The morning was sharp with anticipation, the sky bruised with prelude as the squad prepared in silence. Metal clinked, leather creaked, and steel nerves braced for the coming chaos. Among them, Levi Ackerman moved with his usual calm, all ruthless grace and clinical precision, the weight of command etched into every movement.

You stood still as he approached, expression unreadable beneath his ever-present scowl. His hands reached for the clasps of your ODM gear, movements efficient, exacting—until they weren’t.

A buckle clicked into place.

Then silence.

His fingers ghosted over yours—just for a second too long. Not enough for the others to notice, but you felt it. The warmth. The pause. The unspoken.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, cool as ever, but something softer hid behind the grey. A hesitation, perhaps. Or care so tightly coiled it could only be shown in moments like this.

“Tch,” he muttered, breaking the quiet. “You’d get yourself killed if I let you go out there with this mess.”

But his hands didn’t move right away.

And though his face said nothing, his touch—lingering, deliberate—whispered everything.

In his silence, he told you more than words ever could.