Silent Vows • LevixReader

Chapter 6

The next day, Levi didn't show up.

At first, I told myself it was nothing. Maybe he got held up, maybe something had come up that required his attention. He was steady and reliable, but even Levi was human—he deserved a break every now and then.

But as the hours dragged on, unease settled in my chest. I kept glancing toward the infirmary door, waiting for him to appear with his usual silent nod, but he never came. By the time the evening shift ended, the gnawing worry had grown into something I couldn't ignore.

Something was wrong.

I knew where Levi lived—he'd mentioned it once in passing, and though he wasn't the type to invite people into his personal space, I remembered the general direction. The streets were dark as I made my way to his apartment, lantern light flickering weakly against the cold stone walls. Snow drifted lazily through the air, dusting the cobblestones underfoot.

When I reached his building, I hesitated for a moment at the door. I told myself that if everything was fine, I could just leave—no harm done. But my gut told me otherwise. Taking a deep breath, I rapped my knuckles against the door, the sound echoing in the quiet corridor.

No answer.

"Levi?" I called softly, hoping he was just asleep or preoccupied. But the silence that followed felt heavy, suffocating. I tried the handle, and to my surprise, the door gave way under my touch, creaking open into a dimly lit room.

"Levi?" I called again, stepping cautiously inside.

The apartment was small and sparse, much like the man himself—bare walls, a few pieces of worn furniture, and a lingering sense of emptiness that clung to the air like dust. But the fire in the small hearth had burned low, suggesting he hadn't left long ago.

And then I saw him.

Levi sat on the floor by the window, his back resting against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest. His arms hung loosely over his knees, his fingers clutching something small—something I couldn't quite make out at first. His eyes were distant, hollow, as if he were staring at something far beyond the four walls of his apartment.

"Levi," I whispered, my voice catching in my throat as I knelt beside him.

He didn't move, didn't acknowledge my presence at first. It was as if he'd retreated deep inside himself, lost in a place I couldn't reach. Then I saw what he was holding—a small, worn photograph clutched tightly in his hand.

It was old, the edges frayed from years of wear, but the faces in the photo were unmistakable. A young Levi, surrounded by a small group of people—his squadmates. People he'd lost.

The pieces clicked into place.

This wasn't just about him skipping a shift or needing space. Levi had been pulled back into the depths of his memories, haunted by ghosts he couldn't outrun.

"Hey," I said softly, placing a hand gently on his arm. His body tensed under my touch, but he didn't pull away. "I'm here, Levi."

For a moment, it felt like the silence would swallow us both whole. But then, slowly, he exhaled a shaky breath, as if releasing the weight of something that had been crushing him.

"They're gone," he whispered, his voice raw and broken. "All of them. And I'm still here."

His words were laced with guilt, as though every breath he took was a betrayal to those who no longer could. I could feel the ache in his voice, the crushing weight of survivor's guilt, the relentless ache of carrying the dead with you everywhere you go.

"You don't have to do this alone," I said gently, squeezing his arm. "You don't have to carry it all by yourself."

He shook his head. "It doesn't go away. It never goes away."

I knew that kind of pain. I'd seen it in the eyes of others, and I carried pieces of it in myself. There were wounds time couldn't heal, memories that clung to you like shadows no matter how far you ran.

"You don't have to make it go away," I whispered. "You just have to keep going. One step at a time."

Levi's breath hitched, and for the first time since I'd arrived, he looked at me—really looked at me. His eyes were dark with grief, but beneath that, I saw something else: exhaustion. The kind that runs so deep it settles in your bones, leaving no room for hope or rest.

I stayed beside him, not saying anything more, just letting my presence anchor him to the moment. Slowly, Levi leaned his head back against the wall, his shoulders sagging under the weight of too many battles fought and too many ghosts carried.

The fire in the hearth crackled softly, filling the room with a warmth that neither of us seemed to feel. But the silence between us wasn't empty this time—it was a space where Levi could breathe, if only for a little while.

"I didn't mean to worry you," he murmured after a while, his voice rough with fatigue.

I gave him a small, reassuring smile. "I was worried. But I'm glad I came."

Levi's lips twitched in the barest hint of a smile—small and fleeting, but real. And in that moment, it felt like a victory.

"You want me to stay?" I asked softly.

For a second, he hesitated, the walls he kept so carefully in place flickering in his gaze. But then, slowly, he nodded.

"Yeah," he whispered, so quietly I almost missed it.

I shifted closer, sitting beside him on the floor, our shoulders brushing lightly. Levi didn't move away, and that small gesture felt more significant than any words he could have said.

We sat together in the dim light, the photograph still clutched in Levi's hand, the memories of those he'd lost lingering between us. It wasn't a solution, and it wasn't an answer. But it was something.
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