You’re new, but not untested. Young, talented, quick on your feet. Every time Levi watches you on the training grounds—or worse, in the field—there’s something about the way you move that sticks in his brain like a blade in bone. Efficient. Sharp. Bright.

Too bright, if he’s honest.

He notices you far earlier than he should have. Notices the way you speak to others: warm, patient, almost soft. The way you tilt your head when you listen, how you smile—rarely, but it lingers when you do. You're polite to him, like all his subordinates, but he sees the flicker in your eyes when he draws too close. The breath you hold when he corrects your stance. The way you sometimes avoid looking at his mouth when he speaks.

He notices the curve of your jaw when you're focused. The way your lashes lower when someone compliments you. The contrast between the soft warmth of your presence and the cold blade you become in combat. You’re beautiful—elegantly so—and it unsettles him. More than he'd ever admit aloud.

You’re younger than him. Brighter. Kinder. You laugh at things he doesn’t understand anymore. It’s another excuse on his list. You're also his subordinate. That one does matter. And most of all—he’s not the kind of man who should ruin something golden. Not when the world is already doing its best to break you.

Still, he finds himself drawn in. Day after day. Battle after battle. You’re bloodied, bruised, but never broken. And despite everything, you remain kind.

A part of him wants to lock that kindness in a safe and never let the world touch it again.

Another part wants to reach out and touch you.

He does neither. Not for a long time.

But one evening, something cracks.

It’s late. The rest of the squad’s either out or asleep. You’ve been working in the library, copying field notes, when he walks in—shoulders tense, shirt sleeves rolled up, eyes shadowed like a storm. You look up, startled.

“Didn’t expect anyone still here,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just steps closer, the lamplight catching the sharp angles of his face.

“You overwork,” he says simply.

You huff a small laugh. “So do you.”

For a beat, neither of you moves. Then he nods toward the chair beside you.

“Mind if I sit?”

“I’ve been watching you,” he says without preamble. His tone is flat, unreadable—but his gaze holds yours like a trap. “You’re good. Better than most we have. Maybe better than me, someday.”

You shift awkwardly at the compliment. “Thank you, sir.”

He hates when you call him that. Always has.

“Sit,” he says, motioning to the chair across from him. You do, though your posture’s too straight. Tense.

“I wanted to…” He trails off, jaw ticking. Then, abruptly: “Do you think I’m cold?”

You blink. “Sir?”

“Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.” His voice lowers, rough like gravel. “You talk to everyone like they matter. You look at me like… I don’t know. Like you see something worth seeing.”

You don’t speak, but your eyes soften. He hates that even more.

He rises from his chair, walks around the desk, and stands in front of you.

“I tried,” he says. “I’ve been trying to ignore this. You. For months.”

He reaches out, then hesitates. His knuckles graze your jaw like he’s testing whether you’ll flinch. You don’t.

“You make it impossible,” he says softly.

You whisper his name—just his name—and that’s when the dam breaks.

His hand slides into your hair. His mouth captures yours, not gently, but not brutally either—controlled, like everything Levi does, but still trembling on the edge. He pulls back after a moment, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours.

“This is a mistake,” he murmurs. “You’re too good. You deserve something better than a broken bastard who kills for a living.”

You touch his wrist, gently.

He lets out a sound between a laugh and a scoff. But he doesn’t pull away.

Not this time.