Silent Vows • LevixReader

Chapter 1

The streets of the rebuilt city buzzed with life, but the energy felt strange, out of place—like a song played in the wrong key. People bustled about, arms heavy with groceries, tools, or the day's burdens, while children sculpted lopsided snowmen from the last remnants of winter's frost. It was a city trying hard to forget, stitching itself back together bit by bit. But the cracks ran deep, no matter how many flowers lined the sidewalks or how many new shops opened.

The cracks were in the people, too. Especially the ones who stayed after the rumbling. They carried with them a kind of heaviness, a tension that settled in their bones as if they were bracing for the next disaster. That same weariness had drawn me here, to the infirmary, where I volunteered most days—doing what I could to ease someone's load, even if only for a moment.

And that's where I first saw him... Levi Ackerman.

Everyone knew the name. He was a legend, a whispered story, the kind of man you didn't have to meet to understand his reputation. But the person I saw that day, bent over a supply crate in the corner of the infirmary, wasn't the myth people spoke of. His shoulders were stiff, his movements precise as he sorted through gauze and bottles of antiseptic. He worked with an unnecessary intensity, as if trying to drown out his own thoughts.

There was something impenetrable about him, a wall that kept others at bay without effort. Patients, volunteers—everyone unconsciously gave him space, their gazes flickering his way only briefly before they moved on. He didn't seem to care. In fact, he looked like he preferred it that way.

Curiosity stirred in me. There was an exhaustion in his posture that felt familiar—not the kind sleep could fix, but the deep, soul-crushing kind, the sort you carried no matter how much time passed. I knew that feeling all too well. I carried it with me, too.

I didn't intend to approach him. I just did.

Without saying a word, I placed a tray of tea on the table next to him. His hands never faltered as he continued organizing supplies. "You've been at this for hours," I said lightly, not expecting much of a response.

He didn't look up. "It's none of your concern," he replied flatly, his voice as sharp and efficient as the rest of him.

It wasn't an invitation to stay. Most people would've taken the hint and left. But something about the quiet tension in him made me linger. Maybe he needed someone to sit with him—not to talk, but simply to be there.

I poured him a cup of tea and held it out. "Everyone needs a break. Even you."

This time, he glanced at me. His eyes were sharp, cold—studying me as if trying to figure out what my angle was. There was no hostility, though, just a wary kind of caution, as if kindness were something foreign to him.

For a moment, it seemed like he might reject the gesture. But then, without a word, he took the cup. His fingers brushed mine briefly in the exchange, and in that fleeting contact, I caught a flicker of something in his expression—surprise, or maybe confusion.

He sipped the tea, his gaze distant and unreadable. I wasn't sure if he liked it, but that didn't matter. The point was that, for just a moment, he'd accepted something freely given.

I settled onto a nearby stool with my own cup, content to let the silence fill the space between us. There was no need to force conversation. I'd learned that sometimes, silence could be more comforting than words.

Levi seemed unsure of what to make of it, as if he'd expected me to either press him with questions or offer pity. When neither came, he gave me another brief glance, as if trying to figure me out.

Eventually, he broke the silence himself. "Why are you here?"

I smiled faintly, shrugging. "Same reason as you, I guess. Trying to stay busy."

His eyes narrowed slightly, as though that answer didn't sit right with him. "You don't seem like the type who needs distractions."

A soft laugh escaped me, unexpected and light. "Maybe not the same kind you need, but everyone's got their battles."

He gave a slight frown but didn't argue. I could tell he understood. Everyone carried something—grief, guilt, fear—and no amount of rebuilding could erase those things. They stayed with you, woven into the fabric of who you were.

After a moment, I noticed a subtle shift in him—barely noticeable, but there. His shoulders loosened just a fraction, the tension easing ever so slightly. It wasn't much, but it was enough to feel like a small victory.

"You're not afraid of me," he muttered, more to himself than to me.

I tilted my head, considering his words. "Should I be?"

He let out a quiet, humorless chuckle. "Most people are."

I smiled softly. "Then most people are idiots."

That earned me the smallest huff of amusement—a sound so brief it almost didn't register. But it was there, and it felt like sunshine breaking through gray clouds.

"Besides," I added, a playful glint in my eye, "you're not as scary as you think."

He gave me a sidelong look, somewhere between disbelief and reluctant amusement. For a moment, we sat like that, the smallest sliver of connection forming in the quiet space between us.

It wasn't much—just two people sharing tea in a quiet infirmary. But it was something. And sometimes, those small moments were what made life feel bearable again, even if only for a little while.

The light outside shifted as the afternoon wore on, casting soft shadows along the walls. The low hum of the infirmary faded into the background, leaving only the warmth of the tea and the fragile sense of companionship between us.

Levi still wore the haunted look of someone who'd lived through more than he could say, his burdens etched into the lines of his face. But sitting beside him, I wondered if maybe—just maybe—he didn't have to carry them alone.

And something shifted inside me, too. It was subtle, like the first breeze that hints at the changing of seasons. It wasn't earth-shattering, but it was enough to remind me that, even after everything, new beginnings were possible.

The thought scared me a little—connections always did, especially when they snuck up on you. But I stayed where I was, sipping my tea and sitting beside him in the quiet.

Because if the rumbling had taught me anything, it was that Sometimes, the smallest moments—the ones shared over tea and silence—were the ones that mattered most.

And maybe—just maybe—this was one of those moments.
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And begin the ending theme!!!

This is the start of my very first AOT fanfic, and I hope I've begun to capture what life after the titan's might've looked like!!

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-Moka-San ❤️