#ackerman levi

It's siding was a calming sage green. The trim a deep black that followed the rails and fencing on the spacious porch that wrapped around to the side. The darker color followed to the spindles and the narrow windows on the asymmetrical façade. You gasped at the splendid tower that perched on the roof. Your eyes tried to take it in all at once, like a shot of something. It hit you quick and stayed with you for a moment.

You gazed at the third floor windows once more. The black panels held a thick crisp glass. An eerie sensation washed over you. A chill flushed down the back of your neck and your eyes darted away from the third floor.

“Hey—”

You nearly jumped out your skin, “oh—shit—Eren you scared me!” You turned to one of your best friends. He held a box of your stuff. His long hair was pulled back in a man bun and he sported a black flannel. It brought out the green in his eyes.

“Sorry! But I was getting tired of watching you lovestruck over architecture,” he shrugged and marched towards the door of the house.

“Wait! I want to be the first inside!” you raced to the door. He took quick strides to beat you, all with a heavy box of kitchen supplies in his hands. “ren no fair! You have longer legs than me!” you pushed him out the way.

He laughed, “I wasn’t getting in there, you had the key princess,” he leaned close while you tried to put the key in the hole, “though I appreciate the compliment.”

That earned him an eye roll. You pushed the black painted door open. It squeaked with a heavy groan. Fading sunlight creeped through the windows, providing you enough natural light to roam around.

“Damn you keep the curtains open, you’ll never have to pay a light bill,” Eren followed your gaze to the wallpapered foyer. It had a grand entrance that then led to stairs and several other dark brown oak doors. The kitchen remained open, with just door trim guiding the walkway. The living room had a door to it. You walked into the kitchen which was closest. Eren the box on the island. The cabinets had the same dark wood as the doors, which added to the old feeling of the home. The wallpaper was the same as the foyer. A light cream color with watercolor green roses. Specks of brown flowed through the paper from the traces of loose rose branches.

All your furniture was in the kitchen already, thanks to the moving company. It wasn’t much but all your furniture had been transferred out of your apartment. So, you had been sleeping in Eren’s spare bedroom, only vacant because his roommate, Jean, had pissed him off. You were excited to sleep in your own bed once again.

You both moved onto the living room. Upon opening that door your eyes widened. Your furniture was straightened out and put together. Only thing untouched was your knick knacks and photos.

“Did the movers clean too? I haven’t seen even one speck of dust and it’s been almost a week since they brought all this stuff,” Eren ran a finger over your glass coffee table.

You slapped his hand off it, “well now it has a greasy fingerprint on it,” you pursed your lips at his boyish grin, “and I don’t know. I’ll have to leave a stellar review! They positioned my furniture for me!”

Eren scratched his arm, “eh—well how’d they know you’d want it that way?” You kept walking to the other side where the downstairs bathroom was. It connected to the main foyer as well, in jack and jill manner.

“Hmm, not sure, I did leave some floor plans with an outline of potential arrangements in one of the boxes, they might’ve found it and been extra nice.” The two of you went around the house, eventually getting upstairs to the bedrooms. It was a four-bedroom home, the main bedroom being yours and you hoped that friends and family could fill the others one day.

Everyone was against you buying such a large house, but it was too beautiful to turn down. You had been saving up for a house for a while, and when this one popped up with such a low payment, you couldn’t resist. It called to you like a siren in the sea. For months you obsessed over it, getting everything in order to be able to get it.

The two of you got up the wooden stairs, they creaked with almost each step. Just another sign of the house’s age. The long hallway had doors on each side of the wall. A brown door was at the very end of the hall. “That’s the door to the third floor, or what the reviews called the attic.” You pointed to it, “it’s one of the reasons why the deal was so good, no one can get the door open.”

“pfft, it’s not steel, just kick it down, or better yet, unscrew the hinges.” He faked kicking a door in.

You rolled your eyes at him once more, but a small smile formed, “it’s basically an attic, not much up there besides dust and cobwebs.” You started towards your room which was one of the first doors to the left, “though if I need extra storage I’ll try.”

“Wonder if there’s a dead body up there,” Eren snickered.

“Eren!” you pushed him, “why would you say that!?”

He fell against the wall, laughing, “c’mon it’s just a joke.” You shot him a glare with your arms crossed, “not a very funny one. Why don’t you go explore or something.”

With a shrug, he went down the opposite side of the hall. The one that housed the study, and washroom along with the hall bathroom. You went into your bedroom. Your furniture was set up in there as well. Your bed, shelves, and dresser were all in the room. Your bed wasn’t made, but you didn’t mind. You glanced in the bathroom, still wanting to explore more later.

Your curiosity nagged at you. It tugged at the sleeves of your brain to try the door at the end of the hallway. With soft steps, as to not alert Eren, you made way to the brown door. It had slightly different paneling. While the rest of the doors were six panel, this one was only four with them being long rectangles. The knob was gold, but it was tarnished with age. You tugged on it, but no budge. You huffed and took a step back. You pushed on the door to no avail. It felt like something was blocking it from the other side. Or someone. Your heart raced. You pressed your ear to the wood, praying you wouldn’t hear anything. Your eyes shot open in. Your face flushed of color. The unmistakable sound. A single breath.

“Boo!”

You screamed louder than you’ve ever scream before. It hurt, your words were lost in the back of your scratchy throat. You mustered a wimpy slap against Eren’s chest. Your other hand clutched your rapid heart. “you fuckin’ asshole.” You croaked. Eren doubled over, clutching his chest with a howl.

“I’m gonna kill you,” you pushed past him.

Eren grabbed your arm, still laughing, barely able to catch your sweater sleeve. “Oh c’mon, you gotta admit I got you good!”

You shook your head, shrugging him off, “you’re such a jerk. Scaring me in my own damn house!” Tears started to brim, and your chest got tight. The slight wobble of your bottom lip was a dead give away.

“Hey,” Eren said softly, “hey I’m sorry, I didn’t know it would freak you out like that.”

You wiped away the stray tear that fell, “I’m just—it’s just a lot. I don’t know why I got such a big house for just me. I guess—I’m just kind of scared.”

“If it makes you feel better, I did promise to stay the night with you. This is your dream house, don’t let anyone take that from you.”

You sniffed with a nod, “can you make me hot chocolate?”

He rolled his eyes with a chuckle, “sure, but I get to pick the movie we watch.”

Your lips quirk, “deal, but nothing too scary, I still have to live here after you leave.”

The night went smoothly and the next morning Eren left. You were truly alone. The emptiness of the house dawned on you quickly. It helped that you were gone most of the day at your job. It sucked that it got dark soon after you’d get home. For the first week, you turned every light in the house on and left them on until you went to bed. Yes, you knew how much that killed your electricity bill. It gave you a sense of comfort. Then soon you had a routine.

If all lights were on, you’d start from the ground up. Living room, kitchen, foyer. You rarely set foot in the den, so you didn’t have to worry about going into that corner of the downstairs. Then you headed upstairs, which was the easiest. You didn’t use the spare rooms or the study, so it was just the hall light. It was tricky though; there were two switches to turn the hall light on. One was near the steps, and the other was closer to the end of the hall, near the 4-panel door. Your room was near the middle. You only used the one near the steps, but the electricity was faulty. Sometimes the light wouldn’t turn on or off. When that happened, the hall light stayed on. The door at the end of the hall froze your arm hairs in place, and sent cool shivers down your spine. You could barely stand looking at it.

“Yes mom, I know,” you tucked your phone under your chin and shoulder while you fumbled with your keys. Finally you opened your door with your hands full of Chinese take out and files from from work. “Yes,” you mumbled. Your eyes couldn’t go back far enough from the lecture you were getting.

“I’m just sayin’ sweetie, it’s not good for a gal to be alone—and in the woods nonetheless.”

You sat your take out on the stove, “it’s not the woods mom, there’s a house less than half a mile away. Sheesh you act like I’m in pure wilderness, it’s only a thirty minute drive to the city,” you put her on speaker, tossing your phone on the counter. Your brows furrowed. The coffee stain from the morning had disappeared.

“Sweetie, are you there?” Your mom questioned.

“Uhh—yeah mom umm let me call you back actually. Love you! Bye!” you hung up. You remembered dropping a splash of coffee on the counter before you left for work. Were you imagining things? You shook your head. You had to be, you could’ve cleaned it during your morning rush out the door. Yeah, that was it, you cleaned it before you left. Right? You sighed and pulled the styrofoam container out of the bag with a smiley face and THANK YOU written three times on the side.

EERRK. Your head snapped up to the ceiling. The creak was heavy, in tandem with a boot. Your heart pounded against your chest. Your mouth suddenly dry and tasting of stale coffee. You waited, ears perched and body unmoving. It didn’t come again. You let out a breath that you didn’t realize you were holding. “It’s just the house settling,” you took a bottle of wine out the fridge, “nothing to be worried about,” you took a long swig. The cheap liquor burned, “yeah, that’s it, I’m fine!” you chuckled. You gathered your food and the wine and trudged to the living room. You got wine drunk fast. Preemptively falling asleep on your couch.

You woke up with the sudden urge to pee. You threw your blanket off. Wait, where’d the blanket come from? You had to pee too bad to care. Oh that’s right, you had a blanket slumped over the couch. When you’re drunk you barely remember what you’re doing in the moment. You went back to sleep on the couch. You told yourself it was from laziness, but in the back of your mind you were terrified the house wasn’t shifting.

The rest of the week was the same, come home, drink, pass out on the couch. You only went upstairs to take a shower and dress. You came home early on your Friday. It was still light outside, the sun went down slower and left an orange glow. It had been raining all day, so the appearance of the sun made you happy. You spent time in your reading nook upstairs. You drank some tea, even put on some soft music and started on laundry. By time you did all that it was dark. It had also started to storm again.

You planned on sleeping in your bed for the night. Your back was in need of a rest from the couch. You started your routine the same, living room, kitchen—then blitz of lightening blazed in the kitchen window, followed by the roar of heated thunder—killed the power in your home.

Your hands flew to your phone faster than the lightening outside. You pulled up your flashlight, checking your surroundings. You were grateful for the cheap candles you had gotten for a gift one year. You found your lighter in the junk drawer. You lit the candle and left it in the kitchen. That would be your home base while you tried to find your fuse box.

You called Eren, hoping he’d answer, “Hello,” he answered groggily.

“Eren, I’m scared, my lights went off a—and it’s so dark in here”

“Woah, calm down—the storm probably knocked the power out,” there was a long silence, “listen, go to sleep, by time you wake up it’ll be morning and you won’t have to deal with it, okay?”

Your heart dropped, “Eren I’m really scared. The house has been making strange noises and weird shit has been happening. Can you please come over?”

You heard the ruffle of bedsheets, “I’m kind of tied up right now, I’ll be there in the morning I promise. I gotta go,”

“Eren!” you fumed, “you asshole!” you hung up. You could do it for the night. All you had to do was make it through the night.

