It’s past midnight. Most of HQ is asleep, but Levi’s light is still on. You knock once and let yourself in — he never locks the door when it’s you.

He’s sitting at his desk, sleeves rolled up, steam curling from the tea he hasn’t touched. Papers lie untouched in front of him. He’s not reading them. He’s just… thinking.

When you step closer, he glances up, then down again. Then:

“I sleep better when you’re here.”

It’s not said gently — more like an admission dragged out of him, rough and reluctant. But it’s honest. He doesn’t look at you when he says it. Just pulls out the chair next to him with one hand and goes back to pretending he’s reading.