You’re sitting on the couch, legs tucked under you, animatedly telling him about your entire day. From the weird cashier at the store to the drama you overheard on the bus. Your hands move just as much as your mouth, gestures big and expressive.
Levi sits beside you, one arm draped lazily over the back of the couch, sipping his tea in silence. Every so often, he gives a small “hm” or nods, his eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing worth looking at in the room.
You pause mid-story. “You’re not bored?”
He arches an eyebrow. “If I was bored, I’d walk away.”
You blink. “…Oh.”
He sets his tea down, leans in just enough that his knee brushes yours.
“Go on. I wanna hear the rest.”
And that’s how you end up rambling for another hour, while Levi listens with the quiet patience of someone who (no matter how much he pretends otherwise) likes every single word that comes out of your mouth.
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the corridor smelled of soap and steel. levi was polishing his blades again, cloth moving in those infuriatingly perfect circles.
“you’re going to wear them down to nothing,” you snapped, leaning against the doorframe. “we ride at dawn. sleep, levi.”
he didn’t look up. “if you spent less time nagging and more time cleaning properly, maybe i wouldn’t have to redo everything.”
“redo? i scrubbed this floor twice. you’re just being an obsessive prick.”
“tch. bold words from someone who still leaves corners dusty.” be finally glanced at you, grey eyes sharp. “most people know better than to talk to me like that.”
you stepped closer, crossing your arms. “good thing i’m not most people. someone has to tell you when you’re being an idiot about rest and training and everything.”
levi set the blade down with a soft clink. he stood, shorter than you but somehow towering anyway. his hand caught your wrist before you could poke his chest. “you talk too much.”
“and you listen too little.” your voice dropped, the familiar heat crackling between you. “but you only let me talk to you like this.”
a faint smirk tugged at his lips. down the hall, someone whispered, “they’re bickering like an old married couple again.”
levi didn’t deny it. he just pulled you a fraction closer, thumb brushing your pulse. “get some sleep. that’s an order.”
you smiled, refusing to move. “only if you do too, captain.”
he clicked his tongue, but didn’t let go.
everyone heard the arguments.
only you two knew how much he needed them… and how you were the only one he let stay.
onyankopon didn’t even blink. arms crossed, shoulder against the doorframe, eyes locked on the fur skirt like it owed him money. “you know where. the closet. pick sum’ else.”
“i did pick something else.” you turned back to the mirror, pressing your lips together to set the gloss. “i picked this.”
“pick again.”
“i’m good, thanks.”
“you not leaving in that.”
“watch me.”
his jaw shifted. “i am watching you. that’s the problem. i can see everything and i’m your boyfriend.”
“congratulations.” you clicked the cap back on your gloss and dropped it in your bag. “you have eyes.”
“so does every other man on the street.” his voice sharpened. “that the point? you want them looking?”
you turned around slowly. “excuse me?”
he held your gaze. didn’t repeat himself. didn’t have to.
“are you serious right now?” your voice dropped. “you’re really standing there implying–”
“i’m not implying anything. i’m asking.”
“because normal people with normal boyfriends don’t get asked that.” you laughed, short and humorless. “they get told they look nice and they leave.”
“normal boyfriends don’t have to watch their girl walk out looking like a–” he stopped.
the room temperature felt like it had dropped ten degrees.
“looking like a what?” you asked slowly.
he pressed his lips together and looked away briefly but the damage was already hanging in the air between you.
“don’t.” you hated how your voice wobbled on just that one word. “don’t you ever finish that sentence.”
“i wasn’t going to.”
“you were thinking it.”
“i’m thinking a lot of things right now.” he pushed off the doorframe and stepped in, and his voice had gone cold in a way it almost never did with you. “i’m thinking that you’ve got an attitude over a skirt. i’m thinking that you’re so busy being defensive that you won’t hear me say i don’t want strangers looking at what’s mine–”
“i’m not yours–”
“you know what i meant–”
“no, say what you mean, ony, since you’re saying everything else tonight–”
“i mean–” he exhaled hard through his nose. “i mean you look like you’re trying to prove something and i don’t know who you proving it to, but it’s not–”
“i got dressed for me.” your throat tightened without permission. “i got dressed because i wanted to feel good. that’s it. that’s the whole reason. and you–” you gestured at him, at the entire situation. “you standing there making it into something weird and i didn’t do anything–”
“i didn’t say you did–”
“you implied it!” your voice cracked and you hated it. “you literally stopped yourself mid sentence because of what you almost called me–”
“i didn’t call you anything.”
“you wanted to.”
he looked at you in silence. really looked, and something in his expression shifted when he registered the gloss in your eyes, the way your jaw was working to hold everything back.
but he didn’t say sorry because he was too stubborn.
“change the skirt,” he said quietly. “and then we can talk.”
“no.” the first tear spilled over and you turned away fast, grabbing your bag and plopping on the bed, voice furious. “we can talk when you figure out the difference between protecting me and insulting me.”
he didn’t move from the doorway and you didn’t move from the bed as the silence stretched like a live wire between you.
onyankopon’s shoulders rose and fell in stress but his eyes were anything but. they dragged down your body— over the tight crop top, the gloss still shining on your lips, and especially the skirt that had started this whole argument as the muscle in his jaw flexed again.
you swiped at the tear that had escaped, furious at yourself for letting it fall. “move,” you muttered while standing and stepping toward the door.
he didn’t move but instead he reached out, large hand wrapping around your wrist, firm enough to stop you. his thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, right over your racing pulse.
“don’t,” he said, voice low and rough. “don’t walk out like this.”
you laughed, bitter. “like what? dressed like a slut?”
his grip tightened for half a second then loosened. “i didn’t say that.”
“you were gonna.”
he exhaled through his nose, then did the last thing you expected. he tugged you forward until your chest bumped his as one big hand slid to the small of your back, holding you there. the other came up to cup your jaw, thumb wiping the tear track off your cheek with a gentleness that made your stomach flip.
“i’m an asshole,” he admitted, so quiet it almost didn’t sound like him. “i saw you in that skirt and all i could think about was every other nigga in the club staring at what’s mine. not ‘cause you did anything wrong. ‘cause i’m selfish as fuck when it comes to you.”
your breath hitched. “that’s not–”
“i know.” his forehead dropped to yours. “i know it ain’t fair. you look… goddamn, baby. you look good enough to make me lose my mind. that’s the problem.”
the anger in your chest cracked, heat flooding in to replace it. you hated how fast your body reacted to him— his scent, the solid wall of his chest, the way his fingers were already slipping under the hem of your tiny fur skirt like he couldn’t help himself.
