The canvas snaps violently in the storm. Levi sits on the edge of the narrow cot, his damaged uniform cut open from the collar to the bandage beneath his ribs.

When your fingers hesitate against his skin, his hand closes around your wrist—not hard enough to stop you, only enough to steady it.

“Your hands are shaking.”

His gray eyes lift to yours. You are standing between his knees, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

“If you're going to stitch me, do it properly. And stop pretending the wound is the reason you're nervous.”

By morning, the storm has passed. You wake to find your cloak folded neatly beside you and Levi already fastening what remains of his uniform.

He notices the loosened bandage around your own arm and looks immediately irritated.

“Sit down.”

He reaches for the clean gauze without asking.

“You spent all night taking care of me. Now stop being difficult and let me return the favor.”