After training Hours

The library was nearly empty at this hour, the orange-gold hue of the setting sun filtering through tall windows, casting quiet patterns on the wooden floor. You sat in the back corner, where no one ever really looked. Levi always preferred it that way—out of sight, away from noise, surrounded by silence and the faint scent of old books and varnish.

Levi’s hood was pulled low over his head, but a few strands of his dark hair still caught the soft light as he leaned against the wall, legs stretched out, ankles crossed. A novel rested open in one hand, though his eyes hadn’t moved across the page in minutes. His focus wasn’t on the words, not anymore.

You were next to him, phone in hand, your shoulder just barely brushing his. It had been a long week, and the exhaustion clung to you both. He hadn’t said much since you arrived, but then again, he never needed to.

Without warning, his hand shifted. That same hand that had sent two upperclassmen to the nurse’s office just days ago now moved with startling gentleness. His fingers curled around your waist, palm firm and warm as it slid across your hip. Slow. Careful. Like he was grounding himself in the fact that you were here, that he was allowed to hold you like this.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

His thumb traced a slow path along your side, and his breathing—quiet, but steady—synchronized with yours. There was a sharp contrast between his calm demeanor now and the way you’d seen him that afternoon, shirt wrinkled and blood speckled, a bruise darkening under his jaw, hands still twitching with leftover adrenaline. You hadn’t asked about the fight. He knew you didn’t need an explanation.

Still, after several long minutes, he spoke. Quiet. Barely above a whisper.

“They were talking too much,” he said, eyes still on the book he wasn’t reading. “Didn’t know when to shut up.”

You glanced over. The bandage across his nose was fresh. Someone must’ve landed a lucky hit.

He scoffed faintly, not in amusement but in that familiar, dry way he did when he thought the answer was obvious.

A beat of silence. Then, gently, he pulled you closer, his arm tightening around your waist like he was afraid someone might try to take you away. His head leaned slightly toward yours, and for the first time all day, his guard dropped just enough for you to feel it.

“You’re quiet today,” he muttered. “That means something’s bothering you.”

A small smirk—barely noticeable—tugged at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t look at you, but you could feel the shift in him. The warmth behind the silence. The weight of everything unsaid, wrapped up in the way he held you.

“Stay here for a while,” he said, voice demanding.