You crept up the stairs, holding yourself close to the railing. Your eyes immediately darted to the door at the end of the hallway. Sweat made the grip on your phone unsteady. You trembled. The door was open. The dim phone light barely met to the end of the hall, yet you could faintly make out what looked to be clothes. A blood curdling scream ripped from your throat. It came closer and you stepped back once. You kept screaming. You had half the nerve to throw you phone at it, but opted to race down the stairs.

A tragic misstep on the final step sent you faceplanting to the ground. You groaned and turned over on your back.

There was a disapproving grunt and then a man’s voice, “damn brat,”

You passed out. From what? You’re not sure, probably the man in your house during a blackout, but you came to in a large room. You grabbed your surroundings, only to find plush sheets. The lights were dim. It had the same wallpaper as the rest of your home. You squinted, “oww.” You grabbed your head and sat up.

“I wouldn’t do that, you could have a concussion,” the man’s voice from the darkness forced a flinch from you.

Your heart started pounding again, “who are you?” Fear etched you voice with a lace of curiosity. You didn’t feel like you were in immediate danger. There was a sense of relief and calamity. Almost like this was normal.

He stepped into the light, but only a slight shadow was cast from his clothes. Then a picture frame landed in your lap. Hesitantly you picked it up. It was a photograph of a man in what seemed to be his early 30s. He was unsmiling, but with handsome features. Sharp eyebrows that added to his cool gray glare. With short black hair that had an undercut to it.

You traced a finger down his pictured cheek, “you’re beautiful.” There was a short pause before you spoke again, “what happened to you?” your voice was small as if you’d whispered a forbidden secret.

“Tch, you’re a nosy one aren’t ya,” he grumbled.

You sank back into the bed—his bed—that he’d been sleeping on—in your house. “You’re in my house! I think I have a right to ask some questions.”

“Ugh nosy and noisy. Fine, I can’t tell you what or why, only that one day almost five years ago I woke up and was like this.”

“So you aren’t a ghost?” you interrupted.

“Then I—no, I’m just invisible.”

“Was that sarcasm?”

“Did it sound like sarcasm?” You saw his sleeves cross, understanding he was refolding his arms.

You shrugged, “coming from you it did.” All the fear had seemingly drained from your body, “are you always this grumpy?”

His arms tightened and his body turned away from you, “I’m not—grumpy.” His monotone voice carried a sense of annoyance, “besides it’s my house, I sold it, then watched those disgusting pigs fill it with trash. I don’t tolerate filthy behavior, you’re the first not to run away. Are you an idiot or something?”

You chose to ignore his insult, “It was you—you cleaned my spill,” you got off the bed, “did you rearrange my furniture too?”

He scoffed, “couldn’t have you or that dumbass you brought with you scraping the floors.”

You nodded with an agreed shrug. “Does that mean you also put the blanket on me?” It was a dumb question, you knew the answer, but you wanted to hear him say it. You’d taken a liking to his short tone.

“You could catch a cold,” he sat down in the chair in the corner. His legs crossed based on his pants legs folding over the other. He leaned his head on his hands. It was odd. You felt like you could see him. “Don’t make it a habit, I’m not here to babysit a drunk.”

You rolled your eyes, “why are you here then? I mean if you sold the house, why not leave?” Silence filled the spacious room. You took time to look around more. He had his own bathroom, refrigerator, and stove. His own little apartment. Everyone said this floor was just attic space, but the tall triangular ceiling held more.

He remained silent until you crossed the room. “It must’ve been very lonely,” you eyed his antique tea cups on the shelf by his chair.

“You get used to it,” he mumbled. “All my friends are—gone, the house—it’s all I have.”

You stood in front of him and then kneeled down, “you don’t have to be alone anymore,” you smiled and took what you assumed to be his hand, “I can be your friend.”

You were either a complete idiot or lonely yourself to allow a strange invisible man stay in your home with you. You could’ve been pent up from thinking there was a ghost in your house the whole time. Or perhaps you were naive enough to think you wouldn’t fall for him. Though, you found yourself in that exact situation. You gave it a month. You honestly didn’t expect it to happen so soon, but Levi, as you learned, opened up faster than you thought. Just enough for you to find his rough tone to be cute, his teasing remarks were hot when they caught you on a good day, other days you found them to be amusing. He could be amusing even though his quiet demeanor and reserved personality made it hard to connect sometimes.

You think he’d taken a liking to you as well. Keeping the house clean while you’re at work, even reading with you in your reading nook. He spent more time out of the attic, watching movies with you and making you tea. It was nice to have another person in the house.

Eren never came the day after the power outage, not that you needed him to, but he did come over that week. Every time he came over something creepy would happen, something only out of a horror movie, something only Eren would see, but strangely enough you never cared.

“There’s a damn ghost in this house <3 I swear!” Eren hid behind you as you opened your front door. He was damn near on the back of your heel. “Do you not see that shit?”

You hid the smirk that wanted to spread, “the house is fine Eren, stop trying to scare me.”

“Scare you?! Girl! I saw a candle floating at the top of your stairs!” He licked his lips, nervously looking around, “and how the fuck do you explain your microwave turning on when we’re both in the living room?”

You shrugged, “it’s an old house, it does weird things,” you sat your stuff on the hallway table in the foyer.

Eren shook his head, “there’s a damn spirit in here, you need to leave, please, I want you to be safe,” he held your arm.

You smiled at him, grateful that he did care enough to be concerned. You kind of felt bad. You didn’t realize how much Levi disliked Eren, but you found it hilarious that he played with him like that.

You found out just how much he hated him when Eren was begging you to leave the house. It’s like some sort of possession occurred and Levi turned into something akin to an angry spirit.

He followed you into your room after seeing Eren out, “are you seriously going to entertain that?”

You stifled a laugh, “Eren just wants what’s best for me—am I sensing fear?”

“What the hell do I fear?” he huffed.

You crept to him with a smirk, “oh I don’t know, not having me here,” you poked what you thought was his nose.

“That was my eye,” Levi groaned, “and I don’t fear that, because you’re not leaving.”

Your smirk widened, the gap closed, “yeah? Why’s that?”

Levi had a way with his actions more than he did his words. Another thing you learned quickly from the invisible man. Being tossed on your bed out of nowhere had you dripping. It didn’t take long for your clothes to be torn off and him in between your soft legs.

“He’s a fuckin’ dumbass,” he muttered as he slipped a finger into your soaking heat, “can’t even tell the difference between a candle and a candelabra.”

You moaned, head falling back, “h—he means well.”

“Calling me a damn ghost, a ghost couldn’t touch you like this,” he kissed the inside of your thigh. It was odd feeling his lips against your skin. You couldn’t see him, couldn’t see his pale pink lips ghosting over your soaked core, or see his two fingers dipping into you, “stop defending him,” he smacked your thigh.

You could only imagine his gray eyes raking over your body, how his face scrunched in irritation. It was frustrating, not being able to see his beauty, “focus on me, on my touch,” his voice cut through your thoughts. Like he was in your head, he latched his mouth to your folds. You cried out, fisting your pillow, “o-ooh,”

His mouth was skilled, his tongue took the place of his fingers, lapping your juices into his mouth. You didn’t expect him to be so messy, but he went deep, his nose bumped your clit. Little whimpers fell from your lips as your climax built. He pulled back slightly, just to spit on your cunt, “’s good,” then he was back to his feast.

He grabbed your hand and placed it on top of his head. His hair was soft between your fingers, and you tugged hard on the invisible strands, “oh shh—shit p-please,” you chanted. He groaned against your pussy, swinging his face back and forth over it. You came with a harsh tug to his hair and a chant of his name.

“You’re so perfect cumming on my face,” he detached his face from you. Slick covered his see-through skin. You could almost make out lips and his nose. He wiped his face with the back of his hand. He sat on his knees, unbuttoning his shirt one button at a time. “Can you give me another?”

You nodded breathlessly, “yes,” you pinched your nipple between your fingers. You watched as he undressed himself until you couldn’t see him anymore. His clothes defined him, they told you where he was, his height, his physique. Everything you knew that he didn’t tell you, came from his clothes. Now he was naked and suddenly you were too.

The bed dipped, “hey, I’m right here,” his voice in your ear made you jump, “here, feel me,” he grabbed your hand and placed it on his chest. You felt his heartbeat and relaxed. He grabbed your other hand and placed it on his face.

“Kiss me,” you whispered, brushing your thumb over his lip, fumbling a bit to find it. He kissed your thumb and suddenly he was pressing his lips to yours. You wrapped your arm around his neck, deepening the kiss. You gasped when you felt his dick brush against your thigh. You could only feel where he was going next. He left open mouth kisses along your neck down to your collarbone.

Two fingers dipped into you again, pulling more slick from you. “Wait!” your cheeks heated up.

Levi stopped, “what’s wrong?” he caressed your face.

You turned away, “I—how big is your dick?” you covered your face.

There was a long pause and then a rare chuckle, “you want to know if it’ll fit?” You gave a timid nod. Levi grazed the head of his cock against your puffy folds. Slowly he sank in just the tip. It was jaw dropping girthy. “Guess,” he whispered. Inch by inch he stuffed you until you were at the base.

Your mind went into a haze, eyes lazer focused on the way you gaped around him. You bet if you were in front of a mirror you could see just how deep he penetrated you. “s—six?” you shook your head, it was more than that. The stretch was unfathomable. “No it’s—oh fuck—seven.”

You couldn’t guess properly, not with the way he snapped into you like he wanted you to feel him for days. Your breast jiggled by the sheer force of his thrust. They were sloppy, pent up, and dangerous.

“Shit, feel ‘s good,” he groaned. Your cream built up around the base of him. Squelch squelch squelch filled the room. You were a sight. Spread open, tongue out like a dog in heat, with seemingly nothing between your legs.

The pleasure possessed you with the way your eyes rolled and your back arched from your bed sheets. “L—Levi!” you reached your hand out; you found his cheek with surprising ease. He kissed your palm, slowing his pace just a bit.

“so perfect--you’re beautiful,” he slightly pulled out, breathless, shiny slick outlined his dick, “want to be yours,” he snapped his hips back into you.

You whined, scrambling to hold onto him again. He pounded into you faster, not caring about the plap of your skin clashing or the way your cream splashed on his lower abdomen. “yes—fuck yes!”

“Fuck—pussy feels like heaven,” He pushed your legs up higher.

“ngh! Uh—uhh—hmmm I’m gonna cum! Levi!” you cried.

His thumb rubbed furiously over your clit. Your cunt clenched wildly around him, sucking him deep in you wet spongy walls. Your eyes rolled back, and you clawed at his invisible back. You wouldn’t have the pleasure of seeing the marks you made on him.

He groaned with vicious thrust, “gonna make you mine, make you take this shit, fuck—take it—take it like a good girl,” he groaned. His hips jerked violently, spilling inside you with a rough moan. He stayed there a moment, and you watched your cum coat his cock, seeing some of your pussy twitching around him.

“I’m going to pull out,” Levi announced. You nodded, hissing as you lost the stretch of him. “Let me get you cleaned up.” He left and came back. You gasped when he picked you up.

“Oh a bath?” you shivered when your feet touched the cold tiles.

“Yes, we’re filthy, now get in the tub,” you felt a hand on the top of your head.

