ackerman—the strongest soldier humanity has—is not the kind of person who belongs to anyone. And you are certainly not the kind of person fate would choose for him.
.
Months later, the paper cuts and bruises have turned into a simple routine. You stop noticing them after a while. Levi does too. But the tension between you both grows thicker with every passing week, woven through the quiet glances you catch from him across rooms and the way he sometimes pauses like he’s stopping himself from doing something.
You wonder if he’s thinking the same thing you are.
It can’t be real.
.
The expedition that finally breaks the denial is a brutal one. You return with a deep cut along your forearm, the wound already stitched and wrapped tightly in white bandages by the time you’re escorted into the infirmary. Your ribs are bruised from being in a Titan’s grasp.
You sit on one of the beds, feeling exhausted and lightheaded as the adrenaline slowly drains from your system. At least you survived. You can’t say that for the dozens of other soldiers who only came back in the form of their uniform patches.
The door opens a few minutes later. Levi walks in. His sleeve is rolled up. The exact same bandage you have wraps around his arm. You stare. He stares back. The room falls completely silent. For the first time in months, neither of you looks away. Levi exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck in a rare display of awkwardness.
“Tch…” he tuts.
Your voice comes out quieter than you expect. “So…”
Levi glances down at the bandage again, then at yours. His expression shifts into something a bit less sharp. He’s not quite annoyed, but he’s not resigned either.
“I suppose,” he mutters, “we’ve gathered enough evidence.”
You let out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “Statistically speaking… yeah.”
The weight of the realization finally crashes down on you. Soulmates. Everyone in this world knows what it means. Everyone knows the signs. One injury on one person appears on the other person. And now there’s no denying it anymore.
Levi studies your face for a long moment, his grey eyes unusually thoughtful. Inside his head, the realization feels unsettling. Of all people…
He’s spent his entire life believing fate is a cruel joke. And yet—every bruise, every cut, every stupid injury. All of it leads here. To you.
“You’re reckless,” he says finally.
“I got grabbed by a Titan,” you say. “You were there.”
“Yes.”
“So how exactly is that—”
“It’s inconvenient.”
You laugh softly. Levi looks away, clearly annoyed with himself now. His thoughts churn uneasily. This is ridiculous, but it’s also inevitable. He clears his throat.
“There’s a tea shop in the city,” he says.
You blink. “A tea shop?”
Levi’s ears turn faintly red. You’ve only ever seen them turn that shade of red when he drinks—and even that is rare in itself.
“Yes,” he says. His mind races in a way that feels entirely unfamiliar. Just say it, he thinks. “I was thinking… that we could go.”
“Go?”
He gestures vaguely. “On a date.” The words sound foreign in his mouth.
You freeze. For a moment, you simply stare at him. Your Captain is actually asking you on a date? You have to be dreaming. When your suspicions grew about you potentially being soutlmates, you figured that if you both realized and came to terms with the fact that you are soulmates, he would ignore it and not pursue you. You thought he would try to fight fate. But here he is. Asking you out. A slow smile spreads across your face.
“Okay,” you say.
Levi blinks twice. “...Okay?”
“Yes, Captain.”
He exhales quietly, relief rushing through his body. You glance down at the matching bandages wrapped around both of your arms, then back at him.
“I guess fate’s pretty persistent,” you smile.
Levi scoffs. “Don’t get injured at the tea shop.”
“No promises.”