The rain’s been falling for hours, a soft, steady hush against the roof. Inside the small room, it’s quiet—only the rhythmic drip of water from your coat and the faint creak of the chair Levi’s sitting in.

He doesn’t look up right away when you enter. Just glances sideways, eyes shadowed, expression unreadable. He’s changed out of the uniform, for once. Black shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp like he didn’t bother drying it properly after the bath. He’s nursing a half-empty cup of tea, the steam long gone.

You cross the room in silence, the space between you heavy with something neither of you have named.

Then, Levi speaks—barely louder than the rain:

“You keep showing up like this... I still haven’t decided if I should be grateful or concerned.”

He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t explain whether he wants you to stay or go. Just looks at you for a long moment, then turns his gaze back to the window, waiting.