You both washed up, eventually finding your way back to the spare room with clean sheets. You laid on his chest, while he stroked your back. “Yes,” you whispered.

“Hmm?”

“Yes, I’ll be yours,” you chuckled.

“Good, I thought so,” he cleared his throat.

You rolled your eyes, “oh shut up, I bet you’re blushing right now,” you waited for his come back, “aha! I knew it, you’re just a softy!”

He pulled you up for a kiss, “shut up,” he mumbled against your lips.

🎃 ♱✧🕯️🕯️✧ ♱🎃 ♱✧🕯️🕯️✧ ♱🎃 ♱✧🕯️🕯️✧ ♱🎃 ♱✧🕯️

You exhaled through your nose, your skin already crawling from being here for too long, being in this disgusting place. He should’ve died three nights ago, but you wanted to be sure, you had to see it for yourself. The screams echoing in your memory. You blinked them away

Your gaze slipped across the room—just for a second.

He was there, sitting near the bar. Clean, for this place. Too clean. He had the kind of stillness that made people nervous—like a blade that hadn’t been drawn yet.

He was staring at you.

Sharp grey eyes. Cold. Calculating. Not interested, not amused—watching.

He looked almost out of place, but managed to blend it, you didn’t notice him when you entered, but he noticed you.

You didn’t know his name. Not yet.

But you’d remember the way he looked at you.

You didn’t flinch. Just kept walking, slow and steady, like you weren’t about to kill a man.

Because you were.

The target stood with a groan, stretching like he hadn’t just crawled out of some kid’s nightmare. He slapped one of his friends on the back, grabbed a cigarette from his coat, and headed for the back door.

“Gonna smoke,” he muttered.

You waited. Ten seconds. Then followed.

The back alley was colder. Narrow. Wet. The kind of place people died in without anyone noticing.

He didn’t see you at first.

Didn’t even turn around when he lit the match. “You one of Greta’s girls?” he asked, voice thick with rot. “Tell her I don’t need any more for the night. Already had my fun.”

Your grip tightened around the handle of your blade.

That rage that lived underneath your skin twisted tight.

You were behind him before he could blink.

The first stab went into his side. Quick, clean, angled up. He cried out, stumbling back into the wall.

“The fuck—!”

You didn’t give him a chance to recover. You slammed a fist into his throat and shoved him to the ground, eyes wide, mouth gasping like a fish left to suffocate in the dirt.

“You remember that girl?” Your voice came out low. Icy. Measured. “Twelve. Blonde. Didn’t even fight back. You broke her ribs.”

His mouth moved. Maybe he remembered. Maybe he didn’t. You didn’t care.

You drove the knife into his gut.

He screamed then.

Good.

You leaned down, twisting the blade inside him, pressing in so he saw your face, saw your eyes.

“She screamed like my sister did.”

His blood was hot. Sticky. It splattered your hands, your sleeves, soaked through your shirt.

He tried to crawl away.

You let him.

For a moment.

Then you were on him again—knee to his ribs, hand to his throat, knife carving slow, deliberate lines across his chest. He begged. Pleaded. Made promises to a god who’d never set foot in the Underground.

You didn’t stop.

His screams filled the air. You welcomed them. “They were children.” Another cut. His thigh this time. Deeper. “They were afraid. Just like you are now.” You could barely hear herself over his sobbing. That didnt matter. You knew he could hear you, no matter the noises he made, the shouts and screams. You grew satisfied knowing your voice would be the last thing he hears. His hands slapped weakly at your legs, then stilled when you pushed the blade under his ribs, slow, careful, watching his eyes as the pain registered. Watching the fear bloom. “Pathetic”

Not until he stopped moving.

The alley stank worse than before. Blood pooled around your boots, thick and dark and final. You stood over him, chest heaving, jaw clenched.

This wasn’t justice.

It was payback.

And it wasn’t nearly enough.

You turned toward the bar, ready to disappear into the dark again—but froze.

The door was cracked open.

And he was there.

The man from before.

Watching.

You locked eyes.

Your arm raising slightly, prepared to use the already blood soaked blade once more. Not a threat, just preparation.

He didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch at the sight of the corpse. Didn’t reach for a weapon. Just stood there, shadowed in half-light, face unreadable.

That silence stretched.

Heavy. Thick with things unsaid.

And then—he was gone.

The door creaked shut.

You stood there, blood on your skin, heart steady. Breathing in the rot of the world you came from.

—————————————————————-

The blood is what brings you back.

You remember the cold first.

Sure the underground was a shithole all around, but there are places, cramped little corners, tucked away areas that are worse that the rest. Where the shit really settles. All the people that are no good crawl away to the edges.

That was where you were from.

That kind of cold that doesn’t come from the weather—it comes from the bones of the place. From the way the walls didn’t hold heat. From the way your mother always left the windows cracked in winter, even when your sister’s lips turned blue. Even when your fingers went numb.

That kind of cold in your father’s eyes when he looked at you, the cold in your mother voice in every word she spoke. The cold on your sisters skin at night when you both slept.

The house was too small for four people, if it could even be called a house. Filthy. The kind of place where mold in the corners and insects made their homes in the walls. The tiny fire on burning when your father deemed you’d “earns it”, the same with food. The same with blankets.

Your mother never looked at you, not directly. Only drinking and muttering to herself. Rocking herself into her own madness. You understood it slightly, being married to your father an all. She hadn’t held you or your sisters since you were a baby.

You remember being hungry. Not just stomach-hollow empty, but desperate. You stole scraps off plates. Ate moldy bread. Licked crumbs from the corners of cabinets when no one was looking.

The sort of things that slowly break your character, acts that grew increasingly desperate with each passing day.

And if your parents caught you? You remember the belt. The broom handle. The back of your father’s hand. The glass ashtray once, when he was drunk enough to forget what he was holding. And once again when he knew exactly what he was holding

But you remember your sister most of all.

She was everything good you ever knew.

Soft-spoken, careful, gentle in ways you weren’t allowed to be. She always kept her voice low when your parents were fighting. Always tucked your hair behind your ears when you cried, even if she was crying too.

She used to hum to you.

Just to drown out the sound of the screaming.

You don’t remember the exact day everything snapped. But you remember the night.

You were twelve. Maybe thirteen. Your sister was barely fifteen.

The house stank of alcohol and sweat. You were locked in your room again—your father had shoved you in and turned the bolt, said you were getting too bold. You sat in the dark, hugging your knees, cheek sore from a slap, ears ringing from the last scream your mother threw at you.

Then you heard the front door open.

Heavy boots. A stranger’s voice. A low laugh. Your father mumbling something about “breaking her in early.” Then your sister’s voice. Shaky. Terrified.

“No—please, I don’t want—”

The sound of a slap.

Then a thud.

Then more.

Thuds. A body hitting the floor. Furniture shifting. Her scream, cut short. You pressed your palms to your ears, shaking.

You knew what was happening.

And your body moved before your mind could.

You threw yourself at the door. Again. And again. Your shoulder screamed in protest, but rage made you strong. Grief made you ruthless.

The lock gave. Not like it was a strong one anyway, the house you lived in could barely be called a house.

Your legs were carrying you before you mind had a chance to think. Down the hall as fast as you could. Your father’s straight razor gripped so tight your knuckles turned white. Your small hands shook as you ran down the hallway—but your grip on the handle didn’t.

You burst into the room like a storm.

The man was kneeling over your sister, belt in hand, his trousers undone. Your sister’s face was swollen, blood pouring from her nose, her lip split, one eye already darkening. She couldn’t even look at you, body beaten and limp. And then you saw it, the blood on her dress. The unnatural shape of her ribs. The thuds, he broke her ribs.

Then you screamed.

Every ounce of fear and rage poured into that one sound.

Leaping onto the man before he had a chance to react. Flailing your hand, slicing and stabbing whatever skin you could as he screamed and wailed.

He howled and twisted, tried to fight back, but you were small and fast and furious. You stabbed him again. And again. You didn’t stop until his weight collapsed into a lifeless heap beside her.

You didn’t feel human.

You felt like something else.

Then your father came in, drunk and shouting, stumbling at the sight of the blood. You didn’t let him speak. You lunged. The knife caught his throat. Hot blood soaked your arm. He gurgled as he fell.

He collapsed without grace. Just another piece of rotting furniture in this house of corpses

You felt no sadness for him, only rage.

Your mother shrieked from the hallway.

She was next.

That scream and shout that used to bring you so much fear amounted to nothing now as she charged at you, grabbing your wrist as she tried to grab the blade.

You fought with all your strength, wrangling out of her grip. Your hand over her mouth. Your father’s blade to her neck.

And then silence.

Your breath echoed in the quiet.

And then—her.

Your sister.

Still on the floor.

Still breathing.

You dropped the knife and ran to her. Cradled her head in your lap, your hands trembling as you tried to stop the bleeding, to check the bruises, to fix something you couldn’t fix.

“Don’t go,” you whispered.

But her voice was weak. Barely there.

“Y/N…”

“No, don’t talk. I—I’ll get help. I’ll find someone. I’ll—”

She reached up. Touched your face with bloodied fingers.

“Don’t let me live like this.”

Your world cracked.

“I’m begging you,” she whispered. “Please. You have to. You have to.”

You shook your head, sobbing now, more than you ever had. “Don’t ask me that. Please. Please don’t ask me that.”

But she did.

And you did.

The blade was still warm when you picked it up.

You don’t remember the exact second she stopped breathing.

You remember holding her for a long time. Until her skin started to cool.

And when you stood up, you weren’t the same girl who had screamed into her pillow the night before.

You were something colder.

Harder.

Alone.

You stepped over three corpses and out the door, blood still on your hands, your cheeks, your chest. You didn’t look back.

You never went back.

Not really.

Because something in you stayed there, in that room, holding your sister while she asked for death.

And something else was born in her place.

——————————————————-

You don’t help people. Not anymore. Not now you’ve realised that no one was ever willing to help you

But strays? Yeah. Strays are different.

Street kids with bones jutting out beneath their clothes and eyes too big for their faces. The kind that skitter between the cracks of the Underground like roaches, quiet and fast. You feed them if you can. Show them which vendors to steal from. Which alleys to run down when the Military Police chase. You’re not doing it out of kindness—it’s instinct. Like leaving scraps out for a starving dog.

You don’t have softness in you. Not since that night.

You just know what it’s like to be that small, that cold, and that unseen.

The rest of the world? They can choke.

You don’t lift fingers for adults. Not for junkies. Not for bruised-up women sobbing in alleys. Not for half-dead old men pissing themselves in the gutters. You watch them all go under, same as the trash around them.

You survive. You take what you need.

That’s the deal.

Lately, though, the city’s been shifting. You’ve started running into… him.

You don’t know his name yet. But you’ve seen him three times now, and that’s enough to make your instincts twitch.

Too close for comfort almost, you’re used to seeing different people veer day, never getting close enough to someone to recognise them in any way.