“then stop trying to control me,” you whispered but your hands were already fisting in his shirt.
“i’m not.” his lips brushed your temple, then your cheek, then hovered right over your mouth. “i’m asking you to let me take care of you. right now.”
you opened your mouth to argue again and he kisses you, swallowing the last of your protest. his tongue pushing past your lips like he was trying to erase the whole fight. you moaned into it, involuntary, and he used the sound against you, backing you up until your thighs hit the edge of the bed.
he broke the kiss only to drop to his knees.
“ony–”
“shh.” his palms slid up the backs of your thighs, pushing the skirt higher until it bunched around your waist. he pressed an open mouthed kiss to the front of your lace panties, eyes flicking up to yours. “this what you wanted to wear? then let me see it properly.”
he hooked his fingers in the waistband and dragged the panties down your legs, letting the fabric catch on your skin. the second they hit the floor he buried his face between your thighs, tongue dragging up your slit in one filthy stroke.
your knees buckle as he catches you, hands gripping your ass, and lifted one of your legs over his shoulder so he could eat you like a man who’d been starving for it. no teasing, just greedy slurps, sucking your clit into his mouth until your head falls back and a broken moan tears out of you.
“fuck- onyyy”
he groaned against you, the vibration shooting straight to your core. two thick fingers pushed inside without warning, curling hard against that spot that made your mouth gape open. he pumped them in and out, tongue flicking relentlessly, while the hand on your ass kept you pinned to his mouth.
you came embarrassingly fast, legs shaking, thighs clamping around his head, and a choked cry ripping from your throat as pleasure slammed through you like a freight train.
he didn’t stop until you were whimpering, oversensitive and twitching. only then did he pull back, lips shiny, And eyes wild. he stood, towering over you, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand like it was nothing.
“still mad?” he asked while rubbing the leg that was just shaking over his shoulder.
you could barely speak as you just grab his shirt and yank him down into another kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. he growled, lifting you clean off the floor and tossing you onto the bed.
clothes came off in a blur, his shirt, your top, and the skirt finally shoved up around your waist because he refused to take it off. “keep it on,” he muttered against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse. “you wanted to wear it? then you’re wearing it while i fuck you.”
he freed himself from his jeans, thick and heavy and already leaking. one hand wrapped around your thigh, spreading you open. the head of his cock nudged your entrance, slick from your orgasm, and he pushed in slowly at first, letting you feel every inch stretch you open.
“shit,” he hissed, forehead pressed to yours. “so fucking tight. always so fucking tight for me.”
you arched, nails digging into his back as he bottomed out. the skirt was bunched uselessly at your hips, the fur rubbing against your skin with every thrust. he set a punishing rhythm, each snap of his hips driving the breath out of you.
“mine,” he growled against your ear, hand sliding up to wrap lightly around your throat, not squeezing, just holding. “this pussy? mine. this body? mine. you wear whatever the fuck you want, but when you come home, this–” he slammed in harder, making you cry out. “–pussy is what i get. understand?”
you nodded frantically, tears of a completely different kind pricking your eyes from how good it felt.
“say it.”
“it’s yours– fuck– pa. it’s your pussy!”
he rewarded you by dropping his hand between you, thumb circling your clit in perfect strokes. your second orgasm crashed into you without warning, walls fluttering around him, pulling him deeper.
he cursed, hips stuttering. “that’s it, mama. milk me. let me fill you up.”
three more brutal thrusts and he buried himself to the hilt, groaning your name as he came in thick pulses that spilled deep inside you until you were dripping with it.
for a long moment the only sound was both of you breathing hard.
then he collapsed half on top of you, careful not to crush you, and pressed a soft kiss to your sweaty temple.
“i’m sorry,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “for real. i was out of line.”
you swallowed, throat raw, and rubbing your fingers on his freshly cute fade. “you’re still an asshole.”
he huffed a tired laugh. “yeah but i’m your asshole.”
you smiled despite yourself, legs still tangled with his, and his cock still softening inside you.
“next time,” you whispered, “just tell me i look good before you lose your mind.”
he kissed the corner of your mouth, slow and sweet.
“deal. but baby?” his hand smoothed down your side, possessive even now. “you still ain’t leaving the house in that skirt tonight.”
The hidden glances across headquarters. The way Levi would stand just a little too close when no one was looking, only to step away the second someone entered the room. The brief touches of his hand against your lower back in empty hallways. The quiet way he’d mutter, “Eat,” when he noticed you skipping meals, shoving half of his bread roll onto your plate before anyone could question it.
It had been like this ever since the two of you got married.
Not because Levi was ashamed of you. You knew that much.
He simply hated people knowing things about him.
Levi Ackerman could command an entire room with a single look, could stare down titans without blinking, could make seasoned soldiers crumble under the weight of his words. Yet the second anyone got too close to knowing him, truly knowing him, he shut down.
You were the only exception.
The only one who knew how he took his tea. The only one who knew he hated thunderstorms because they made the old wooden buildings creak too loudly at night. The only one who knew he liked sleeping with one hand tucked beneath your shirt, fingers spread against your stomach like he needed to reassure himself you were still there.
The only one who knew that beneath the coldness and sharp tongue was someone devastatingly soft in the quietest ways.
Still, it did make things difficult sometimes.
Especially with his squad.
“Captain Levi seriously has never liked anyone,” Eren said one afternoon, sprawled lazily across a chair in the mess hall. “I think he might actually hate romance.”
Jean snorted. “He definitely does.”
Mikasa sat nearby, quietly eating. “Not necessarily.”
Connie looked up. “What do you mean?”
She shrugged. “He just seems like the type to keep things private.”
You nearly choked on your drink.
Levi, seated across the room, didn’t react at all. He continued drinking his tea like he hadn’t heard a word.
You stared at him.
He didn’t look up.
Coward.
Later that evening, after everyone had gone to bed, you found him in his office, papers spread across his desk. He looked tired, dark circles beneath his eyes, sleeves rolled to his elbows.
You closed the door behind you.
Levi looked up briefly. “You’re still awake.”
“You let them say you hate romance.”
“I do hate romance.”
You raised an eyebrow.
He leaned back in his chair. “The public kind. Flowers, stupid letters, dramatic confessions. It’s embarrassing.”
