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For the first time since you knew him, Levi falls asleep before you. Which would be less surprising if he hadn’t spent the last twenty minutes insisting that he isn’t tired.
He sits beside you on the bed in his quarters with a stack of papers balanced against one knee. He intends to win the war against his exhaustion, but his eyes keep lowering, his grip on the papers keep loosening, and every few seconds, his head dips just enough for him to jerk it upright again with a faint scowl.
“You should sleep, you know,” you say, watching the candlelight flicker across his face.
“I’m fine,” he mutters.
You’re not even surprised he’s not listening. Levi could be bleeding through his clothes and actively collapsing into a ditch, and he would still look at you dead in the eye and call it a scratch. You hum, unconvinced, but you know better than to argue with him directly when he’s already decided to be impossible. You lie back against the pillows instead and let the silence do the talking, filled only by the faint rustle of paper when he reads another line.
Two minutes later, Levi lies back against the pillow next to you, reports still in hand.
One minute after that, the report slides from his fingers.
And then, finally, he sleeps.
He always looks different when he sleeps. Awake, he’s hard and controlled, every muscle held tight as if bracing for impact every second of the day, his expression tightened before it can reveal too much. Asleep, though, he looks much younger, almost fragile. You know he would hate you thinking that. His mouth is relaxed from its usual tight line.
You reach carefully for the papers, meaning to set them aside before they get bent, but before you can touch them, Levi grabs your wrist. It’s a soft, sleep-heavy grab. His fingers wrap around you, and you freeze, your breath caught in your throat. Before you can decide whether to pull away or stay still, he tugs you closer with an irritated sound.
“Levi?” you whisper, more amused than concerned, but he doesn’t wake up. He only shifts until his forehead brushes against your shoulder, his hand sliding from your wrist to your waist. Even now, he reaches for you.
Then he murmurs, barely audible against your shirt, “Love you.”
You freeze. All goes quiet, except for the sparking flame of the candle and the creaking of the old wood around you, but all of it seems too far away from you right now as those two simple words land somewhere deep in your gut.
You stare down at him, stunned. Levi Ackerman, who is never tender, who is never affectionate nor vulnerable, has just said he loves you. Waiting for the one moment he’s too exhausted to guard the door.
“Oh,” you breathe, and you smile before you can stop it. “You’re ridiculous.”
He gives no answer and only wraps his arm further around you by the smallest amount. Carefully, you lower yourself beside him, pulling the blanket over both of you while he makes another soft, sleepy sound and follows your body without waking. Your hand hovers for a second over his hair before you give in and brush a few dark strands away from his face.
“Love you too,” you whisper, so quietly that you think only you can hear it. “But I’m absolutely making fun of you tomorrow.”
.
By morning, Levi has returned to himself.
He’s awake before you, dressed except for the cravat still hanging loose around his neck, standing near the small table with tea already poured and the blanket folded at the foot of the bed. He looks completely normal. He definitely does not remember what happened last night, and if he does, he’s very good at pretending it never happened.
Unfortunately for him, you have a good memory, and you are absolutely not letting this one go.
“You’re staring,” he says without looking at you.
“You’re sweet when you’re asleep,” you say.
That makes him pause, a tiny hesitation in the movement of his hand as he reaches for his cup, but you see it, because you’re looking out for any minute detail that might let you in on what he’s thinking and possibly hiding. Your smile widens. Levi looks at you from the corner of his eye.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asks.
You sit up slowly, pulling the blanket around your shoulders as you smile again. “Nothing.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Well,” you say, drawing out the word just enough to make him narrow his eyes in suspicion, “you were very affectionate last night.”
His mouth flattens. “When?”
“After you fell asleep.”
He scoffs. “I was asleep.”
“Exactly.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“Oh, it counts,” you laugh, nodding, absolutely convinced.
He turns toward you fully now, the tea forgotten in his hand. You watch the first sign of worry pass across his face as memory fails him completely. “What did I do?”
You rest your chin in your palm, taking your sweet time because Levi looks like he’s trying to brace for impact while pretending he’s completely calm, which is, frankly, adorable.
“You reached for me,” you say, and his eye twitches. “Pulled me closer.” He clenches his jaw. “Mumbled into my shoulder.” He flicks his eyes away. “And told me you loved me.”
For a second, Levi doesn’t move at all. Then the tips of his ears go red. Not possibly-red-if-you-squint. Red. A betraying flush creeps up from beneath his collar and spreads across his cheekbones before he turns toward the table, suddenly fascinated by the existence of his teacup.
“I didn’t,” he mumbles.
“You did,” you argue.
“I don’t talk in my sleep.”
“Apparently you do when you’re being romantic.”
“I wasn’t being romantic. I was unconscious.”
“I don’t know, you sounded pretty convincing.”
Levi makes a strangled sound under his breath, caught between a scoff and a curse. If you had any decency, you would stop there; but the sight of him stiff with embarrassment, ears burning while he tries to rebuild his dignity, is too precious to waste.
“You also grabbed my waist,” you add.
“I was asleep,” he repeats.
“You seemed very determined.”
“I said I was fucking asleep.”
“You were very cute.”
His gaze snaps back to you, horrified. “Don’t call me that.”
“Cute?”
“Don’t.”
“Sweet.” His blush deepens. “Oh, you like that one, huh?”
Levi sets his cup down with enough care that suggests he’s either seconds away from leaving the room or burying his face in his hands with the intent to never rise. You soften your teasing—you don’t want to go too far.
“Levi,” you say, gentler now.
He doesn’t look at you immediately, but when he finally does, his expression is once again guarded. But it’s not cold, not with you. Beneath the scowl he wears is an almost wounded shyness. The thought of having been heard clearly scares him more than he wants to admit.
“I’m not laughing at you,” you say.
“That is exactly what you’re doing,” he says.
“Okay, maybe a little,” you concede, because lying to him would be pointless. “But not because of that.” His throat works once. You hold his gaze, your heartbeat suddenly too loud in your own ears. “I liked hearing it.”
For a moment, Levi looks trapped between retreat and confession, between pride and the truth his sleeping self already handed over without permission. You can see the thoughts moving behind his eyes, irritated and flustered.
Damn it. Damn it. Of all the stupid ways to say it first, he thinks. He looks away again, but it’s not enough to hide him anymore.
“Wasn’t wrong,” he mutters.
Your heart stumbles. “What wasn’t?” you ask.
He flexes his fingers once at his side. “What I said.”
You know better than to push too hard, but you’re only human, and he’s standing there with red ears and a confession caught between his teeth, so you tilt your head and ask, “You love me?”
Levi glares at the floor. He doesn’t know whether to spill the truth or not, but it seems he already did last night. He says, in a voice low enough to sound almost angry, “I love you.”
The teasing dies inside you. He knows what he’s saying this time. And though his face is still turned half away, though his ears and face are still burning and his shoulders are tense and he feels like he’s wandered into a battlefield without his equipment, he stays there with you.
So, you smile and reach for his hand. He looks at your fingers, hesitates only long enough to prove he’s still Levi, and then lets you take it.
“There,” he mutters. “Happy?”
You lace your fingers through his. “Very.”
“Tch.” His thumb brushes, barely there, across the back of your hand. “Annoying brat.”