But this guy, he’s everywhere you go at the moment, his dark hair catching your eye as it lurks just in the corner of your eye

The first time: you’re perched on a low rooftop, crouched above a rundown black market warehouse, waiting for the last guard to light a cigarette and wander off. The place is supposed to be easy—a quick in and out for medical supplies you can sell. You’re planning your drop point when something moves below you.

A figure in the dark. Followed by others

He’s fast. Efficient. Slides the door open with practiced ease, slipping inside without a sound. He’s out ninety seconds later with a bag over his shoulder and not a hair out of place.

You blink down at him as he vanishes into the alley.

Short. Broad-shouldered. Dark undercut. Too clean.

Too clean for this place.

The second time: you’re in a tavern. One of the quieter ones, where old soldiers drink and smugglers talk in hushes. You’re watching a pair of Military Police drink themselves stupid near the bar, one of them already slurring.

You make your move during a loud laugh—your fingers silent as smoke as you slip the pouch from his belt.

When you straighten, someone’s watching you.

He’s sitting in the corner.

Same black shirt. Same lean build. Same goddamn clean face—jaw sharp, eyes sharp sharper. He looks like he bathes. Like he trims his nails. Like he doesn’t belong in this graveyard of filth, and yet somehow thrives in it.

Your eyes meet his.

No smirk. No reaction. Just that cool, unreadable stare.

You raise a brow. Brazen. Unbothered.

He doesn’t flinch.

He just looks away. Like you weren’t even worth keeping track of.

And for some reason, that’s worse.

The third time happens three nights later.

You’re moving through a tunnel near the Sixth District—a narrow, piss-stinking path you know like the back of your hand. You’ve just finished a job: light-footed lift off a guarded ration transport. You’ve got dried meat and stale bread tucked inside your coat, enough to trade for some clean water and maybe a blade upgrade if you haggle well.

You slide around the corner and—

He’s there.

Walking toward you.

Alone. Silent. Same dead-eyed calm. His coat’s unbuttoned. There’s a bloodstain on the hem, but it’s not his. He carries himself like he could take on three men and walk away without so much as a limp.

Your hand shifts to the knife at your belt on instinct, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t threaten. Just slows as he passes you.

He glances at your coat, at the bulge of stolen goods tucked beneath it, then at your face.

“Could’ve gotten more,” he mutters.

You blink.

“What?”

He nods at the shadows behind you. “Guard was on break five minutes longer. Whole second crate was untouched.”

You narrow your eyes. “You were watching me?”

He shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “You’re loud.”

Your jaw tenses. “And you’re nosy.”

He smirks. Just barely. Then he turns and keeps walking.

You stare at his back until it disappears into the dark.

Fucking asshole.

You ask around the next day. Only lightly. Casually.

Turns out his name is Levi.

He rolls with two others—Furlan something, and a loud redhead named Isabel. They’re building a rep. Tight crew. Clean hits. No mistakes. No mercy.

You don’t like it.

Not because you feel threatened.

But because you’re starting to notice him more than you want to. The way he moves. The way he thinks. Like a blade that doesn’t rust. Like he was never meant to be in the dirt with the rest of you.

You catch yourself looking too long.

Thinking too much.

And that’s dangerous.

So the next time you hear about a job in the same district he’s working?

You make sure to get there first.

And leave nothing but an empty safe and a little note that says:

“Try harder.”

A small smirk on your lips as you leave it there. It was petty sure, but who did he think he was? Some clean cut guy who’s giving you advice? No thanks.

He was encroaching, not only your territory, but your mind as well. You go out expecting to see him now, knowing he’ll be lurking somewhere just out of sight. Scoffing to himself like a smug bastard.

It’s been weeks since that note.

Weeks since you wiped a job clean and left that little scrap of paper folded on the safe door like a smug slap in the face.

You haven’t seen him since. Not in person. But you’ve felt him.

Traces of him pop up now and then. A broken lock that wasn’t yours. A place you were planning to hit suddenly stripped clean before you got there. Quiet messages from contacts that say “Already hit—Levi’s crew.” It’s like you’re in some kind of silent game. A race with no name.

And for the first time in a long time… you like it.

You keep your edges sharp.

But tonight? Tonight is yours.

No one knows about this place. You’ve been hitting it for a couple months—just enough to stay subtle. A hidden storeroom beneath an old MP checkpoint, buried under rubble from some tunnel collapse years ago. Most people think it’s inaccessible. They’re wrong. You ensure that you don’t hit it routinely, you need to make sure they don’t stop the deliveries.

You crawl through the vent shaft like you always do. Quiet. Fast. Precise.

Inside is gold.

Not literal gold—better than that. Military Police rations. Bandages. Dried meat. Alcohol. Even some antiseptic vials, nearly full. Various medicines and supplies. You grin to yourself as you move. You hit every shelf. Every damn crate. You fill two sacks to bursting, tug them onto your back, and slide out the same way you came.

Your boots hit the dust of the upper tunnel.

And then you hear them.

Footsteps.

You freeze.

They round the corner a second later—three figures in half-shadow. You know them instantly.

Levi at the front. Furlan beside him. Isabel just behind, wide-eyed and talking a mile a minute before she stops short at the sight of you.

You’re already standing.

One hand still holding a sack of stolen supplies over your shoulder like some smug little devil. You watch their eyes drop to the haul. Their expressions shift.

Levi looks at the empty crates behind you. He exhales slowly through his nose.

“Well,” he mutters, “this is starting to feel personal.”

You arch a brow.

He walks up a step closer, just enough for his eyes to narrow at yours.

“Still leaving notes?” he asks. “Or was this one of your stealthier robberies?”

You can’t help it—you smirk. Just a little. “Didn’t think you’d be so sentimental about a note, Levi.”

You see a slight shift in expression at the drop of his name “doing your research I see”

“Well I like to know whose hitting my regular spots”

“Wasn’t sentimental,” he says. “Was just wondering what kind of asshole leaves a taunt and takes the last of the antiseptic.”

You shrug, adjusting the weight of your bags. “The smart kind.”

Isabel sighs behind him. She’s peering over his shoulder, trying to see what you’ve taken. You catch a glimpse of her expression—disappointed. Not angry. Just tired. Her face is thinner than you remember. Cheeks slightly hollow.

Then Furlan coughs. Not to be polite—but from his lungs. Wet, phlegmy. You recognize that sound. That’s a chest infection. The kind that festers in the Underground and kills in days if untreated.

Your fingers clench around the strap of the sack on your shoulder.

You should walk away. You always walk away.

But something stops you.

Levi is still watching you, face unreadable. His crew stands behind him—worn, clearly needing what you just took. And it was yours. You got here first.

But—

You curse under your breath. Turn your body slightly. And then, before you can think yourself out of it, you throw the smaller sack straight at Levi’s chest.

He catches it—barely—his arms reacting faster than his face does.

He blinks.

So does Isabel.

So does Furlan.

“Don’t get used to it,” you mutter, already turning on your heel. “I’m not in the charity business.”

You walk away before any of them can say a word. Your boots echo on the stone, each step sharper than the last.

You don’t look back.

You tell yourself it was strategy.

You tell yourself it wasn’t guilt.

You tell yourself he would’ve done the same.

But the tight coil in your gut doesn’t loosen. Not until you’re back in your corner of the world, bags lightened, heart pounding.

And for the first time in years, you feel like someone saw you.

And you let them.

You couldn’t tell how that made you feel.

————————————-

You hit the storage bunker just past dusk. Hidden behind two collapsed sewer tunnels and a heap of rubble, it’s been untouched for weeks. You’ve been tracking the guards’ shift rotations for days. No one else should know about this place.

But as you approach the small, rusted door—already slightly ajar—your gut sinks.

Inside, someone’s been here.

Cleaned out most of the rations. Even the medkits are gone.

Your boots crunch against broken glass as you step inside. The space is quiet, but not empty. A note sits pinned to a wall beam, scrawled in sharp, confident handwriting.

“Nice find. Thought I was the only one with brains down here.

—L”

Your jaw clenches.

You crumple the note and stuff it in your pocket, just as footsteps echo behind you. You whirl around, blade half-drawn.

“Easy,” Furlan says, hands up.

Isabel follows a step behind him, red braid swinging over her shoulder. Levi lingers in the shadows behind them, arms crossed, gaze locked on yours.

“You’re getting sloppy,” Levi says calmly. “I thought you’d beat us here again.”

You raise a brow. “And I thought you were a clean freak, you’ve got some dust.” You point to the smallest speck of dust on his white shirt. Immature? Maybe. But right now you felt cornered, vulnerable.

Isabel laughs under her breath. “Told you she was fun.”

Furlan clears his throat. “You know… it’d make sense if we stopped stepping on each other’s toes and just worked together. This is, what—the fourth time this month?”

You say nothing.

He gestures vaguely, trying again. “You’re good. You think ahead, you move clean. We could use someone like you.”

Your eyes flick between them. Levi’s still watching. Not saying a word.

You give a short, bitter smile. “I don’t do groups.”

“Why not?” Furlan asks, genuinely curious.

“Because I’ve never met anyone worth trusting,” you say plainly. “And I don’t plan on starting now.”

That kills the conversation.

You walk past them without another word, disappearing into the night with nothing to show for the job except that damn note burning in your pocket.

⸻

Three nights later, it happens.

You’re moving light that evening—only a single blade tucked in your coat, just in case. Your plan had been simple: sneak into a new checkpoint stash being guarded by half-drunk MPs and take whatever they haven’t counted properly. Easy.

Your boots crunch lightly against the dirt, you were about five minutes out. Purposefully having left early that night, no chance you were letting Levi get there first this time.

You shake your head lightly, lad thing you needed to be thinking of was him in this very moment. The guy was seriously starting to bother you. You didn’t like that you had gotten to know him and his group slightly. You didnt like the fact you knew his name, knew his moves. Knew when he was watching you. Most of you didn’t like that nature he had about you, the type that made you want to let your guard down.

The way he clouded your thoughts was infuriating. You’re pace increasing now as you pass alleys and passage ways. Internally swearing when you hear it

“Levi!” A shout, Isabel it sounded like. Could you never escape him?

Annoyance flowe through you at the idea they might’ve gotten there first, until you listed closer

Because you hear it again—Levi.

Shouting. Boots. Steel clashing.

You don’t hesitate. You run.

By the time you reach the alley, it’s a fucking mess. Two guards are down, but three more have come from the southern post, closing in fast. Furlan is limping. Isabel’s panting, cornered. Levi’s standing his ground, a cut in shirt across his shoulder as he fends off the biggest MP with a broken pipe.

Too many. Too loud. Too close.

You move like muscle memory. Taking advantage of the fact no one had seen you yet, running towards the guards cornering Isabel, sliding low and taking out his legs before jumping on top. The blade you kept stashed away now released, and slicing his neck with efficiency.

Another turns, his eyes leaving furlan and landing on you, but you’re already on him, driving your knife between his ribs. He shouts, blade clattering to the stone as blood pours from his side.

