raggycookie

[raggycookie]

Jean Kirstein x Reader

Honey Boy: The Calm Before The Storm

The campus street stretched quiet and dim before you, the amber glow of the streetlights pooling across the pavement, the fallen leaves, skittering in faint, restless drifts as the November chill bit at your exposed skin.

Your phone glowed in your hand, Reiner’s text searing into your retinas

Reiner: Hey, you free this weekend? Wanna grab dinner or something? Like a date?

Like a date?

Like a date?!

Your heart still pounded, a wild, unsteady thud that echoed in your ears, your eyes wide and unblinking as you reread it for the tenth time, maybe the twentieth. Shock pinned you to the spot, your feet rooted to the concrete, the words spinning in your head. Reiner, your Reiner, asking you out.

A date.

The idea felt like a curveball you hadn’t seen coming, knocking the breath from your lungs and leaving you stranded in a mix of disbelief and something fizzy, something that bubbled up despite the weight of the day.

Headlights cut through the dark, the sound of Sasha’s silver Subaru rolling up to the curb snapping you out of your daze. The car slowed to a stop, the engine idling with a low growl as the passenger window buzzed down, Sasha’s face peering out, her brown hair a messy bun, her grin wide and expectant.

“Yo, get in already! It’s freezing out there!” she called, her voice bright and impatient, cutting through your thoughts.

You blinked, the phone still clutched tight in your hand as you shuffled forward, your boots crunching through the leaves. You pulled the door open, the hinges creaking faintly, and slid into the passenger seat without a word, the warmth of the car wrapping around you, and a sigh leaving your plump lips.

|♩♩♩ -Damn Right| By: Jennie, Childish Gambino, and Kali Uchis

The scent of Sasha’s vanilla air freshener mingled with the faint tang of fast food, probably from an earlier stop and you sank into the worn leather, the door thudding shut behind you. Your backpack slumped to the floor between your feet, the straps tangling as you set your phone face-down on your lap, your breath still shaky from Reiner’s text.

Sasha shifted in the driver’s seat, her hands resting lazily on the wheel as she pulled away from the curb, the Subaru’s tires crunching over the leaves with a satisfying crackle. She glanced at you, her brown eyes narrowing as she caught the silence hanging heavy around you, thicker than usual after a tutoring session with Jean.

“Okay, what’s up with you?” she asked, her voice lilting with curiosity as she flicked the heat up a notch, the vents humming to life. “You’re all quiet and weird. Did Jean do something?”

You didn’t answer right away, your fingers twitching over the phone as your pulse thudded in your throat. The memory of Jean’s yelling, his pencil stabbing the table, his anger spilling over.

That was not your concern at the moment.

Thats beside the point.

Jeans stupid ass, faded into the background, drowned out by the shock still buzzing in your chest. Should I tell her? What would Sasha even say? All thoughts running through your hed as you gripped your phone harder. A swallow, then the flip of your phone as you opened it, punching in your code.

041512

The screen lighting up with Reiner’s message as you held it out to her, your hand trembling faintly. “Look,” you said, your voice low and unsteady, barely above the hum of the engine. Sasha stopped at a red light before glancing over.

Sasha’s eyes darted to the screen, her head tilting as she squinted at the text,and then her mouth fell open and you waited for something to come from her mouth.

“Shut up…”

“I know…”

“Shut up!”

“I know!”

She snatched the phone from your grasp looking over the text message over and over again before placing a hand on her cheek. “Reiner? Asking you out? On a date?” Her mouth dropped open, her grin exploding into something wild and unrestrained, and then she screamed a loud, piercing shriek that filled the car and made your ears ring.

You couldn’t help it, the sound yanked a scream out of you too, sharp and sudden, your hands flying to your face as the shock and excitement collided in a messy, giddy burst. “I know!” you yelled back, your voice cracking as you leaned forward, the seatbelt digging into your shoulder. “What the hell! Sasha, he just, out of nowhere!”

She tossed the phone back to you, her hands flapping as she gripped the wheel again, her laughter spilling out in loud, breathless waves. “Oh my God, Reiner Braun finally grew a pair! I’m…holy shit, I’m losing it!” she gasped, her foot tapping the gas as the car rolled forward, the streetlights streaking past in amber blurs. “When did he send this? How are you not freaking out more?”

“I am freaking out!”

You shouted, clutching the phone to your chest as you rocked back in the seat, your voice bouncing off the dashboard. “I’ve been standing out there rereading it like an idiot. He’s never, Sasha..OH MY GOD”

She swerved again, narrowly missing a pile of leaves on the curb, and pounded the wheel with her fist, her screams dissolving into manic giggles. “This is insane! Reiner!” She glanced at you, her eyes wide and gleaming. “What’d you say back? Tell me you said yes already!”

“I haven’t said anything yet!” you admitted, your voice rising as you waved the phone, the screen still glowing with his message. “I was too busy losing my mind out there. I didn’t even think he liked me like that!”

Sasha shrieked again, slamming her hand against the dashboard as the car rolled through the campus streets, the leaves crunching under the tires. “Of course he likes you, you dumbass! You guys are always fucking flirting so dont be stupid!” She shook her head, her eyes still on the road as she pointed a finger in your face.“You’re going! I’m not taking no for an answer!”

You stared at the phone, your heart still hammering as the reality sank in, Reiner’s words looping in your head. Like a date? “I don’t know yet,” you stammered, your voice softening as the screams faded into a breathless buzz. “I mean, yeah, I really really want to,I just…it’s Reiner.”

