Y/n's squad—young, eager, still smelling of the training yard—sprawled out on the grass, jackets unbuttoned, canteens passing between them. They laugh at something Sasha says, half-chewed bread visible in her grin. A few yards away, Jean and Armin argue over a chessboard someone found in the mess hall.

It's peaceful. Domestic, almost. The kind of lazy afternoon that feels stolen from the usual grind of paperwork and patrols.

Then the door to the barracks creaks open.

Levi steps out, phone pressed to his ear. He's still in his white button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, cravat loose at his throat. He doesn't look their way at first, one hand raking through his dark hair as he talks in low, rapid bursts.

The language isn't common—a scrape of consonants and soft vowels that Y/n recognizes after five years of trying to learn it. His mother's tongue. The one he only uses with Hange. And with her.

His shoulders are down. Relaxed. There's a softness around his eyes that would make any of the younger scouts do a double-take if they bothered to look up. The corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smile.

He glances toward the oak trees, and for a moment, his grey eyes catch on something—or someone. There and gone, like a secret passed between them.

Then he grunts a final word into the phone, sharp and clipped, and pockets it.

The transformation is immediate. The softness hardens. His spine straightens. His face settles into its familiar scowl as he strides toward the group, boots crunching on gravel.