Furlan leaps for the knife, grabbing Isabel to protect her. Finally blood soaked and ready, you jump on the back of the largest one. Pulling him backwards from Levi and wrapping your arms around his neck. Startled the man starts flailing, driving his elbow back into your ribs, over and over. The pain serving through your skin, but you don’t let up. The man gasps and splutters, slamming himself backwards into the wall of the alleyway, smashing your back against the wall. You grit your teeth as you tighten your arms, the pain surging through you. he couldn’t keep it up forever, you just had to wait until he dropped

Levi—still standing—drives the broken pipe into the brute’s gut, bringing him down onto his knees and you grip doesn’t loosen, not until hes no longer moving.

And then—

Stillness.

Your breath is ragged. You’re streaked with blood. Some of it theirs. Some yours. You can’t tell.

Levi turns to you slowly, chest heaving.

“You again,” he says, voice low, breathless. “What a coincidence.”

You roll your eyes. Not answering instantly as you try to catch your breath. Pain surging through you with every movement, you do your best not to let it show “I was just in the neighborhood.”

“Sure you were.” He steps forward. “That why you saved our asses?”

“Wasn’t for you.”

“No?” His tone sharpens. “Then what? Just felt like killing some MPs tonight?”

You glare at him. “Looked like you were about to be dragged off in pieces. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“Why not?”

That silences you.

You look at him then—really look.

Dark eyes. Sharp jaw. Blood-stained knuckles and the kind of wariness that never leaves a person’s face. He’s too clean. Too precise. A man who’s learned how to control everything but the world around him.

You hate how familiar that looks.

You hate how seeing him makes your whole body stop working for a second.

“I don’t know,” you mutter. “Just… don’t read into it.”

Furlan and Isabel are quiet behind him. Watching. Waiting.

“You’re the one who won’t stop showing up,” Levi says.

You narrow your eyes. “So are you.”

His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. Almost.

You don’t wait to see if it forms.

You push past him, muttering a curse under your breath.

But for the first time… you don’t feel quite so alone.

And that feeling confuses you.

So instead of worrying about that, you decided a drink would do you much better. Some shitty tavern where you could maybe steal a mp’s coin purse and just relax for an hour

The tavern isn’t much.

Rotten floorboards. Dim lanterns. The stench of spilled ale and damp cloth. But it’s warm, and the drinks are cheap, and tonight, you need something to burn all that adrenaline out of your veins.

You settle into a shadowed booth at the back, hood still drawn over your face. Your whole body aches, your back the most. You know youre going to struggle on the next couple jobs, you cant help but wince as you sit yourself down. There’s blood crusted under your fingernails. You haven’t even cleaned your blade yet.

But when the barkeep slaps a chipped cup of harsh liquor in front of you, you drink it down like it’s medicine.

Asking for another the second your glass hits the wood of the filthy table.

You barely hear the door swing open.

But you feel the eyes.

Then—

“Not even going to wash up first?”

That voice. Smooth. Low. Familiar.

You glance up, scowling. “Tailing me now, are you?”

Levi doesn’t smile, but there’s something close in his eyes as he drops into the seat across from you. He looks cleaner than he did five minutes ago. There’s a thin cut above his brow, but otherwise, he’s barely winded. Bastard.

“I don’t tail people. Just happened to walk into the same bar.”

You snort. “Bullshit.”

He shrugs, like he’s not here to argue. “You move fast. After everything back there, I figured you’d want a minute to breathe.”

You lean back, letting your cup thud against the table. “And what? You came to thank me?”

“Maybe,” he says, voice even. “Maybe to ask why.”

You roll your eyes. “Told you already. Right place. Right time.”

He doesn’t bite. Doesn’t blink. Just watches.

“And you didn’t hesitate,” he says, quieter now. “You took them out like it was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing,” you murmur. “But it had to be done.”

He nods. Like he understands.

The silence between you stretches out—tight, but not uncomfortable. You take another sip. Levi doesn’t order anything. Just sits, one hand drumming silently against the table.

Eventually, you break it. “If this is another pitch to join your merry band of thieves, save it.”

“I figured you’d say that,” he says.

“Then why are you here?”

He tilts his head. “To figure out what kind of person turns down a crew, but takes a beating in order to save them.”

You narrow your eyes. The depth of the question making you uncomfortable. You didn’t like that he was trying to figure you out. You didn’t like the way his sharp eyes watched your every move, waiting for an answer. “I don’t do loyalty. Or friends. I work alone.”

“I noticed,” Levi mutters. “And yet, you gave us meds. Saved our lives. That doesn’t really scream alone to me.”

You tense. “Don’t read into it.”

“Too late.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. It’s sharp, steady, unblinking. Makes you want to shift in your seat.

“I help strays,” you say, finally. “Kids. Ones who can’t fight for themselves. I don’t help people. I don’t owe anyone anything.”

“Not even yourself?”

You flinch. Barely. But Levi sees it.

He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table. “You’re strong. Smarter than most down here. You think things through. Move with purpose. But you’re also burning out.”

“Excuse me?”

He doesn’t soften it. “You’re running on instinct and pain. That’s only gonna last so long.”

You stare at him. For a second, your mouth goes dry.

“I don’t need a damn lecture,” you mutter.

“Wasn’t one.”

You both sit in silence again. Outside, the wind howls through the alleys. Someone gets thrown out of the bar with a curse and a crash, but in your corner, everything feels… still.

You glance at him again. He’s watching you, but not like he wants something. Not like the men who’ve looked at you before. His stare is analytical, a bit curious. Tired.

You hate that it doesn’t feel threatening.

“You’ve got clean hands,” you say.

He raises an eyebrow. “Do I?”

“For someone in the Underground, yeah. You’ve got control. Discipline. Not many here have that.”

He shrugs. “I like things clean.”

You snort. “Good luck with that down here.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth. “Still worth trying.”

Another beat of silence.

You drain the last of your drink, eyes suddenly heavy. The ache in your chest—the one that’s never really gone—is curling tighter again. You feel too seen. Too exposed.

Time to go.

You slide out of the booth, pulling your coat around you. “I don’t want to be part of anything, Levi.”

He looks up at you. “I didn’t say you had to be.”

“But you want me to be.”

“I want to know what makes someone like you stay alone when they clearly don’t want to be.”

You pause. Just long enough for it to mean something.

“I don’t stay alone because I want to,” you say quietly. “I stay alone because I have to.”

Then you’re gone. Out into the cold.

And Levi doesn’t follow.

———————————

The rain hasn’t stopped all night.

It drums against the metal roof of the hideout, steady and cold, slicking every surface of the Underground in a wet sheen that chills you straight to the bone. The lantern in the corner flickers as you finish wrapping the bandage around your ribs. It’s soaked through already — from water or blood, you’re not sure anymore.

You shouldn’t be doing this.

Not tonight. Not in this state.

Your body aches. The bruises littered along your body from your fight with the mp’s still ache with every breath. You haven’t eaten in over a day, your muscles are tight and slow, and Levi’s words have been lodged in your skull like a splinter ever since you dragged your half-dead ass out of his apartment.

“What’s it gonna take for you to admit you need help?”

“You’re burning out”

You grit your teeth and pull your hood up.

Help is for people with soft hands and something to lose.

You’ve survived worse.

The mark tonight is a military police supply drop—rations, first-aid, some hard-to-find painkillers—guarded, but poorly. Or at least, that’s what you were told.

You’ve hit it before. Same route. Same blind spot. A hard job, lot of guards. But you find it easy. Except nothing feels easy right now. Your limbs feel heavy, stomach hollow, and as you climb onto the rooftop overlooking the drop point, the nausea starts to climb.

Your fingers tremble.

The rain slicks the shingles under your boots. Your breath clouds in front of you.

You should’ve waited.

Rested.

Healed.

But you didn’t. Because you couldn’t.

Because the second you lie still, the memories start creeping back. The pain. The begging. Your sister’s voice in your head like a ghost. And now Levi, too, sharp-eyed and maddening, like he sees every crack in you that you’ve tried to seal shut.

You had to move.

You had to do something.

You crouch on the edge of the roof, watching the patrols below. Four guards—maybe five. One smokes near the wagon. Two others circle with rifles. You count to ten. Then again. And when the timing lines up just right, you drop.

The landing jolts through your knees. You’re in and out of the shadows, fast, body screaming with every motion. You reach the wagon and slip beneath it, just like before. A crate comes loose with a quiet snap of your knife. You drag it back. Open it.

Bandages. Antiseptic. Half a case of powdered rations. Jackpot.

You’re stuffing your pack when you hear it.

A boot.

Behind you.

You spin—too slow.

A sharp kick meets your side, and the whole of your back cries out, pain shooting through you like never before. It rips the breath from your lungs, sending you to the ground. And by the time you roll over, there are three of them.

Voices are shouting and eye are all on you, your coughing figure, hunched over and clutching your side. The goods now forgotten

One charges at you with a baton, and at the last moment you remember to move, your body rolling to the side to nearly miss the slam of the baton, that instead meets ground. You do your best to spring up, slamming your shoulder into his gut, sending him tumbling back into the other, trying your best to move to the exit. Only to be grabbed at the last moment, a harsh grip dragging you back into the room. That grip made your skin crawl, the type

One charges with a baton. You duck, slam your shoulder into his gut, wrench his arm the wrong way and hear a snap. He screams. The second lunges with a blade—your hand jerks up, knife meeting steel. You twist, cut him across the thigh. He stumbles.

You’re fast.

You’re brutal.

But you’re also bleeding, and when the third soldier drives a short sword into your back, everything goes dark for a moment.

Your knees hit the ground.

It’s deep.

Too deep.

You scream—not out loud, but inside, as the cold rushes in, as your hands scramble for something, anything. You jam your knife into the man’s calf and crawl away as he drops, roaring in pain. Your vision swims.

You don’t remember how you make it into the alley.

You barely know where you are.

Just that you’re running. Stumbling. Clutching your side like your guts are about to spill out.]

Your boots slip on the wet cobblestones. Blood runs down your leg, your spine, sticking your shirt to your skin. You press one hand to the wound, the other dragging you forward. You think you’re screaming but you’re not sure.

The streets blur. The rain feels like glass. You don’t stop moving.

You can’t.

If you stop, you die.

You collapse once, near a gutter. Push yourself up. Stagger into a wall. Claw your way forward. You’re soaked to the bone, teeth chattering, vision splitting down the middle. There’s one place—one name—burning behind your eyes like a curse.

Levi.

You hate it.

You hate that this is where your body’s guiding you. That even now, with blood leaking from your mouth and ribs cracked like glass, some stubborn part of you knows he’ll help.

You fought tooth and nail not to trust anyone. Not again.

But you’re running out of time.

Your pride’s already cracked.

And now you’re crawling toward his door, barely breathing.

You hardly even remember making it to his door

Your boots have dragged blood across the street. You’re swaying on your feet, one hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to your side, soaked and sticky with warmth that shouldn’t be leaving your body. Everything’s gray. Dim. The edges of your vision pulse.

You raise a hand and knock—two short raps, then your knees buckle.

The door swings open fast, the sound of a blade being drawn the first thing you hear.

Then a pause.

A breath.

And a voice—sharp, low, but not angry.

“Levi!” You can hear Furlan shout. Your body crumpled onto the ground, unable to move.

