You didn't mean to fall in love with him. He was just a roommate-sharp-tongued, distant, always half-turned away like a closed door. Levi Ackerman lived in the quiet between slammed cabinets and unspoken rules, in the spaces where words refused to exist. You learned his silence before you learned his name. You paint to survive. He watches without meaning to. Somewhere between late nights and shared air, he becomes your muse-his scars, his restraint, the way he carries grief like a second spine. You paint him in fragments because loving him whole feels too dangerous. Every brushstroke is a confession you never say aloud. Every glance is a war you pretend not to fight. Enemies learn each other's rhythms. Roommates learn each other's ghosts. Lovers learn how to stay. But Levi has always been a man shaped by loss, and loving him means learning how to be quiet with the ache. This is a story about longing that lingers, about love spoken in pauses and paint-stained hands, about two people who only know how to touch through absence. He never asks to be seen. You never ask to be loved. And yet- in the hush of shared rooms and unfinished canvases, you begin to understand: some love stories aren't written in words. They're painted.