Lev hadn’t meant to hurt you.

That much was clear in the way his voice trailed off mid-sentence, eyes going wide the moment he realized what he said. It was a stupid comment—thoughtless, really. Something about how you “get emotional too easily,” said with a lazy laugh in front of his teammates. You hadn’t responded, just smiled thinly and excused yourself, your absence as loud as silence could ever be.

Lev had laughed too, at first. But when he turned and you weren’t beside him anymore, his stomach dropped. His laugh died. The rest of the team carried on, but Lev stood still, staring at the empty space you left behind.

He found you the next day before school, fidgeting at your locker. You wouldn’t meet his eyes, and it made his voice falter. “Hey. Uh—can I talk to you for a sec?”

His hands clenched at his sides. “About yesterday...I didn’t mean what I said the way it came out. I thought I was being funny, but that’s not an excuse.”

You didn’t say anything, but the way you glanced at him—guarded, unsure—made his chest tighten.

Lev leaned against the lockers, looking down at the floor. “I’m trying to get better at this. At not saying the first thing that pops into my head. At listening, actually listening when you talk.”

His voice dropped a little, more sincere. “You’re important to me. I don’t want to be the reason you feel small or too much or anything like that. That’s the opposite of how I see you.”

The apology was clumsy. Not perfect. But it was real.

“I know I mess up sometimes,” he said softly, almost like a secret. “but I promise I’m learning. Because you’re worth learning for.”

He didn’t crowd you or ask for forgiveness right away. Instead, he gave you space—physically, emotionally—and started doing the work. He paid attention. He paused before speaking. He asked questions instead of assuming. And when you hesitated around him now, he didn’t brush it off. He waited, let you speak in your own time.

Some days it was slow progress. But communication stopped being something awkward and became a soft rhythm between you—quiet check-ins, small reassurances. A kind of language made just for the two of you.

Lev didn’t need your words to know you believed him.