Footsteps echo as someone nears the door.

“Y/N…”

Levi, you recognise the voice.

Your name.

You don’t remember telling him your name

He says it like he’s known it forever.

You blink hard through the haze, struggling to make out his expression. Levi stands in the doorway, dark hair damp from the steam of the room behind him. He’s wearing a plain shirt, sleeves pushed up, and for some reason the warmth of the place behind him makes the chill outside worse. You pull yourself upright, wincing with your moves as you cant help but sway, resting your back against the wall outside his front door.

“Oh,” you rasp, a faint curl to your lip. “You do know my name. Thought I was just ‘hey you.’”

Your mind whirling suddenly, realising where you were. Oh god. Why did you come here. You should’ve just bled out in an alley way. Now instead you’ve got two guys staring at you as you bleed pathetically on their front door step.

You scramble to pull yourself upright, trying to gain a bit of dignity. You can see the concern on furlan face as you groan, tugging yourself up onto standing legs. As if to show this cut wasnt phasing you - it most certainly was. Finally standing. Excruciating.

You try for sarcastic, that usual sharpness in your voice. But it comes out hoarse and faint, like something dying.

You feel yourself falling.

Arms catch you fast. Stronger than they look. You don’t remember Levi stepping forward, but suddenly you’re not on your feet anymore. Your side screams in pain as he lowers you to the ground just inside the door. You hiss, jaw clenched, and try to push him off.

“M’fine,” you lie.

“Bullshit,” he snaps. “Isabel!”

Footsteps thunder from the other room.

Your head lolls slightly to the side and you catch sight of her — eyes wide, panic blooming.

“Get clean towels. Furlan, grab the kit. Now.”

Levi’s voice is calm. Not soothing, but anchored. Grounded. Like nothing can shake him. You hate how good that feels right now.

You try again to sit up. Your hand slips in the blood soaking your shirt.

“Should’ve just bled out in an alley. This is stupid,” you mumble, half to yourself.

Levi doesn’t answer. Just pulls your hood back gently and tugs your coat open.

He inhales sharply when he sees the wound.

“They got you good.”

“S’nothing.”

“It’s a stab wound, not a scratch,” he says, voice low and clipped. “You were losing too much blood. You wouldn’t have made it another ten minutes.”

You blink up at him, his face moving in and out of focus. There’s blood under your nails, a ringing in your ears, and god—why does his place smell like something safe? Like clean wood and steam, like warmth you haven’t had in years.

He works fast.

You feel his fingers at your side, lifting your shirt. His hands are quick and clinical, but warm. Every touch stings. Your teeth clench so hard your jaw aches.

“Hold still,” he mutters.

You breathe through your nose, barely able to focus.

“Why… why the hell is your place so comfortable?” you mutter bitterly. “Thought you were supposed to be mean.” You don’t think you have ever been in somewhere so nice before, especially not around here. While not the biggest, his home is… comfortable. It looks lived in, there furniture and even decor. You can see a desk and even a bookshelf in the distance of the room. And everything was spotless. This was probably the first time you’ve ever been in an actual home.

“I am mean,” he says flatly. “Now shut up and let me fix you.”

The pressure on the wound makes you bite back a cry. Levi doesn’t flinch.

Isabel returns with towels, eyes big and frightened. Furlan hovers nearby with a worn leather kit, passing Levi tools without being asked.

It’s… strange.

You’ve never been looked after. Not like this.

Even the way Levi barks orders feels like something you could fall into, like he’s carved out a space where things make sense—even when they’re bleeding.

“You’re lucky the blade missed your kidney,” Levi mutters, mostly to himself. “Another inch and this would’ve been a corpse job.”

“Thanks for the imagery,” you groan, trying to roll your eyes, though they’re barely staying open.

“Don’t pass out yet.”

“Why not? It’s the only way I’ll get peace and quiet.”

You catch it then—the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. But something close.

And for some reason, it makes your chest ache more than the knife wound.

“You’re a real pain in the ass,” he mutters, threading a needle.

“Takes one to know one.”

He starts stitching.

You feel every pass of the needle. Every pull of thread. But you stay quiet.

It’s not until it’s over—until the bleeding slows and the pain blurs into something dull and pulsing—that the silence stretches.

Furlan and Isabel have slipped out, giving you space. Levi is still crouched in front of you, gloved hands streaked with red, dark eyes watching your face.

“You should’ve come sooner,” he says softly. “Before it got this bad.”

You shake your head, stubborn even now.

“Didn’t want to owe you.”

“You don’t.”

His voice is steady. But it lands like something heavy in your chest.

You stare at him. And for a moment, you think he might say something else. Something that would peel you open in a way no blade ever could.

But instead, he stands.

“Come on,” he says. “You’re staying here tonight.”

“I’m not—”

“That wasn’t a question. You’re not exactly in any condition to fight me on it”

You want to argue. Want to say you don’t stay, you don’t need, you don’t trust. But you’re already leaning into the warmth of the chair he drags beside the fire. Already sagging into it like you belong there.

And as he tosses a blanket over your shivering frame, you hear him again—quiet this time, under his breath.

“Stubborn idiot.”

You let your eyes fall shut.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t dream of blood.

You dream of dark eyes, warm hands, and a voice that sounded like something worth surviving for.

The first thing you feel when you stir is the distant crack of a log splitting in the hearth, the hiss of resin catching flame. Then you feel the ache—a deep pull in your spine, stitched tight but still raw enough to remind you you’re alive.

You peel your eyes open. You’re still on Levi’s floor, propped against a ragged pillow. The smell of woodsmoke and cheap liquor hangs warm in the air.

Furlan is the first to notice you. He’s half-reclined near the fire, Isabel sprawled with her head on his shoulder, cup dangling from her fingers.

“Hey there, dead girl walking,” Furlan says lightly, lifting his cup in mock salute.

You rasp a half-laugh, dry as your throat.

“You all look like shit.” Which does sound rather ironic coming from your hoarse voice.

“Bold words from the one with fresh stitches,” Levi murmurs from his place by the fire. He’s sitting low, back against the wall, one knee drawn up, cup balanced lazily in his hand. Those steel eyes pin you—sharp, but not unkind.

Isabel bolts upright when she hears your voice.

“You’re awake! About time. I was ready to poke you just to see if you’d growl at me.”

You push yourself up a little, gritting your teeth when your back protests. Levi doesn’t miss the wince. He pushes off the wall and stalks over without asking, pressing a hand lightly between your shoulder blades to steady you.

“Easy. You tear those stitches, I’m not sewing you up again.”

You bat his hand away—weakly—but he ignores it, lingering close just long enough to make your heartbeat a bit of a mess. Furlan snorts, hiding a grin behind his cup.

Isabel thrusts a mug at you.

“Drink. You need it. You owe us a drinking story too.”

You sniff the cup suspiciously.

“This stuff looks like it could strip rust.”

“Better than your blood all over the floor last night,” Levi deadpans.

You flick him a glare but take a sip. It burns. It’s perfect.

There’s a stretch of easy chatter. Isabel retells some wild story about how Furlan once tried to flirt with a merchant’s daughter just to pinch her father’s coin purse.

“She liked me,” Furlan insists.

“She threw a shoe at your head!” Isabel squeals, giggling so hard she almost tips her drink.

You snort behind your mug. Levi watches you with that unreadable glimmer, and when your eyes meet his, you can see it plain: he’s studying how you look when you laugh.

It rattles you more than you’d admit.

A lull falls. You know what’s coming when Furlan leans his elbow on his knee, fixing you with that polite but searching look.

“So… Y/N,” he says carefully, “you never said. What got you into this life? If you don’t mind us asking.”

Your gut tightens. The warmth of the room presses in on your ribs like a vice. You shift your cup between your hands, rolling the rim against your fingers.

“It’s not much of a story,” you hedge.

Levi hums low.

“Humor us.”

You shoot him a flat look. He lifts a brow back, unbothered. Bastard.

Isabel scoots closer, eyes huge, drunk on both the liquor and her own curiosity.

“You’re always alone. You don’t trust anyone. But you keep showing up for us. There’s gotta be a reason.”

You huff a thin laugh.

“Nosy little shits, aren’t you?”

Furlan shrugs easily.

“Occupational hazard.”

The silence waits. It’s so damn warm here—your walls feel thin, scraped raw by pain and drink and the softest damn firelight you’ve seen in years.

You stare into your cup.

“Fine.”

A breath. Then another.

“Grew up here. My parents were drunk wastes of flesh. Dad was a sick man and my mother was a shell of a woman. Spent more time beating each other, and me and my sister than we ever spoke. Everything is my house was sick, wrong. If you could even call it a house. One day… got tired of hearing them breathe.”

You say it flat. No tremor. You want to see their faces. Only Isabel flinches. Furlan’s expression falls solemn, but not afraid. Levi… Levi looks like he knew. Somehow.

“How old were you?” Levi asks, quiet.

“Twelve. Stabbed them both after they tried to sell out my sister. Didn’t lose sleep.”

You shrug, toss back another sip to wash the ash off your tongue.

“Sister was older. Sweet. Too sweet. This place chewed her up anyway. I wasn’t enough to keep her alive. She died that same day. After that… no family left. So I became a ghost people regret seeing.”

Furlan looks like he wants to say sorry. You shoot him a dry look that kills the pity in his throat.

“Hey, don’t look at me like that. I dont need pity. I turned out fine.”

Isabel wheezes a shaky laugh.

“Fine is… generous.”

You bark out a genuine laugh at that—low, cracked, but real.

“Shut up, red.”

You lean back against the pillow, sighing through the pain humming up your spine.

“Anyway. It’s why I stick to strays. Kids don’t deserve this hell. Adults? They can rot. Present company… undecided.”

Furlan snorts, lifts his drink in a mock toast.

“To ghosts people regret seeing.”

You tap your cup against his, mouth twitching.

“Cheers to that.”

Isabel slides closer, her head on your shoulder. She feels light, like a stray cat clinging for warmth.

“We’re your strays now too, right?”

You grumble, cheeks warm from the drink, the fire—everything.

“Don’t push your luck.”

Levi’s voice cuts in, soft but edged with that teasing drawl.

“She says that now. Wait until she knits you a scarf next week.”

You whip your head at him, scandalized.

“Don’t push your luck, pretty boy.”

The words slip out before you can stop them. Isabel gasps, delighted. Furlan bursts into laughter.

Levi arches a brow, his lips curling. He shifts closer, that calm gravity of his so infuriating when it’s this close.

“Pretty boy, huh?”

You flick him off. He catches your wrist, lazily, holding it just a beat too long before letting it drop.

Furlan claps his hands, mock formal.

“Well, I’d say you fit right in. Welcome to the crew you won’t admit you’re part of.”

You roll your eyes.

“You’re all drunk idiots.”

Isabel snuggles against you anyway.

“You love us.”

“I hate you.”

Levi smirks, voice low so only you catch it, warm where it snakes under your skin.

“You hate me the most, right?”

You meet his eyes. You should look away. You don’t.

“Right.”

Neither of you blink.