“And marriage?”
His eyes flicked to the ring on your finger.
Then to his own.
A simple silver band he kept hidden beneath gloves most days.
“That’s different,” he muttered.
You smiled softly and stepped closer. “You know, one day they’re going to figure it out.”
“They won’t.”
“You’re very confident for someone who kissed me in a storage closet last week.”
Levi’s expression remained blank, but there was the faintest shift in his eyes. “You started that.”
“Oh, so now you’re blaming me?”
“You’re distracting.”
You laughed quietly.
His hand reached for yours under the desk, fingers brushing over your ring. He looked down at it for a moment, thumb rubbing against the metal.
“Let them think whatever they want,” he said.
You softened immediately.
Because that was Levi. He wasn’t good with saying things directly, but sometimes he would hand you his heart in tiny pieces and trust you enough not to drop it.
Let them think whatever they want.
As long as he still had you.
The problem was that Levi had grown too comfortable.
Far too comfortable.
At first, he had been careful.
No touching in public. No lingering looks. No signs.
Then slowly, over the months, he had begun slipping.
It started small.
He’d pull out your chair without thinking.
He’d bring you tea before meetings without asking if you wanted any.
If you were injured during training, he was suddenly there before anyone else, jaw tight, hands checking over you with thinly veiled irritation.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s barely a scratch.”
“It’s stupid.”
Then came the worse offenses.
Like the fact that he knew exactly how you took your tea.
Or that he would show up outside your office late at night with blankets when you worked too long.
Or that he had a habit of fixing your cravat without a word whenever it sat crooked around your neck.
No one said anything.
Not for a while.
But you could feel it sometimes.
The lingering looks.
The confusion.
The way Hange would grin whenever Levi’s attention drifted toward you for too long.
You should have known it would be Hange.
“Levi,” Hange said one afternoon, walking beside him as you all returned from a mission. “Hypothetically.”
Levi looked irritated already. “No.”
“You don’t even know the question.”
“Don’t care.”
“Hypothetically,” Hange continued anyway, “if someone were secretly in love, what signs would they show?”
Levi’s expression darkened. “What kind of idiotic question is that?”
“Maybe they bring someone tea. Maybe they stare at them too long. Maybe they act weirdly protective.”
“That’s not love. That’s being annoying.”
Hange grinned wider.
You looked away, trying not to smile.
Levi noticed.
His eyes narrowed at you.
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.
Then, finally, everything fell apart.
It happened on a rainy afternoon.
The kind where everyone was stuck indoors because the training grounds had turned to mud.
You had been in Levi’s office helping sort through paperwork. Or rather, pretending to help while Levi did most of the work because he claimed you organized things “wrong.”
You stood near the bookshelf, stretching your arms over your head.
Levi sat at his desk.
“You missed a page,” you said.
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t.”
You walked over, picked up the stack, and held up the missing page triumphantly.
Levi stared at you.
Then he sighed through his nose. “Brat.”
“Old man.”
His eyes narrowed.
Then, without warning, he reached out and tugged you closer by the wrist.
You stumbled slightly, laughing under your breath as he pulled you between his knees.
“Levi—”
“You’re annoying.”
“You married me.”
He went still for half a second.
Just long enough for both of you to realize what had slipped out.
Then—
The office door swung open.
Eren froze in the doorway.
Mikasa stopped behind him.
Armin nearly walked into both of them.
For a long moment, nobody moved.
You were still standing between Levi’s legs.
His hand was still around your wrist.
Your wedding ring gleamed brightly against your finger.
Eren blinked once.
Then twice.
“…Married?”
Silence.
Levi slowly let go of your wrist.
“You knock before entering,” he said flatly.
“Captain,” Armin said weakly, “did she just say—”
“Yes,” Levi replied.
No denial.
No excuse.
Just yes.
Mikasa stared at the two of you.
Eren looked like someone had hit him over the head with a brick.
“You’re married?” he repeated.
Levi looked deeply irritated now, mostly because he had been caught.
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“A while.”
“How long is ‘a while’?” Jean asked from somewhere in the hallway because of course everyone had gathered outside the door.
Levi’s eye twitched.
“Over a year.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Then Connie’s voice rang out.
“OVER A YEAR?”
Suddenly everyone was shoving into the office at once.
Jean looked horrified.
Sasha looked delighted.
Hange looked smug beyond belief.
“I KNEW IT!” Hange shouted, pointing dramatically. “I knew there was something weird happening!”
“You knew?” Eren asked.
“No, but I suspected. Levi only glares at everyone else. He stares at her.”
Levi looked like he wanted to throw himself out the window.
“You’re telling me,” Jean said, looking between the two of you, “that humanity’s strongest soldier has a spouse?”
“Unfortunately,” Levi muttered.
You laughed softly.
Eren still looked completely lost. “But you never said anything.”
Levi crossed his arms. “Wasn’t your business.”
“You wear rings?” Mikasa asked quietly.
Without thinking, Levi tugged off one of his gloves.
The silver band sat there, simple and worn. The room went silent again. Because somehow that made it more real.
Levi Ackerman was married.
Actually married.
Hange walked over and grabbed your hand before you could stop them. “Wait, wait, wait—how did this happen? Who confessed first? Was there a proposal? Did Levi propose?”
Levi looked offended. “Of course I proposed.”
That only made everyone more shocked.
“You proposed?” Connie repeated.
“Yes.”
“What did you say?” Sasha asked excitedly.
Levi went quiet.
You smiled a little.
“He told me,” you began, “‘I’m not asking twice, so decide if you want to spend the rest of your life with me already.’”
The room erupted.
Eren looked scandalized.
Jean burst out laughing.
Hange nearly collapsed.
“That is the least romantic proposal I’ve ever heard,” Connie wheezed.
“It worked, didn’t it?” Levi snapped.
You could not stop smiling.
Because honestly?
It had been perfect.
That was exactly how Levi loved.
Clumsy in words. Awkward in timing. But painfully sincere.
“I still can’t believe this,” Eren muttered.
Levi looked exhausted already. “Get out.”
“No.”
“Now.”
“No.”
“You’re all irritating.”
“Captain,” Armin said carefully, “why didn’t you tell us?”
Levi went quiet for a moment. The room softened a little. Even Hange stopped grinning.
Levi wasn’t good at explaining himself. Everyone knew that.
He glanced at you briefly.
Then back at them.
“Because this is mine,” he said simply. “She’s mine. And I didn’t want people sticking their noses into it.”
