The Spotless Heart

Levi Ackerman was not a man given to poetry. He dealt in steel, strategy, and spotless floors. So when a small, folded piece of paper appeared on his desk—neatly placed beside the inkwell, not a speck of dust near it—he assumed it was a report.

It was not.

“Your eyes are like thunderclouds before a storm,” he read aloud in a flat tone. His brows knitted. “What the hell is this?”

He scanned the rest: praises of his cleaning prowess, his steady hands, the way he held his teacup. It was signed, “Your Secret Admirer.”

Levi crumpled the note. “Waste of paper.”

But the next day, another appeared. And the next. Each one obsessively clean, written on crisp paper with no smudges. The handwriting was neat, almost military. Levi began to suspect someone in his squad.

He lined them up in the mess hall: Eld, Gunther, Petra, Oluo. “Confess,” he said. “Who’s the poet?”

Petra blushed. “Captain, I would never—I mean, I respect you, but—”

Oluo puffed his chest. “If I were to write poetry, it would be epic, not some—some love drivel!”

Eld and Gunther exchanged glances. “Not us, sir.”

Levi narrowed his eyes. He’d find the culprit. He didn’t have time for games.

The next day, he set a trap: a crumb of bread on his desk. If someone approached, they’d have to clean it, and he’d catch them.

He waited outside, watching through a crack in the door. A figure slipped in—small, with brown hair tied back. It was Hange’s new assistant, a quiet girl named Kaya. She wiped the crumb with a cloth, then placed a neatly folded note.

Levi stepped in. “Caught you.”

Kaya jumped. “Captain! I—I can explain.”

He picked up the note. “Why?”

She took a breath. “You never smile, sir. I thought… maybe if you knew someone appreciated you, you’d be less… severe.”

“Severe.” He almost smirked. “You could have just said ‘good morning’.”

“Would you have heard it?” she asked quietly.

Levi paused. She wasn’t wrong. He pocketed the note. “Tea. Tomorrow. 3pm. My office. Don’t be late.”

Her eyes widened. “Yes, sir!”

He turned, hiding a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “And bring your own cup. I don’t share.”

It wasn’t poetry. But maybe that spotless heart of his had found a crack.