Somewhere behind you, Furlan and Isabel start arguing about whether ghosts can knit scarves. You tune them out, caught in that dangerous hush between you and Levi—close enough you feel the heat of him even through the whiskey fog.

For the first time in years, you’re not bracing for the door to break down.

For the first time in years, you’re not alone in a room full of people.

And it scares the shit out of you.

The fire’s burned down to a soft orange glow by the time you stop talking. You can feel the edges of your exhaustion, but you cling to the warmth in the room like you’ve been starved of it for too long. Maybe you have.

Levi’s still next to you, the closest anyone’s been in years without wanting to take something from you. You hate how safe it feels.

“You regret telling me?” he asks, voice pitched quiet so he doesn’t wake Isabel and Furlan

You huff out a dry laugh.

“Regret’s not something I do much anymore. Besides, you people don’t seem like the type to gossip.”

He raises an eyebrow, glances pointedly at the snoring lumps by the fire

“Especially them. Loud mouths, both of ’em, but not about shit that matters.”

You study his profile, the sharp lines of him softened by firelight. He’s not pretty — not exactly. But something about him catches you off guard every time. Maybe it’s the steadiness. No one in the Underground has that. No one except him.

You lick your lips, wetting the dryness of too many confessions at once.

“You ever think about it? Leaving this place?”

He shifts, folds his arms loosely over his chest.

“Sometimes. Not like there’s anywhere else for us, though.”

“Mmm. Maybe not for you. I’d do great anywhere.”

He snorts — an honest, rough sound that makes your chest flutter again.

“Sure. You’d piss off the Military Police in the capital in record time.”

You grin, teeth sharp.

“I’d make ‘em cry. You know I would.”

He tips his head, acknowledging it with a quiet hum. There’s an affection in it that you pretend not to notice.

A moment passes, and you find you don’t want to fill it with more tough talk. So you whisper instead.

“Didn’t think I’d survive this long, Levi. Didn’t plan for it. Just kept fighting.”

His eyes flick back to yours, searching.

“And now?”

“Now what?”

“You got any plan at all?”

You let your head tip back against the wall behind you. The wood creaks under your weight.

“Plan’s the same. Steal enough. Feed myself. Keep breathing.”

He clicks his tongue softly.

“That’s not a plan. That’s a bad habit.”

You roll your head to face him, lips tugging up in a crooked smile.

“You offering me a better one?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away.

“Maybe I am.”

You swallow. The room feels smaller suddenly — the quiet, the warmth, the low sound of Furlan’s half-snore.

“You keep this up, Levi, people might think you actually like having me around.”

He grunts, tilts his chin down as if to hide the small curve of his mouth.

“Don’t push it. I just like when the loot goes in my favor.”

You laugh — really laugh this time, cracked but genuine. You catch his eyes again, and neither of you look away.

The fire pops. The night hums.

“So…” you say, voice softer now. “Why’d you really patch me up, huh? Could’ve left me to rot. One less stray to worry about.”

He shifts closer, enough that you catch the faint clean smell of soap on him — so out of place down here.

“Because you’re not just a stray. You’re trouble. And trouble keeps life interesting.”

Your mouth quirks, but your chest tightens too.

“You keep saying that like it’s a compliment.”

“With you, it is.”

The honesty in it knocks the breath out of you for a heartbeat.

You look away first, clearing your throat. Reach for the flask Furlan left by the hearth. It burns going down but you welcome the bite.

Levi watches you, patient as always. You pass it over, and for a heartbeat your fingers brush. You flinch at how warm his skin is.

“You gonna lecture me about drinking too?”

He takes a slow pull, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Nah. Not tonight. You earned it.”

“So generous.”

He leans back, half-smirking.

“Don’t get used to it.”

You roll your eyes but you’re smiling. The warmth sinks deeper than the alcohol now.

Silence folds around you again — not awkward, not heavy. Just… quiet. Safe.

“Hey, Levi…”

“Mm?”

“Thanks. For… tonight. And for not asking too many questions.”

“You already gave me more than enough answers, trouble.”

A soft snort escapes you.

“Think I’m gonna be sick of that nickname soon.”

“Too bad. Fits you.”

You shove at his shoulder weakly. He doesn’t budge.

He shifts closer instead, just a breath away now. Your pulse kicks at your throat. There’s a spark there, you feel it — faint but steady, like a fuse smoldering quietly in the dark.

He lowers his voice, almost a whisper.

“You should sleep. Doctor’s orders.”

“Mm. What if I don’t want to?”

His mouth curves — something warm, private.

“Then I’ll just have to keep you company till you do.”

You’re suddenly aware of how close he is, how the last of your old walls feel paper-thin tonight.

And for once… you don’t mind.

You don’t know how long you sit like that, drifting half-tipsy on warmth and too much honesty. At some point, the fire gutters low and Levi pushes himself to his feet, rolls his shoulders with a faint grunt. He looks down at you, an amused quirk in his mouth.

“Up. Come on. You’re gonna fall asleep sitting there and then I’ll have to scrape you off the floor.”

You squint at him.

“Bossy.”

“Move.”

He reaches down, and you try to bat him away out of sheer reflex but your limbs betray you. He’s annoyingly gentle with it — one hand bracing your elbow, the other steady at your back as he helps you stand. Your legs wobble and you hiss when your wound tugs.

“Careful, idiot,” he murmurs, almost fond under the roughness.

“Says the guy manhandling me.”

He snorts, ignoring you as he half-guides, half-drags you down a narrow hall. The walls are bare, plain — but the room he stops at surprises you. Bigger than you expected. Neater. It smells faintly of clean linen and soap.

“This yours?” you mumble, blinking at the plain bed and the folded blanket at the end.

“Don’t read into it.” He gives you a flat look. “You’ll bleed all over any spare bed. This one’s easy to clean up after you ruin it.”

You bark a laugh, grimace when it pulls at your back.

“Romantic. Really.”

“Shut up and lie down.”

He helps you ease onto the mattress — the first real mattress you’ve touched in years, you realize with a little shock. It nearly swallows you. The scent is so him it makes your head spin: faint steel, soap, faintly worn fabric. You watch him fuss at your side, adjusting pillows, checking the bandage at your hip.

“I’m not a child, y’know,” you mutter.

“You’re worse. You fight back.”

Your lips twitch, but you don’t argue. He steps back, scanning you critically.

“Stay put. I’ll grab a chair.”

You scoff as he drags over a battered wooden chair from the corner, flips it, and straddles it backward by your bedside. You roll onto your good side so you can see him properly.

“You really gonna watch me sleep? That’s creepy, Levi.”

“Better than you choking on your own blood in your sleep.”

“Touching. Truly.”

You grin and he just shakes his head, something like exasperated fondness flickering behind his eyes.

A silence stretches — softer than any you’ve known. The only sound is the faint drip of rain outside, the steady hush of your breathing.

You break it first, voice hushed.

“You ever think about leaving them behind? Isabel. Furlan. Doing this shit alone?”

His brows knit. He shakes his head once.

“No point. They’re good people. They deserve better than this hole. I’m getting them out. Even if it kills me.”

His conviction knots something warm and terrible in your chest. You swallow.

“Good luck with that.”

“Luck’s for amateurs.” He pauses. “Besides. Not doing it alone anymore, am I?”

Your breath catches. You hate how much that slips past your guard. You fumble for a smart reply — find none. So you settle for honesty

“Haven’t decided yet if you’re worth the headache.”

He huffs a faint laugh, raspy.

“You already decided. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”

You glare at him, but the corner of your mouth betrays you with a traitorous curve.

Minutes pass. Neither of you moves. You feel his eyes on you — patient, unwavering. You feel something unspoken slot into place.

“Levi…”

“Mm.”

“You gonna stay there all night?”

He raises a brow.

“What. Afraid to be alone in my room?”

You snort, voice softer than you mean it to be.

“It’s your damn bed. You look more tired than me. Sit somewhere that doesn’t look like a torture device.”

He studies you. There’s a flicker of hesitation — uncharacteristic. Then he sighs through his nose.

Slowly, he pushes up from the chair, drags it aside with a low scrape of wood, and perches on the edge of the mattress. He’s careful not to jostle you. So careful it makes your chest ache.

“Happy?”

You hum, half-lidded.

“Ecstatic. Might kick you out halfway through the night though, if you hog the blankets.”

He snorts. Mutters something you can’t catch. You watch him lean back on an elbow, eyes flicking between your face and the ceiling. You feel the heat of him at your side, closer than before — not touching, but so present it might as well be.

Minutes slip by, soft and thick.

“Hey, Levi…” you murmur, lids heavy.

“What now.”

“You’re… not what I expected.”

He glances at you sidelong. There’s something almost gentle at the edge of his tired scowl.

“You either, trouble.”

A quiet laugh rumbles out of you. He doesn’t move to leave. You don’t move to push him away.

Eventually, you shift closer, just enough that your shoulder brushes his. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t joke.

He just lets you stay there.

The rain hasn’t let up. It drums soft against the window, a heartbeat you can’t ignore.

Neither of you says anything for a while. His shoulder is a steady warmth where yours brushes his. Every so often, his arm shifts and the mattress dips — each tiny movement feels loud in the hush.

You think he’s dozing when you whisper, voice raw in the dark,

“Can’t sleep?”

A faint rumble in his chest.

“Can’t shut you up in my head long enough.”

You huff a tired laugh.

“Right back at you.”

Silence again. But this one feels charged. Heavy. You turn your face just enough to catch him watching you — eyes glinting low under dark lashes, so close you can see the faint scar along his brow

“I’ve never been… this close to anyone before,” you admit. It comes out low, like a confession pulled from under your ribs. “Not like this. I don’t… have people. Not really.”

Your voice falters. He doesn’t mock you. He doesn’t look away.

“You do now,” he says. Like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “Stuck with me, like it or not.”

Your throat tightens around something that feels too big to name. You force out a faint scoff, eyes stinging.

“You talk too much for someone who scowls for a living.”

“Shut up and sleep then.”

“You sleep.”

“Can’t.”

“Me neither.”

You both laugh, a hushed thing that breaks into soft breathlessness. It leaves you facing each other more squarely, your knee brushing his thigh under the blanket. His hand shifts on the sheet between you — so close it makes your skin prickle

You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry.

“Why’re you looking at me like that…”

His voice drops, quiet but iron-solid.

“Because I’ve never met anyone more stubborn. Or more reckless. Or…” His eyes flick over your face — your lips, your cheek, the faint scar at your temple. “More trouble worth keeping alive.”

Your laugh breaks this time — shaky, helpless. You fist a hand in the blanket, knuckles brushing his hip.

“You make it sound so noble. I’m just another stray to patch up, huh?”

“Don’t start that shit.”

His tone is soft but firm, heavier than the room. Your chest tightens. He shifts closer, the mattress dipping. His breath ghosts over your jaw when he speaks.

“You’re not a stray. Not to me.”

Your eyes flick to his mouth before you can stop yourself. Your pulse hammers. It’s like the warmth between you both triples in an instant, with nowhere else to go but closer.

“Levi…”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you moves first. Or maybe you both do — a slow, inevitable lean, your lips catching the edge of his before he breathes out a low curse and closes the distance.