The room fell silent again.
Your heart ached.
Because there it was.
Levi’s love always came out in the strangest ways.
She’s mine.
Not possessive.
Not controlling.
Just honest.
You belonged to him the same way he belonged to you. A quiet thing. A private thing. Something precious.
Hange smiled a little again.
Eren looked awkward suddenly.
Jean rubbed the back of his neck.
Mikasa glanced at you, then Levi, and for the first time, there was something almost soft in her expression.
“That makes sense,” she said quietly.
Levi looked uncomfortable with the understanding.
“Still,” Hange said, grinning again, “you can’t stop us from asking questions now.”
“Yes, I can.”
“You sleep in the same room?”
Levi stared blankly.
“Obviously,” he said.
“Do you cuddle?”
The room went silent.
Levi looked murderous.
“Get out.”
“You do!” Hange yelled.
“OUT.”
Everyone scattered before Levi could physically throw them out himself.
The room emptied quickly, filled with laughter and shouting as everyone ran down the hall.
You could hear Connie yelling, “I can’t believe Captain Levi is married!” from halfway across headquarters.
Then it was quiet again.
Just you and Levi.
He sat at his desk looking deeply exhausted.
You leaned against it beside him.
“Well,” you said lightly, “that went well.”
Levi looked at you.
Then, after a moment, he reached up and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer until you stood between his knees again.
“This is your fault.”
You smiled. “You married me.”
His gaze softened in that way only you ever got to see.
“You talk too much.”
“And you love me anyway.”
Levi was quiet for a moment.
Then his forehead rested lightly against your stomach.
It was such a small thing.
So unlike the man everyone else saw.
No sharp edges. No coldness.
Just Levi.
Just your husband.
“I do,” he muttered quietly.
You felt your chest ache again.
Because no matter how private he was, no matter how much he hid himself away from everyone else, you had always been the exception.
It’s impossible to stay mad at him, you don’t know if it’s a sort of manipulation technique or if he’s really that sensitive. But the moment you raise your voice at him and he tries to raise his voice back, tears flood his eyes.
You see it happen in real time: his jaw tightens like he’s going to match your volume, like he’s finally going to stand his ground this once. His shoulders square. His hands ball into loose fists at his sides. And then, nothing. The fight drains out of him faster than water through a sieve. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. The anger that flickered there for half a second collapses into something raw and miserable.
“I—I didn’t mean—” His voice cracks on the second word.
He blinks rapidly, like he can force the tears back if he just tries hard enough. He can’t. They spill anyway, bright and fast, tracking down the sides of his nose. He swipes at them with the heel of his hand, furious with himself.
“Reiner,” you say, softer now despite yourself. “Don’t do that.”
“I’m not doing it on purpose,” he chokes out. “I swear I’m not. I just—fuck, I hate this. I hate that I can’t even yell back without—” He gestures helplessly at his own face, at the wet streaks he keeps smearing. “Without turning into this.”
You cross your arms, trying to hold onto the last frayed threads of your frustration. “You were the one who left the dishes in the sink for three days. Again. After I asked you twice.”
“I know.” His voice is small. He looks at the floor like it might open up and swallow him. “I know I did. I was going to do them tonight, I swear, I just... I’m so fucking sorry.”
He’s already sinking. You can see it in the way his knees bend slightly, the way he starts drifting toward you like he needs to close the distance before you walk away. He doesn’t touch you yet (he never does when he’s like this, not until you give him permission) but he’s leaning in, pleading with his whole body.
You exhale hard through your nose. “You always say that.”
“I know I do.” Another tear slips free. “I know it sounds like an excuse. It probably is an excuse. I see you getting upset and it feels like I’m being torn open. Like I’m doing everything wrong at once. And then I can’t think. I just want you to stop being mad. I’ll do anything. I’ll wash everything right now. I’ll stay up all night. Just, please don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m letting you down.” His voice fractures again. “Like you’re gonna realize you’re better off without—” He stops, throat working. “I can’t breathe when you look at me like that.”
You feel the last of your anger buckle. It’s not fair. None of this is fair. You were allowed to be upset about the dishes. You were allowed to raise your voice. And yet here he is, dissolving right in front of you, and suddenly you’re the one who feels cruel.
You step forward. He flinches like he expects a slap, then freezes when you only reach up and cup the side of his face. His cheek is hot and damp under your palm.
“Reiner,” you say quietly. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m pissed about the dishes. That’s it. I’m not breaking up with you over a sink full of plates. I’m not leaving you. Okay?”
He nods once, jerky. Fresh tears slide down immediately after. “I hate making you angry. I hate it so much. Every time it happens I think ‘this is it, this is the time she decides she’s done.’ And then I can’t stop picturing you walking out. I can’t.”
You brush your thumb under his eye, wiping away the mess he’s made of himself. “I’m still here.”
“I don’t deserve that,” he whispers.
“Stop talking like you’re some kind of punishment I have to endure. You’re not. You’re just… you. And yeah, you drive me up the wall sometimes. But I’m still choosing you. Even when there are dishes in the sink.”
He lets out a broken little laugh that’s mostly sob. “You shouldn’t have to keep choosing me.”
“And yet.” You tilt his chin up so he can’t hide. “Here I am.”
For a second he just stares at you, like he’s trying to memorize the exact shape of your patience. Then he folds forward, slow and careful, until his forehead rests against your shoulder. His arms stay at his sides but you can feel him trembling.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into your shirt. “I’ll do the dishes. And I'll keep everything tidy, I'll do better. Just... don’t hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.” You slide your hand to the back of his neck, fingers threading through the short hairs there. “I love you. Even when you’re being a complete disaster.”
He makes a wounded sound against your collarbone. “I love you too. So much it hurts sometimes.”
You hold him tighter. “I know.”
He stays there a long time, breathing unevenly, letting the last of the tears soak into your shirt. When he finally pulls back his face is blotchy and swollen, but the panic has receded a little.
“Can I—” He hesitates. “Can I hug you? Please?”
You open your arms without a word.
He crashes into you like he’s been starving for it. Arms locked around your ribs, face buried in the crook of your neck, holding on so tightly you can feel every shuddering inhale. You rub slow circles between his shoulder blades and listen to him whisper sorry, sorry, I love you, I’m sorry over and over until the words lose their edges and become just sound.
Eventually he quiets.
You kiss the side of his head. “Go wash the dishes.”
