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.

⤷ "𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝘩𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑡𝘩𝑎𝑡 𝑔𝑢𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛... 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑟𝑜𝑝 𝘩𝑒𝑟. 𝑃𝑢𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑙𝑦. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝘩𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑤𝘩𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑓𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑟𝑡 𝑤𝘩𝑖𝑙𝑒 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑒𝑙𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐𝘩𝑒𝑠." "𝑌𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑐," 𝘩𝑒 𝑚𝑢𝑟𝑚𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑑, 𝘩𝑖𝑠 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑤, 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑣𝑖𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛. "𝑀𝑎𝑦𝑏𝑒," 𝐻𝑎𝑛𝑎 𝑤𝘩𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑, 𝘩𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝑎 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑐 𝑙𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑡. "𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑣𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑎 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑔𝑒," -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ 𝙄𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙨𝙪𝙥𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙨𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙚. 𝘼 𝙗𝙚𝙩. 𝙈𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙮. 𝘾𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙡. 𝙉𝙤 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙞𝙣𝙫𝙤𝙡𝙫𝙚𝙙. 𝙇𝙚𝙫𝙞 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨𝙣'𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙚. 𝙃𝙚'𝙨 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩-𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙬𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚. 𝙔𝙤𝙪'𝙧𝙚 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙗𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮. 𝘼𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙗𝙡𝙚𝙢 𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣'𝙩 𝙖𝙨𝙠 𝙛𝙤𝙧. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙩