Silent Vows • LevixReader

Chapter 3

It was in the little things that I began to feel Levi settling into my life, like threads quietly weaving together without either of us noticing. His presence wasn't loud or overwhelming—it was subtle, like the way his hand would linger against mine for just a moment too long when passing me a bandage. Or how, on rare occasions, he'd catch my gaze and hold it, his eyes steady and unreadable, as if searching for something he couldn't quite name. These weren't grand gestures, but they mattered in ways I didn't expect.

One cold afternoon, I was folding blankets by the fire in the infirmary, my fingers numb from the lingering chill. I hadn't noticed Levi approach until I felt the soft weight of a scarf being draped over my shoulders.

"You'll catch cold," he muttered, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

It was such a small act of care, almost dismissive in the way he did it—like it was no big deal. But the warmth of the scarf, and the quiet thoughtfulness behind it, made my chest ache in a way I wasn't prepared for. I pulled the scarf tighter around me, my fingers brushing the wool, and tried not to let the moment linger too long in my mind.

Levi didn't wait for a thank you. He simply walked away, his hands shoved into his pockets, as if giving too much of himself made him uncomfortable. But that small gesture stayed with me long after he'd left the room.

Without thinking much about it, I found myself doing small things for him in return—tucking extra tea leaves into his bag when he wasn't looking or slipping an extra roll of bandages into his supplies just in case. We never spoke about these quiet exchanges, and that felt right. They didn't need words.

Each of these small acts—his scarf, my tea, the unspoken glances—felt like steps toward something uncharted, a connection neither of us fully understood. It wasn't a sweeping romance or a grand revelation. It was quieter than that, more fragile. Like something that grew slowly in the spaces between us, in moments too small to notice until they'd already taken root.

One morning, as we were finishing our shift, Levi wordlessly handed me a pair of gloves. They were plain, a little worn, but warm. I raised a brow in question, but he just gave me a shrug, as if to say, What else was I supposed to do?

I smiled, the kind that sneaks up on you before you realize it's there. "Thanks," I said softly, pulling the gloves on.

He grunted in response, but the corners of his mouth twitched—just the barest hint of amusement that I'd come to recognize over time.

And in that moment, I realized how much those small exchanges meant. We were building something in the quiet spaces—something neither of us had asked for but both of us needed. It was delicate, this thing between us, and we weren't in any hurry to define it.

But it was there, steady and unspoken, growing in the little gestures and lingering glances. And somehow, that felt like enough.
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The nightmares always started the same. I was back in the village—before everything went wrong. The sun would shine too brightly, almost painfully so, as I stood outside our little home, watching the familiar shapes of my family move inside. My younger brother's laugh would echo through the doorway, innocent and light, while my mother hummed the lullaby she always sang before bed. It was a memory I clung to, one of the few pieces of my past I allowed myself to cherish. But then, as always, the scene began to unravel.

The sunlight dimmed, as if someone had pulled a curtain across the sky. I turned toward the woods at the edge of the village, drawn by a strange sound—a wet, rhythmic crunch. My feet felt heavy as if the earth was holding me back, but I forced myself forward, heart pounding in my chest. I knew what I would see, but I never seemed able to stop it.