He nods against you, reluctant to let go. “Yeah. Okay. I’m going.”
But he doesn’t move yet. Just stands there holding you like you’re the only solid thing in the room.
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needy!reiner who is almost always by your side. arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you dangerously close to his muscular, toned chest. He never lets go, not even for a second. there hasn’t been a moment in your relationships where he hasn’t had his hands on you.
needy!reiner who gets so, so emotional when he doesn’t find you next to him in bed. you’re in the bathroom brushing your teeth and you hear soft sobs, and the saddest whimpering you’ve even heard. it’s your sweet reiner, he’s curled up on the sheets, holding a pillow for comfort. all of that trauma from the previous war made him feel so frightened, afraid, desperate for a warm body, like yours, to keep him safe. he calls for you, and you dash out the bathroom like never before. you wrap your soft, delicate arms around him, holding his big body close to you. you whisper to him, ensuring him that all is well, and that you’re here, and there’s nothing here to hurt him.
needy!reiner who is always so desperate to please you. he’s afraid of you leaving someday, so he always tries to be the perfect boy, cleaning the house, doing the dishes, taking out the trash, any chore and he’ll do it, all for your approval.
needy!reiner who suffers from nightmares at night. he thrashes around in bed, whimpering with the somber tone of fright. his eyes dripping with tears. the sounds wake you up, and you turn to your side. your eyes making out the scene of a terrified reiner. you move over to him, hands cupping around the cheeks of face. his eyes flutter awake, darting towards you. “I was so scared..” he moans, he pulls you onto his chest, cupping your head. “it’s okay, baby. I’m here..” you coo, looking into his shimmering, golden brown eyes.
a/n: merry christmas everyone and happy birthday Levi :D
———————
Levi loves you fresh out the shower.
You know how particular he is about cleanliness, so when his partner is all clean and soft…he adores it, more than he will admit.
So when you climb into bed beside him, hair damp and skin soft from your lotion, your not surprised to find him automatically pulling you towards him and onto his lap, straddling his muscular thighs.
“You showered?”
“Mhmm.”
Levi buries his face into your neck without a second thought, you shiver as you feel his nose brush against your neck.
He slowly meets your eyes. “you smell good.” he comments, a hand coming up to run through your hair.
He leans forward slightly, lips brushing against yours.
his lips latch onto yours, the hand in your hair moving to your cheek, holding your face as he kisses you.
You both slowly break away, you giggle as you notice the slight flush of his cheeks.
“Your blushing, Levi.” You tease.
“…i’m not blushing.” His eyes dart away from your face.
Levi’s greatest weakness was you, and despite his best efforts at hiding it, you see right through him.
☆ Summary: Levi Ackerman doesn't have favorites. Room 112 is simply cleaner than the other classrooms and its teacher is simply easier to tolerate. Obviously.
☆ Pairing: Levi Ackerman x Female Reader
☆ Genre/Tags: Modern AU, School AU, Teacher!Reader, Janitor!Levi, Romance, Mutual Pining, First Kiss, Fluff, Humor
☆ Content Warnings: Mentions of sex
☆ Word Count: 3.8k
☆ AO3 Link
☆ a/n: This was requested by 🌻 anon! don’t ask for a part two or I’ll wet all of your socks. even if you ask as a joke, I will block you.
[ Art by sugarless_610s3 on Twitter ]
Levi Ackerman has learned, over three years of working in an elementary school, that children are capable of putting virtually anything anywhere.
He’s found crayons inside air vents, yogurt beneath bookshelves, a single wet sock hanging inexplicably from a ceiling projector, and, one memorable Tuesday afternoon, half of a banana wedged so deeply into the back of a student desk that he spends nearly five minutes staring at the browned fruit in complete silence, debating on whether he should just let the other janitor take care of it.
“How the hell did you even get in there?” he mutters, pulling on a pair of gloves.
By five o’clock, he’s scraped cracker crumbs from a rug, cleaned paint off a window, and discovered a nightmare in the second-floor boys’ bathroom, so by the time he reaches Room 112, he’s already preparing himself for another mess made by twenty-four small children with poor impulse control.
He unlocks the door, then pauses. Room 112 is clean. Not clean clean, because Levi’s definition of clean is far different to other peoples. But the chairs are pushed beneath the tables, the construction paper scraps have been picked up from the floor, the pencils are in their containers, and there’s not a single juice box left open.
He narrows his eyes suspiciously. Then he spots the glitter.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Gold glitter sparkles across half the floor, caught in the fibers of the rug and scattered beneath the tables. There is, however, a dustpan beside the teacher’s desk. A pathetic little pile of glitter sits inside it. A handwritten note is taped to the whiteboard.
SORRY ABOUT THE GLITTER. WE TRIED. — ROOM 112
Levi stares at it, then looks at the dustpan. “At least they’re honest,” he mutters.
“Can’t teach children to lie, can I?”
Levi turns. You stand in the doorway, holding the frame, slightly breathless from apparently walking back through half the school in a hurry. He’s seen you before. Obviously; you teach here. He’s seen you crossing the cafeteria sometimes, holding folders and supplies. He’s passed you in the hall often enough to recognize your face, although most of those encounters have been polite nods exchanged. But this is the first time you’ve ever looked directly at him for longer than a few seconds.
“Forgot my purse,” you explain, pointing toward your desk. “And apparently, returned just in time to witness the crime scene.”
Levi looks down at the glitter. “So you’re responsible for this?”
“Technically, I just supplied the weapons.”
“Then yes.”
You press your lips together. He recognizes that expression immediately—you’re trying not to laugh. “I’m sorry,” you say. “We were making solar system projects.”
“With glitter?”
“Space is sparkly.”
“Space is a vacuum.”
You laugh, the sound filling the otherwise empty classroom. “Okay, fair.”
You cross the room, retrieving your purse from beneath your desk, but instead of immediately leaving, you set it on the tabletop and reach for the broom leaning against the wall. Levi frowns.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Helping,” you say.
“No.”
You pause. “It’s my mess.”
“It’s my job.” Levi takes the broom out of your hand. “You’ve been here since six.”
You raise your eyebrows. So does he, internally. Why the hell does he know that? He’s seen your car in the staff lot when he arrives, that’s all. Just a simple observation. Nothing strange about it.
“Six fifteen,” you correct.
“Congratulations.” You stare at him for a beat, then you laugh again. Levi turns away before you can see the corner of his mouth betray him. “You should go home,” he says.
