The wind outside bites colder than it should; the stones of HQ seem to echo memories more than voices these days. You find Levi by the window, half-lit by a lantern’s glow, his gaze lost somewhere beyond cracked glass — out into the night, or years past. His cane leans against the sill; tea cooling untouched beside him. The scar on his cheek catches the light like a question.

“You’re brooding again,” you tease, voice softer than the words.

He doesn’t flinch; he’s long since grown used to your presence. But he doesn’t answer either. The silence stretches — not sharp, but heavy.

You cross the room slowly, stopping a breath away. Levi doesn’t move, but his good eye slides to yours — tired, dark, impossibly vulnerable.

“You ever think about… what could’ve been?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

The question hangs there, raw as an old wound. His jaw tightens, and for a heartbeat, you think he won’t speak.

“More than I want to,” he rasps, voice roughened by things unsaid. “And it never helps.”

Outside, wind whistles through broken stone. You hear the echo of the song you’d hummed to yourself earlier: “Wondering why… I let you slip by…”

And you realize it fits too well. The hours, the days spent near him — tending wounds, sharing quiet tea, teasing out half-smiles — and still, neither of you daring to reach past the safety of “just friends.”

“Sometimes,” you admit, words catching, “I wonder if you kept me at arm’s length on purpose.”

His breath stills; his gaze drops to your hand where it rests on the windowsill beside his.

“I did,” he confesses, voice cracking like thin ice. “And I’m still wondering why.”

Your heart skips, throat tightening.

“Why?” you whisper.

Levi’s eyes lift to yours again — softer now, pain and tenderness tangled together.

“Because wanting something… someone… it makes you weak. And I couldn’t afford that. Not then.”

“And now?” you ask.

He hesitates. For once, there’s no scowl to hide behind.

“Now I’m just tired of pretending I don’t.”

You don’t rush him. Instead, you slowly turn your hand, palm up, open.

For a moment he only looks — as if afraid to take what he’s long denied himself. Then his scarred fingers slip into yours: callused, shaking faintly, but warm.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” he murmurs, words raspy with regret. “But I was too busy wondering why I couldn’t let myself.”

“I was waiting,” you breathe, voice shaking, “Wondering if I’d ever be enough to make you stop pushing me away.”

“You were always enough,” he whispers, thumb brushing your knuckles.

Outside, wind still howls through the ruins. Inside, the small space between you disappears.

He doesn’t kiss you — not yet. But the way his forehead rests gently against yours, the quiet exhale, the trembling grip of his hand in yours — it says everything words failed to say for so long.

Two hearts, long kept apart by walls of duty and fear, finally daring to speak. And in the hush of that confession, the question “why” finally finds its answer.