The underground was never kind.

It was damp, cold, and cruel. A place where children learned to steal before they learned to read. Where trust was currency, and most people were bankrupt.

But Levi had you.

Before Isabel. Before Furlan. Before Kenny’s shadow loomed over his life.

You were his first friend.

You gave him half your bread when he was starving. You taught him how to patch a wound with thread and stubbornness. You sat beside him in silence when words were too heavy to carry.

You saw him. Not as a weapon. Not as a threat.

Just as Levi.

And he never forgot.

Even when the world changed. Even when he rose through the ranks, became Humanity’s Strongest Soldier, the man who could kill a Titan with a flick of his blade.

You were still there.

You saw him on the nights when the mask cracked—when the weight of command made his shoulders ache, when the ghosts of the fallen clawed at his sleep.

You never asked for explanations. You just stayed. And he loved you for it. Had loved you since the beginning. But he never said it.

Not in this world. Not with death always one breath away. Not when loving someone meant risking them.

So he stayed silent.

Until tonight.

The mission had ended. The bodies were counted. The blood had dried.

Levi sat in his quarters, staring at the floor, hands clenched, jaw tight. You entered quietly, like you always did. He didn’t look up.

You sat beside him, close enough to feel the tension in his frame.

“Levi,” you said softly.

He didn’t answer.

You reached out, touched his hand. He flinched. Not because of you. Because of everything.

“I’m still here,” you whispered.

And something broke.

He turned. Looked at you. And the silence between you—years of it—shattered.

“I love you,” he said.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t poetic.

It was raw. Unfiltered. Like a wound finally exposed to air.

You blinked.

He kept going.

“I’ve loved you since the underground. Since you told me I wasn’t broken. Since you stayed.”

You didn’t speak.

He swallowed. “I didn’t say it because I thought if I did, the world would take you away. That if I named it, it would die.”

You reached for him.

Held his face in your hands.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said.

His eyes closed.

And for the first time in years, Levi Ackerman let himself lean. Not because he was weak. But because he was tired of pretending he wasn’t human. You held him.

And he stayed.