You pick up your purse. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Yes, Mr. Ackerman.”
He looks over his shoulder and sees your smile. He isn’t sure why it annoys him that you’re leaving. He has work to do, and you have a life that exists beyond these four walls.
“Goodnight, Mr. Ackerman,” you say. You make it halfway into the hall when he suddenly speaks.
“Levi.”
You stop. He almost takes it back as you turn your head. Levi grips the broom harder, irrationally uncomfortable under your attention.
“Just Levi,” he repeats.
Your expression softens by such a small degree he’s sure that he’s just imagining it. But then you say, “Goodnight, Levi,” and you disappear.
Levi looks at the gold glitter sparkling around his shoes.
“Shit,” he says.
The word has nothing to do with the floor.
.
Levi develops a routine over the next few weeks. He cleans the administrative wing first, empties the trash cans in the second-grade corridor, and leaves Room 112 until later in his shift, because you’ve developed an irritating habit of staying after school to grade assignments and prepare lessons, which means cleaning your room before five thirty would involve working around you. It’s better to wait.
Yet he finds himself cleaning while you’re present anyway.
“Connie ate another crayon today,” you tell him one Wednesday evening.
Levi stops mopping. “Another?”
You sit at your desk surrounded by spelling tests, a red pen held in your fingers while you draw a tiny star beside a student’s score. “Three, technically.”
“Why?”
“He said blue looked yummy.”
“Is he stupid?”
“Levi.”
“What?”
“He’s eight.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.” You laugh under your breath and return to the test in front of you, though Levi catches the smile on your lips.
It’s almost irritating how much he knows about your students now. Connie eats crayons. Mina hates reading aloud but loves science. Eren has lost four water bottles since September. Christa is currently in a one-sided feud with a girl named Ymir in Room 109 over a pencil shaped like a carrot. They’re all useless pieces of information that enter Levi’s life because you talk while he works, while he sweeps and sanitizes, and although he occasionally answers with little more than a grunt, you never seem particularly offended by his silence. Sometimes you fill it, and sometimes you don’t.
One afternoon, he arrives to find a paper cup sitting on the corner of your desk. He stops.
“What’s that?” he asks.
You don’t look up from your laptop. “Poison.”
“Thought so.”
“Black tea. No sugar.”
Then you look at him. Levi feels a shift of discomfort—but at the same time admiration—in his chest. “You remember everyone’s drink order?” he asks.
“Nope.” You turn back to your laptop. That’s all you give him. No nervous attempt to ease the implication. Just nope. Levi stands beside your desk for an embarrassingly long second.
You’ve noticed how he takes his tea because you’re observant—that’s it. He can’t be stupid now. He notices things too, after all. He notices that you hum when you’re concentrating, usually without realizing you’re doing it. He notices that every child who scores higher than their previous test receives two stars instead of one. He notices the little bottle of vanilla hand lotion you keep beside your computer. He notices that you read stories using different voices for every character, because sometimes, when he’s cleaning the hallway during your final few hours of class, he hears your students howling with laughter through the door. He notices you always forget to drink your coffee while it’s hot.
Levi picks up the tea. “Thanks.”
You stop typing. Then you smile at your screen. “You’re welcome.”
For some reason, Levi thinks about that smile while he’s emptying trash cans two classrooms later.
.
In December, the sink in Room 112 begins leaking. Levi kneels beneath it during your math period, a wrench in one hand and his shoulders wedged awkwardly beneath the cabinet while twenty-four children attempt to complete multiplication worksheets.
Or, more accurately, twenty-three children. One watches him. Levi can feel it.
He tightens a connection beneath the drain. The child continues staring. Finally, Levi slowly looks over his shoulder. A small boy in a dinosaur sweater is leaning so far out of his chair that two legs have lifted off the floor.
“What?”
The boy straightens. “Nothing.”
Levi turns back to the sink. Three seconds pass.
“Mr. Janitor?”
Levi closes his eyes. “Yes?”
“Do you live here?”
The classroom goes quiet. You look up from the desk where you’re helping Mina with a worksheet. “Thomas,” you say.
“What?” Thomas asks. “He’s always here.”
“I go home,” Levi says.
“Where?”
“Do your math.”
A few students giggle. Levi hears you trying not to. He also hears you resuming with Mina, your voice lowering, but not enough that Levi can’t hear it.
“It’s okay. Look at me,” you whisper.
A sniffle. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s okay to not understand.”
“I keep getting it wrong.”
“I know. That’s frustrating.”
Levi stops moving for a second. There’s no impatience in your voice, like he’s heard with other teachers. You pull a blank sheet of paper out and begin explaining the problem differently, using groups of drawn stars instead of numbers, pausing every few seconds to ask Mina what she thinks should happen next rather than simply telling her the answer. Levi listens, even though he doesn’t want to.
Eventually, Mina whispers, “Twenty-four?”
“There you go,” you smile.
“I—I got it?”
“You got it.”
The girl’s whole face changes. Levi sees it when he emerges from beneath the sink, the sudden burst of pride that makes her bounce in her seat, and he watches you pat her head.
He knows teachers. He works around dozens of them. Some are patient, some aren’t, and some clearly entered the wrong profession, either due to attitude or their lack of realization that children bite, vomit, and ask the same question eleven times. But you never seem surprised by what your students need. You just adjust.
Levi returns his attention to the sink.
“Miss?”
His shoulders tense. He recognizes Thomas’ voice now.
“Yes?” you say.
“Mr. Janitor is staring at you,” Thomas says.
Levi’s wrench slips from his grasp. He hisses through his teeth and grimaces.
“He is not,” you laugh.
“He was,” Thomas insists.
“I wasn’t,” Levi says.
Christa turns in her seat. “Yeah, you were.”
Levi slowly straightens his spine. Twenty-four faces are now looking at him. Well, twenty-five, if he includes you. “Don’t you kids have math to do?”
The room explodes into giggles. You turn toward the whiteboard, but not quickly enough to hide your smile. Then a hand shoots into the air, and you hesitate.
“Yes, Connie?” you say.
Connie lowers his hand, then looks to Levi. “Mr. Janitor, do you think Miss is pretty?”
Levi freezes. Someone gasps. Thomas whispers, “Connie!”
“What?” Connie asks.
Your entire face goes red. “Okay! Everyone finish your worksheet.”
“But—”
“Worksheets!”
“Mr. Janitor didn’t answer,” Thomas says.
