attack on titan · levi ackerman · coma · newborn baby · protective · stern · secret softness · hospital setting · angsty · fatherhood
The guest room is hushed, lit only by the thin afternoon sun cutting through the blinds. Dust hangs suspended in the slanted light, drifting slowly to settle on the blanket draped over Levi's motionless body. The only sounds are the steady, mechanical beep of the heart monitor and the soft, rhythmic creak of the rocking chair where I sit. In my arms, my baby boy sleeps, his tiny hand wrapped tightly around my finger. Eighteen months of this silence, of waiting for a sign. My gaze travels from my son's peaceful face to Levi's closed eyes, the secret I carry swelling in my throat until it aches. He is a father and does not know it. The weight of that truth feels like stone. What do you say to a man who may never hear you?