Silent Vows • LevixReader

Chapter 2

The weeks following my first meeting with Levi slipped by in an easy, unspoken rhythm. Every morning, without fail, he arrived at the infirmary a few minutes early, as if being on time was something sacred to him. I'd spot him by the supply cabinets or already halfway through sorting gauze and ointments, always moving with that same precise focus.

We didn't exchange many words. Our conversations, if they could even be called that, were little more than comments about supplies running low or reminders to check on certain patients. And yet, the silence that filled the space between us felt oddly comfortable. It wasn't forced or awkward—it was like settling into a pattern we didn't realize we'd been following all along.

At first, Levi was simply a presence—silent, guarded, and utterly focused. But slowly, without either of us acknowledging it, things began to shift. It was in the small details how he'd wait by the door in the mornings, as if timing his arrival to match mine. How he'd pass me rolls of bandages or antiseptic without needing me to ask, like he could sense what I needed before I even knew it myself.

He started sitting closer, too—just a little at first. During our breaks, he'd pull up a chair or stool nearby, not saying much, just quietly sipping his tea. It was subtle, the way the distance between us began to shrink, inch by inch. But I noticed it. I noticed the way the silences became softer, not barriers but spaces where something unspoken was slowly taking root.

I never expected it to feel so natural, this rhythm we'd found. We weren't friends—not exactly. And whatever was growing between us wasn't something we were ready to name. But there was a strange comfort in his presence, in knowing he'd be there, steady and reliable, even without promises or explanations.

One morning, I arrived to find him waiting by the door, his breath fogging in the crisp winter air. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, and when he saw me, he gave a small nod—his version of a greeting.

"Morning," I said, offering a soft smile.

He just grunted in reply, but I'd come to understand that was Levi's way. Words weren't really his thing, but actions? Actions spoke volumes.

We stepped inside together, the warmth of the infirmary greeting us as we shed our jackets and set to work. It was routine by now: sorting supplies, checking in on patients, offering quiet reassurances to those who needed it.

At some point during the morning, I glanced up and caught Levi watching me. He didn't look away when our eyes met—just held my gaze, steady and unreadable. It wasn't an uncomfortable stare, though. It felt... grounding, in a way. Like he was checking to make sure I was still there, still steady in this strange rhythm we'd fallen into.

"You okay?" I asked softly, breaking the silence between us.

He blinked, almost as if surprised by the question. "Yeah," he muttered after a beat, turning back to his work.

But I could tell from the slight shift in his expression that it mattered—that he appreciated being asked, even if he didn't say so outright.

As the day wore on, I found myself wondering what it was about Levi that made being around him feel... different. It wasn't just the way he worked or the way he carried himself. It was something quieter, something deeper—a kind of understanding that didn't need words.

During our break, I poured us both cups of tea and slid his across the table toward him. He took it with a nod, his fingers brushing mine briefly, just like the first time. That fleeting touch sent a strange, warm feeling curling through me—a reminder that, even in the smallest moments, connections could take root.

We sat together in comfortable silence, the steam from our cups curling in the cool air. I stole a glance at Levi out of the corner of my eye, watching as the lines on his face softened just a little, as if the weight on his shoulders had eased—if only for a moment.

"Do you ever miss it?" I asked quietly, surprising even myself with the question.

He raised a brow, tilting his head slightly in my direction. "Miss what?"

"The fight. The... chaos."

He was quiet for a moment, as if weighing his answer. Then, with a shrug, he said, "Sometimes."

There was no bitterness in his voice, just a quiet honesty. I appreciated that about Levi—he never dressed up his words or tried to hide behind pleasantries.

"I think a lot of people feel that way," I admitted, swirling the tea in my cup. "Like they don't know how to exist without something to fight."

Levi didn't respond right away, but I could feel him thinking, turning the idea over in his mind.

"Maybe," he murmured at last. "Or maybe it's just easier to fight than to live."

His words lingered in the air between us, heavy and real. I didn't know what to say to that, so I didn't say anything at all. Some truths didn't need responses—they just needed to be heard.

The light outside began to shift as the afternoon crept closer to evening, casting long shadows along the walls. I knew our time at the infirmary was drawing to a close for the day, but I found myself reluctant to leave, to step away from this fragile, quiet connection we'd built.

Levi finished his tea and set the cup down with a quiet clink. He glanced at me then, a look passing between us that I couldn't quite name—something that felt like understanding, or maybe even gratitude.

"Same time tomorrow?" I asked, offering a small, hopeful smile.

He gave a faint nod, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might have been the smallest hint of a smile.

"Yeah," he said, his voice low and steady. "Same time."

And just like that, our unspoken rhythm continued—two people navigating the cracks left behind by a world that had broken and mended in ways neither of us fully understood.

It wasn't much, this strange, quiet companionship we'd found. But it was something.
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