“Worksheet, Thomas.” Another hand raises. You stare at it, terrified of what awaits. “Yes, Mina?” you ask, already nervous.
Mina looks between you and Levi with curiosity. “My mommy said when two grown-ups love each other very much, they have sex. Do you and Mr. Janitor do that?”
Every pencil in the room stops moving. Levi shoots upright so quickly he hits his head on the underside of the sink. You don’t even bother checking on him, because by the time you consider it, the classroom erupts.
“What’s sex?!”
“My brother said that word!”
“You’re not supposed to say it!”
“Do they?”
“Miss is red!”
You clap your hands once, loud enough that half the room jumps. “Tests!” you say brightly, silently considering an early retirement. Don’t blush, don’t blush, don’t fucking blush. “Eyes on your tests. Pencils on your papers. No one is discussing anything their mommy or daddy said at breakfast.”
“But Miss—” Mina tries again.
“No.”
“Is it true?”
“Mina.”
“What?”
“Worksheet.”
Levi stays crouched beneath the sink, one hand gripping the pipe so hard his knuckles turn white. Thomas, apparently choosing to continue the chaos, whispers, “Mr. Janitor still didn’t answer.”
“Thomas,” you warn.
He immediately looks down. “Worksheet!” he chirps.
Levi finishes the sink in absolute silence. He leaves five minutes later without looking at anyone. You catch him in the hallway.
“Levi.” He keeps walking. “Levi!”
“What?”
You hurry beside him. “I’m sorry.”
“They’re nosy, aren’t they?”
“They’re eight.”
“Same thing.”
You laugh. He looks at you properly and regrets it instantly, because he realizes your cheeks are still flushed. Something about that sight makes his heart skip a beat.
“For the record,” you say carefully, “you never answered the question.”
Levi stops. You take two more steps before realizing he’s no longer beside you. When you turn, he’s watching you, and he can practically see the moment your confidence falters.
“Which one?” he asks. His mouth twitches at the sight of your flushed face and startled expression. “Didn’t think I needed to answer.”
You open your mouth. Levi walks away before he can blurt out anything else.
.
On Valentine’s Day, Levi discovers a card on your desk addressed to him in purple marker.
TO MR ACKERMAN
He doesn’t pick it up at first, but curiosity defeats common sense. Inside is a crayon drawing of two stick figures. One is holding a mop. The other wears a dress and has about ten strands of yarn glued to its head. Red hearts surround both figures. Beneath them, in enormous uneven letters, someone has written:
YOU SHOULD MARRY MISS BECAUSE SHE LIKES YOU
Levi stares so hard he doesn’t hear the classroom door open.
“Okay, before you get mad, the glitter this time is biodegradable,” you say, walking into the room carrying two tote bags. Levi silently holds up the card. You stop, your eyes widening at the giant words scribbled onto the paper. “Oh my god.”
“Your students sure are… persistent.”
You set the bags down. “They’re invested.”
“Clearly.”
You reach for the card, but Levi moves it out of your reach. Your hand freezes mid-air. “Are you keeping it?”
“Evidence of harassment.”
You huff out a breathy laugh and walk to your desk, opening the bottom drawer. “I have something for you.”
Levi frowns, “No.”
“You don’t even know what it is!”
“Doesn’t matter.”
You pull out a small box. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”
“Oh good god.”
“Levi.”
“No.”
You shove the box against his chest. He grabs it automatically. The packaging is simple, dark green, and when he reads the label, he recognizes the name of a tea shop across town. Good tea. Expensive tea. A sticky note is attached to the top.
Thanks for surviving Room 112.
Levi looks at you. “You bought me tea?”
“Oh god, don’t make it all weird now.”
“I’m not the one making it weird.”
“You’re the one staring at me.”
“Because you’re talking too much.”
Your smile appears slowly. That goddamn smile. The one that’s been making his job unnecessarily complicated since last year. He’d noticed it before then, yes, but it only started doing strange things to his stomach recently.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
“You’re welcome,” you grin.
Levi sighs through his nose. At least he feels less weird about what he did for you now that he knows you got him something. “Here.” He reaches into the cleaning cart.
“What?”
“Take it.”
He hands you a box. You look between him and the box. “Levi.”
“Open it or don’t.”
You open it, and inside is an insulated travel mug. Your mouth falls slightly open. It’s a muted blue, not too garishly bright that it’ll blind you first thing in the morning, but also not too dark that it’ll easily get lost in the dark.
“Your old one leaks,” Levi says.
“You noticed?”
Levi immediately regrets speaking. He regrets the entire day. He regrets accepting this job. “You spill coffee everywhere.”
“Right.”
You’re smiling again. Levi glares at you. You run your fingers over the metal, then grin wider, hugging the box to your chest. “Thank you, Levi.”
“Yeah.”
“I love it.”
“It’s a cup.”
“And I love this cup.”
“Jesus Christ.”
The next morning, your old travel mug is gone. The new one sits on your desk.
.
Spring arrives slowly. The trees outside the school begin flowering, jackets disappear from classroom hooks, and the children become restless from the prospect of summer approaching.
Levi finds you asleep at your desk on a March evening in April. He stops in the doorway. Your cheek is pressed against one arm. Student portfolios surround you in piles, along with construction paper, folders, and a roll of tape that appears to have become attached to your sleeve.
Levi checks the clock. Seven twenty-three. “Idiot,” he mutters.
You don’t move, but he still enters quietly. He empties your trash, sweeps beneath the tables, sanitizes the sink, and somehow, you sleep through all of it. Naturally, Levi looks at you, even when he screams at himself not to. Your face is relaxed in sleep, nothing like the attentiveness you show during school hours where you’re expected to answer questions or redirect arguments or notice if a child has gone too quiet.
You look exhausted. Levi doesn’t know why he doesn’t like that. Or maybe he does know. He finishes the room, then begins to organize the folders scattered near your elbow. You stir, and Levi immediately looks away as your head lifts.
“What—”
“You drooled on a spelling test,” he says.
You bolt upright. “I did?!”
Levi almost smiles. “Just fucking with you.”
You glare at him. “You’re horrible.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“What time is it?” you ask as you rub your eyes.
“Late.”
“Oh.”
You look at the unfinished portfolios. Levi watches your shoulders fall. Then, before he can think it over, he pulls the nearest stack toward himself.
“What goes where?” he asks.
“You don’t have to help,” you say, blinking.
“Didn’t ask.”
“Levi—”
“What goes where?”
