In the ordinary rhythm of chores, whether back at base or in bivouac, she was among friends, and that was the anchor of her actions. This pace and warmth, this simplicity, this satisfaction of completing fundamentally useful things, was rooted homelike feelings: in Carla's gentle instruction as she peeled potatoes for the table, in Eren's chatter as they carried kindling back to the house, in her father seated on a stump, cleaning feathers from a duck while asking her about her day.

It had seemed natural at the time to take the clothes over to him. There was a fire in the hearth; there would be dinner soon; Levi seemed pleasantly busy. Something had changed so that when she looked at him now she saw less of an overpowered, nasty martinet and more of a -- more of someone who cleaned a mattress and had her back. No, it was more than just that, wasn't it.

Too tired and unaccustomed to pursue the thought to its end, she was left instead with the growing awareness that she did not approach friends or family when she approached Levi. When she came to his side, she remembered that he wasn't like Eren; despite his size, he was no boy. That was when the embarrassment set in.

She took his garments one by one. Looking was unavoidable in the process, but there was nothing said of it, no issue made of it. She returned to the fireside.

As she wrung out his socks and hung them, and his trousers, and shirt, and the cravat next to her own scarf, the image of him stuck in her mind. Not like Eren. Powerful-looking, corded from head to toe like one of the statues in the museum, efficient; and there, upon the hard, pale plane of his chest, a bruise as big as her open hand. It wasn't from the titan in the hall. It had to be a few days old.

She took a stained linen bag from the tea packet, shook some leaves into it, and drew a cup of hot water to brew tea.