Petra loves watching him, trying to uncover secrets buried deep inside his shell; scars that do not show on his body and that she hasn't touched to brush the bitter memories away, and she thinks that's mostly what she does when they have a few moments for themselves.

She's on her stomach, arms crossed serving as a pillow for her head and she studies his face; every little curve, every little detail: his long black eyelashes, his straight and perfect nose, the line of his jaw, the veins in his thick neck, his collarbones…

When he's lying next to her like that, shirt on but buttons undone, hair messy and eyes closed–and with no crease linking his eyebrows–, mouth slightly open and breathing calm and steady, she can't help but think he looks so much better. Petra genuinely thinks he has nice features when he's not twisting them into a deep unshakable scowl, as if the act of breathing itself pisses him off beyond words.

"You're a pretty boy when you're not putting on that I-hate-all-of-you-shitstains mask, Levi," she tells him, hands wandering in his hair and she hears the pleased sound deep in his throat as she strokes his locks.

"Don't you dare call me a pretty boy," he tries to sound threatening but his voice, heavy with sleep, makes him sound like a little boy expressing his indignation.

"Levi's a very pretty boy," she purrs.

"I'm a man, and I'm not a pretty one," he opens one eye and gives her a cold look that suddenly disappears when she smiles and leans forward to plant a kiss on his lips, his eye closing in anticipation. It's a gentle peck on the lips; something as innocent as the gentle caresses she gives his soft black hair.

He opens both of his eyes when he can't feel her mouth on his anymore, steely blue eyes staring deep into amber golden ones. There's a question, or maybe an invitation, even though he doesn't make an effort to prop himself up on his elbows to reach her face. She knows he wants to kiss her but she just won't just give in to him, so she eyes him back with a faint smile tugging at the corners of her pink plump lips.

"If you want them, come and get them, pretty boy," she says, rolling on her back with the intention of staring at the ceiling.

She doesn't get the occasion to do so, though, because the minute she falls on her back his body is on top of hers, strong arms and legs caging her in. She makes a low sound deep in her throat and reaches out to cup his face.

Their lips crash against each other and it is no longer gentle even though it isn't rough; it is demanding and sweet, tongues gliding against one another in a harmonious dance.

She thinks that maybe, just maybe, judging from the way he kisses her, the way he slips one of his hands under the back of her head to hold her, he doesn't mind being her pretty boy.