It’s not rough. Not yet. It’s cautious and trembling at first — his mouth testing yours, heat pooled low in your belly. You whimper against his lower lip and he swallows it whole, deepening the kiss with a quiet groan that vibrates through your bones.

When he pulls back, he’s breathing harder, thumb brushing your cheekbone like you’re something breakable.

“You sure?” he rasps, eyes flicking between yours.

You nod — dizzy, heart scraping your ribs raw.

“Never been more sure.”

A faint smirk ghosts his mouth, but it’s softer than his usual grin. He bends in again — his lips this time more insistent, more claiming. One hand fists the sheet near your head while the other slides to your jaw, tilting you exactly how he wants you.

The pain in your back now almost dissipating with each passing second, you werent sure if it was the whiskey you drank earlier, or him

You melt into him. The taste of him is salt and warmth, the scrape of stubble against your mouth grounding you when everything else feels like a dream you don’t want to wake from.

You don’t realize you’re tugging him closer until he’s half over you, weight braced on an elbow so he doesn’t crush you. The shift drags a low sound from your throat — one he swallows eagerly, tongue teasing the seam of your lips.

You break away just enough to pant, your forehead pressed to his.

“Fuck… Levi…”

“I know. I know, sweetheart. I got you.”

His voice is low, ragged — a promise as much as a curse. His mouth finds yours again, deeper this time, and any thought of keeping distance burns away between your bodies.

Your fingers find the hem of his shirt, fisting the fabric, tugging him closer than close. His hand slides under your jaw, thumb brushing your pulse point — that frantic, traitorous rhythm that gives you away.

He pulls back just far enough to breathe against your mouth, voice rough.

“Easy… don’t rush it.”

You shake your head, breathless, dizzy with want.

“Not rushing. Just… don’t stop.”

A soft huff of a laugh ghosts your lips.

“Greedy,” he murmurs — but it sounds like he loves it.

He kisses you again, slower this time, savoring the tremble of your lips, the tiny gasp you make when his tongue brushes yours. You can’t help the way your hips shift, seeking friction — needy, aching — and his free hand slides down, palm flattening against your waist, grounding you.

He breaks away, eyes searching your face in the dim firelight that leaks through the cracked bedroom door.

“You sure you’re up for this? You’re still hurt—”

“Don’t care,” you breathe, too fast. “Want you. Want— just you.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. You feel him fighting himself — wanting to be careful, wanting to devour you all at once.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he growls, and before you can bite back a laugh, his mouth claims yours again — hungry this time, tongue sliding deeper, swallowing the soft moan you give him.

His hands slip under your shirt, fingertips brushing the bare skin of your waist. You flinch at the cold press of his palm but melt instantly at the warmth that follows — the way he explores every inch of you like he’s mapping secrets only he’s allowed to know.

Your hands drag up his chest, nails catching on the hard plane of muscle under the worn fabric. You tug at the hem until he pulls back just enough to strip the shirt off. Your breath catches — you’ve seen him fight, you know he’s lean and strong, but up close like this, he’s devastating.

He catches your stare and smirks — cocky but quiet. His mouth dips to your throat before you can retort, teeth grazing your pulse, tongue tracing heat along your collarbone.

“Pretty thing…” he murmurs against your skin. “Didn’t think you’d let me see you like this.”

“Shut up,” you gasp, fingers threading into his hair, tugging him closer when he chuckles against your neck. “You talk too much—”

His teeth nip at the sensitive spot behind your ear, earning him a sharp, breathless whimper that he swallows greedily.

“Say it again.”

You’re too far gone to pretend anymore. Your voice cracks.

“Want you. Levi—please—“

He groans, deep in his chest, one hand sliding down to hook your thigh over his hip. He shifts so his weight pins you gently, his hips pressing flush to yours. Even through the fabric, the heat of him makes your head spin.

“Easy,” he soothes, lips brushing yours between kisses. “I’ve got you. You don’t have to do a thing. Let me—”

You nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Take it. Just… take it.”

He does. Slowly, reverently. His hands push your shirt up, his mouth trailing after — lips and teeth at your ribs, your sternum, the curve of your breast. He mouths at you through the fabric first, savoring the soft whine you let out. When he slides the cloth away and takes your nipple into his mouth, you arch up hard, the sound that rips from you making him groan deep and filthy against your skin.

Your thighs fall open when he shifts lower, mouth worshipping every inch he can reach. His hand slips down, fingers teasing at your waistband — a silent question you answer with a shaky nod and a lift of your hips. He drags the last barriers away, leaving you bare, trembling, open only for him.

He sits back for a breathless second, eyes devouring every part of you. His voice is rough silk when it comes.

“Look at you.”

You squirm, half flustered, half burning alive under his stare.

“Don’t— don’t stare like that—”

“Shut up.”

His smirk flickers softer this time, more raw. He dips down, mouth finding the inside of your thigh, kissing a path up until you whimper — your hands fisting the sheets.

“Levi—”

“I know, sweetheart.”

His tongue finds you where you’re wet and wanting. You gasp, a helpless sound that echoes in the quiet room. He works you slowly at first, savoring every shiver, every curse muffled into your arm. His hand holds your hip still when you squirm, a low chuckle rumbling into your core that makes your eyes roll back.

“Taste so fucking sweet…” he rasps, voice dark with hunger.

You should be thinking about your wound, about being mindful of the fresh stitching, but you can focus on anything else but him in this moment. The way his tongue feels as it traces all over you, flickering over your clit so perfectly. Bringing you a sense of pleasure you have never experienced before

His tongue skilfully bringing your hips to a manic buck with each movement. Unlike anything you’ve ever felt, and the way he held you as well. The feeling of him on you clouding your mind and all your senses. His hands gripping your hips so gently, but so unmoving, as if he never planned on letting you go.

You can’t form words anymore — only broken moans and desperate gasps of his name. When his fingers slide inside you, matching the rhythm of his tongue, you break entirely — your hips bucking, thighs trembling, his name a litany on your lips until you come undone, clutching his hair, your breath catching in broken sobs.

He rides it out with you, coaxing every tremor until you’re boneless under him. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes gleaming as he crawls back up, kissing you deep so you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Still want more?” he teases, voice thick, breath ragged.

You nod against his mouth, drunk on him, half-laughing, half-crying with need.

“Need you— inside— please—”

His answering groan is almost a growl. He shifts, fumbling with his belt, breaking the kiss only to curse when you palm him through his trousers, your touch clumsy but eager.

“Fuck— careful—”

You smile up at him, dazed.

“You gonna complain?”

He huffs a laugh, a sound that makes your chest ache in ways you don’t understand yet. Then he kisses you again — slow, deep, grounding — as he slides into you, filling you so perfectly your eyes flutter shut, breath leaving you in a single broken sigh.

“There you go,” he murmurs into your temple. “Told you. I got you.”

You whimper into his shoulder when he sinks in fully — so deep it robs the breath from your lungs, so right it makes your eyes sting. Your fingers claw at his back, blunt nails scraping over muscle and scar alike.

He groans low in your ear, the sound vibrating through your chest.

“Easy— easy, sweetheart— fuck— you’re so tight—”

Your voice breaks, too needy to care how you sound.

“Levi— move— please—”

He hushes you with a soft bite at your jaw, his hips rocking back just enough to make you cry out again when he thrusts forward — slow at first, deliberate, like he wants to feel every inch of you clench around him.

“Shh— I’ve got you. Gonna take it so nice, yeah?”

Your answer is a broken moan, your legs locking around his hips. He laughs softly — that rough, sinful rasp you’ve only ever heard in your fantasies until now. He kisses you when you whimper again, swallowing every pleading sound like it’s his favorite thing in the world.

“Look at you—” he breathes against your lips. “So fuckin’ needy for me. Didn’t think you’d ever let yourself have this.”

You try to talk back, to throw some biting quip at him, but it dies on your tongue when he snaps his hips harder. All that comes out is a choked sob of his name.

“That’s it,” he coos, lips brushing your ear. “Let me hear you. Pretty sounds— just for me, yeah?”

His hand slides down, thumb finding that bundle of nerves, circling it in time with each deep, perfect thrust. You keen for him, every scarred piece of you unraveling under the way he murmurs praise against your skin.

“So good— takin’ me so good—“

Your thighs quake, your hands fisting in his hair, tugging him closer when he tries to lift his head. You want him everywhere — mouth, voice, heat, weight. He’s the only solid thing in your world right now, the only thing anchoring you to the storm raging behind your ribs.

He slows for a moment, hips rolling deep instead of fast, forcing you to feel every stretch, every burn. His forehead rests against yours, sweat-slicked skin brushing.

“Can’t get enough of you,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Fuck— should’ve had you like this ages ago—”

You whimper at that, shaking your head, but he hushes you with a kiss, his tongue slipping between your lips at the same moment he thrusts harder again — making your breath catch in a raw, helpless cry.

“Come for me, sweetheart— c’mon— want you to feel good—”

Your body obeys before your mind can catch up — pleasure ripping through you in a wave that shatters every wall you built, leaving you boneless and sobbing his name like a prayer.

You barely register his stuttered curse, the way he pushes deep one last time and spills inside you, his breath warm and ragged against your cheek. He doesn’t pull away immediately — he stays pressed to you, one hand cradling your jaw, the other smoothing your hair back, whispering quiet nothings as you come down from it.

When your breathing calms, you realize your hands are still gripping him like he might disappear. You try to pull back — embarrassed, raw — but his arms tighten.

“No,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips brushing your temple. “Stay right here. You’re not running tonight.”

You let out a breathless laugh, half choked on leftover tears.

“Pushy bastard.”

He hums, completely unbothered, pressing a kiss to the side of your head.

“And you love it.”

He shifts, carefully rolling to his side without pulling out, keeping you flush to his chest, his hand splayed protectively over the small of your back. You feel the tired rumble of his chuckle when you bury your face in his throat, trying to hide the way your heart is still pounding too fast.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, voice gentler than you’ve ever heard. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

And for the first time in years, you believe it — enough to close your eyes, and drift into the warm dark with him still wrapped around you

Sometimes you think the fear should’ve kept you away.

Fear of needing people. Fear of the softness that makes your chest ache when Isabel laughs so freely, when Furlan slips you the bigger share of bread without asking, when Levi watches you with those sharp eyes and calls you by name like it’s a promise.

You’d spent so long convincing yourself you didn’t need any of this — family, warmth, safety that didn’t come with strings attached. But now that it’s here, now that it’s yours — it terrifies you more than any knife in the dark ever did.

Because you know loss. You know betrayal. You know how quickly the good things burn out when you hold them too close.

But gods — for once, you can’t make yourself run. Not when they’ve made you something you never thought you’d be again: wanted. Not useful, not convenient. Wanted.

You’re still learning what to do with that.

And when Levi’s hand finds yours under the blanket — rough fingers brushing your knuckles, the simplest anchor in this cracked world — you think, maybe for once, you don’t have to know how to handle it.

Maybe you can just stay.

Maybe this is enough.

And if it scares you? So be it.