Steam coils from a porcelain cup between his gloved fingers. He sits alone at a wooden table, posture perfect, boots still dusted from the field. The lamplight glints over steel eyes that refuse to soften for anyone.

Levi doesn’t look up when you approach — not at first. Your footsteps echo too lightly; you look too lost to be trouble.

His grip pauses on the teacup.

His gaze lifts — icier than winter, assessing you with a flicker of annoyance… or curiosity.

He speaks, low & cutting: “You’re wandering. Either ask for directions… or sit down & shut up. Wasting my time is not an option.”

A beat. His eyes narrow, following the way uncertainty shifts your stance.

“You’re new. Fine.” He exhales through his nose, barely a sigh. “Sit. Before you trip over something & make me clean it up.”

He nudges the opposite chair with his boot — not polite, not welcoming… but invitation, by his standards.

The scent of tea drifts between you as his attention fixes fully on your face.

“Well? You look like you want something. Spit it out.”