Ten minutes later, you sit side by side at one of the student tables, slipping assignments into folders. The school is strangely quiet. A quiet that only exists after everyone else has left, when the hallways become empty and echo when one lone person walks down them.
“Why’d you become a teacher?” Levi asks.
You look up at him. He keeps his attention on the folder in his hands. “I had a teacher when I was little. In fourth grade,” you say after a moment. “She noticed things about me that other teachers didn’t notice.”
He moves a little slower, paying close attention to your words.
“I wasn’t a bad student. I wasn’t failing or anything. I just… got overwhelmed easily, I guess. And everyone thought I was shy, so no one really paid attention when I stopped talking.” You smooth the bent corner of a paper. “But she did.”
Levi then looks up at you fully.
“She used to let me sit in the reading corner when the kids were being too loud,” you continue. “Never made me feel weird about it. Never asked me to explain myself in front of everyone. She just… noticed.” You smile faintly. “I think I wanted to be that for somebody else.” You pause for a moment, then laugh and say, “That’s cheesy.”
“No, it isn’t,” he says. You meet his eyes, and Levi looks down at the folders again. “You’re good with them.”
“You think so?”
“Wouldn’t have said it otherwise.”
You stare at him. Then you say, “You’re good with them too.”
“No.”
“You are. The kids adore you.”
“They don’t know any better.”
“You fixed Armin’s backpack.”
“The zipper was broken and he was crying.”
You smile. “And you found Mina’s stuffed rabbit before winter break.”
“It was behind a shelf I needed to move anyway.”
“And you remember Connie’s allergies.”
“I clean the classroom he’s in.”
“And Thomas told me you taught him how to tie his shoes.” Levi pauses, so you lean slightly closer. “Levi~”
“He was holding up the fucking lunch line.”
You laugh again, louder than before, and Levi really looks at you for a moment. Your smile slowly fades as the air changes, your mind acknowledging the feeling of your knee touching his beneath the table and the hitch in his breath.
“You’re much nicer than you pretend to be, you know,” you whisper.
“You’re getting much more annoying,” he says.
“I’ve been annoying for months.”
“Yeah.” Levi’s gaze falls to your mouth. “I noticed.”
His breath catches, and so does yours. You’re quiet for multiple seconds, then, because you apparently have more courage than him, you ask, “Are you ever going to ask me out?”
Levi blinks at you. “I was planning on it.”
“When?”
“Before you started interrogating me.”
You grin. “Sorry.”
“You’re not sorry.”
“No, not at all.”
Levi huffs, then lifts one hand, his fingers brushing your jaw so lightly that, for one second, he worries you might pull away—but you don’t. Instead, you tilt your face into his palm. Shit. That’s it.
Levi leans forward. The first kiss is softer than he expects. Maybe because he’s spent so long wanting it that the reality of your mouth against his feels strangely delicate, something he has to cradle carefully despite the months of tension that have led here. Levi’s thumb moves against your cheek. You kiss him again, and this time, he feels you smile.
A loud electronic chime rings from across the classroom. Both of you jerk apart. Levi turns to see a student tablet lighting up on the charging station.
SOFTWARE UPDATE COMPLETE!
Levi glares at it while you choke back a laugh.
“I’m throwing that thing away,” Levi grumbles.
You laugh so hard you fold forward into his shoulder. Levi closes his eyes, but his arm goes around you anyway.
.
Keeping a relationship secret from twenty-four eight-year-olds is, as Levi discovers, impossible.
He and you manage for a month. Technically. You don’t discuss your relationship at school. You don’t touch in the halls. Levi still cleans Room 112 late in his shift, although now he sometimes leaves with you, and your students only become suspicious when they notice that you’re smiling more often.
Then, on the last Monday of May, Levi makes a mistake. He enters Room 112 before school. You’re standing behind your desk, rearranging papers.
“Morning,” he says.
You look up. “Hi.” Levi places a coffee beside your laptop. Your face lights up. “You got me coffee?”
“You forgot to make it this morning,” he says. You freeze, and Levi realizes what he just said. You stare at him. He stares back.
“Someone might think you like me,” you say.
“Someone would be an idiot,” he says, but you still smile. He walks around the desk, then kisses your temple, something he’s done a dozen times in your apartment.
Then he turns, and twenty-four children stand in the hallway. The door is wide open. Levi freezes. You freeze.
Thomas points. “I knew it!”
Chaos erupts. Children flood the classroom.
“I told you!”
“Mr. Ackerman kissed Miss!”
“The valentine worked!”
“That was my card!”
“No it wasn’t!”
“I said they liked each other first!”
Levi stands perfectly still, sighing quietly to himself. Your face is completely flushed with heat. “You kissed me in front of them,” you whisper.
“I didn’t see them,” he whispers back.
“You always see everything.”
“Apparently not.”
Connie appears in front of Levi. “Are you getting married?” he asks.
“No,” Levi says.
Christa gasps. “Why not?”
“Because we’re not.”
“But you kissed her.”
Levi looks at you. You’re biting your lip, trying not to laugh, trying not to look too interested in his answer. He knows you too well by now.
“Haven’t decided,” Levi says.
Thomas smiles. “So maybe?”
Levi sighs. “Ask me again in a few years.”
The children lose their minds, but not before Levi leaves. He makes it halfway down the corridor when you catch up to him.
“Levi,” you say. He keeps walking. “Levi Ackerman.”
“Got floors to clean,” he says dismissively.
“Did you just imply you’re going to marry me?”
“No.”
“You absolutely did.”
“No idea what you’re talking about.”
You step in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. Your face is still flushed. You’re smiling so widely that he suddenly has trouble looking directly at you.
“Ask me again in a few years?” you repeat.
“Move,” he warns.
“Levi.”
He reaches forward, your breath catching in response, but he just straightens your crooked teacher lanyard. “Go teach your kids.”
“They’re your kids too now.”
“Don’t say shit like that.”
You laugh and kiss his cheek. Behind you, there’s movement. Levi looks back upon seeing your exasperated expression and sees a bunch of faces pressed against the narrow classroom window.
“I hate this school,” he mutters.
A muffled voice immediately shouts through the door. “We can hear you, Mr. Ackerman!”
Levi closes his eyes, and you laugh against his shoulder. Despite the embarrassment, he wouldn’t change anything. Not the glitter-covered classroom. Not the tea you got for him. Not the terrible Valentine’s card that remains inside his nightstand at home.
