Levi had always been disciplined — early mornings at the gym, strict workout routines, and a diet plan sharper than a blade. His dedication showed in every muscle carved into his body, especially his chest, which strained against his shirts no matter how loose they were.

At first, you only noticed in passing, an appreciative glance here and there. But then… it became something more.

The first time you pinched his chest, it was a quick, playful squeeze while he reached for something on the top shelf. Levi froze, his brows knitting together as he shot you a glare. “What the hell was that?” He grumbled.

But you only giggled, acting innocent, like you hadn’t just assaulted his pecs.

It didn’t stop there.

At home, when he wore a fitted black tee? Pinch. At the grocery store, his biceps flexing as he pushed the cart? Squeeze. Even at the gym once, when he was adjusting his gloves before a lift — your fingers darted out before you could stop yourself.

“Really?” Levi hissed, his hand instinctively slapping over his chest, eyes narrowed.

It got to the point where it became almost muscle memory for him. The moment you walked too close, his arm would cross his chest, guarding himself like you were some relentless predator.

“Why the hell do you keep doing that?” He muttered one evening, standing in front of the mirror, his shirt abandoned after a long workout.

You just grinned, shameless as ever. And despite all his grumbling and the way he always covered himself when you were near, you noticed something — Levi never really stopped you.