The thought of such a fine man like Reiner, actually liking you or finding you attractive was enough to make your stomach tighten. Yes, you guys will flirt sometimes but you always thought he saw it as good fun.

Yet now, he wants a date.

“Exactly. It’s Reiner!” Sasha shot back, her grin softening into something warmer as she reached over and punched your arm lightly. “He’s a good guy, Y/n. Say yes!”

You nodded, slow and dazed, your fingers tracing the edge of the phone as the car’s warmth seeped into your bones, chasing off the chill of the night. The leaves outside danced in the headlights, a swirl of warm colors against the dark, and you let out a shaky laugh, the shock giving way to a giddy, nervous thrill. “Okay, yeah,” you said, your voice steadier now, a smile tugging at your lips as Sasha whooped again, the sound echoing through the Subaru.

Your heart hadn’t quite settled, the giddy thrill of it mixing with the day’s exhaustion as you leaned back in the passenger seat, the worn leather creaking faintly beneath you.

Sasha turned the volume down a notch, her hazel eyes flicking toward you as the car rolled through a stoplight, the fallen leaves crunching under the tires in a satisfying crackle.

“So,” she started, her voice bright and teasing as she shot you a sidelong grin, “What are you even gonna wear?”

You snorted, rolling your eyes as you tugged at the sleeve of your sweater, the fabric stretched and pilled from too many washes. “Oh girl, nothing to dressy,” you said, your tone light but tinged with nerves. “He hasn’t even told me where were gonna go, so probably something casual.”

Sasha nodded, her head tipping back as she swerved slightly, correcting the wheel with a quick jerk. She shook her head, her grin softening. “You should wear that black top, the one with the little cutout. It’s cute but not, like, trying too hard. Pair it with those light jeans you’ve got.”

You raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at your lips as you pictured it. “You think? I dont wanna show to much, y’know?”

“But, you look so fine in that shirt,” she shot back, her voice firm as she turned onto your street, the familiar row of brick apartments coming into view. “Trust me, Y/n, he’s asking you out, not the other way around. Let him sweat a little.”

You laughed, the sound shaky but genuine, and rubbed at your temple, the tension from Jean’s outburst and the library fading under Sasha’s easy chatter. “I’ll figure it out, maybe I’ll text you pics before I leave so you can veto anything too tragic.”

“As a matter of fact, after your class tomorrow, come by my place. We can both go to the mall and pick out an outfit for our dates” she said, pulling the Subaru up to the curb outside your apartment, the engine idling with a low rumble as she shifted into park. “Now get out. I dont want me and Historia food to get cold.”

You looked in the backseat to see a large bag of food from Chick Fil A, and that explained the smell. You chuckled and raised your hands in surrender. “Alright damn!”

You grabbed your backpack, the straps tangling briefly as you pushed the door open, the November chill rushing in to nip at your cheeks. “Thanks for the ride,” you said, stepping out onto the pavement, the leaves crunching under your boots. “Text me when you’re home, okay?”

“Will do!” Sasha called, flashing a thumbs-up before the window buzzed up and the Subaru peeled away, its taillights glowing red against the dark street as she disappeared around the corner.

|♩♩♩- These Arms of Mine| By:Otis Redding

You stood there for a second, watching Sasha’s taillights vanish into the night, the cold creeping back into your bones as the wind kicked up a swirl of leaves around your boots. With a little shiver, you hitched your backpack higher on your shoulder and turned toward the chipped brick of your apartment building. The lobby lights buzzed faintly through the glass doors, a warm yellow glow that felt like a hug compared to the bite of the cold from outside.

Pushing through the door, you stepped inside, the faint hum of the heater kicking on as the scent of stale coffee and lemon cleaner hit you. The lobby was quiet, save for the soft scratch of a pen on paper coming from the security desk tucked in the corner and some old song playing on the tiny radio. Kenny was hunched over there, his wiry frame slouched in the rolling chair, the brim of his faded black cap pulled low over his graying brows. He was probably fifty, maybe sixty-something, nobody really knew, and he liked it that way. His weathered hands were scribbling something in a crossword book, a half-empty mug of coffee steaming beside him.

He glanced up as your boots scuffed the floor, his sharp grey eyes narrowing for a split second before a crooked grin cracked his face. “Well, look who’s still kickin’,” he rasped, his voice gravelly from years of cigarettes. “Thought the wind might’ve blown you off somewhere.”

You smirked, tugging your sleeves over your hands as you shuffled toward the desk. “Yeah, well, I’m glad I got some meat on my bones.” You leaned an elbow on the counter, peering at his crossword. “What’s the word tonight?”

He tapped the pencil against the page, squinting at the grid. “Seven letters, ‘something you chase.’ I’m thinkin’ ‘dreams,’ but it don’t fit with the damn ‘H’ down here.” He tilted the book toward you, like you were suddenly his puzzle partner.

You snorted, shifting your backpack as you glanced at the messy grid. “Try ‘shadow.’ It fits with a ‘H.”

Kenny’s bushy brows shot up, and he scribbled it in, the pencil scratching loud in the quiet. “Well I'll Be damned. Not bad, kid.” He leaned back, chair creaking under him, and gave you a once-over. “You look like you’re runnin’ on fumes, though. Rough night?”

You hesitated, Reiner’s text flashing in your head again, your heart doing that dumb little flip. “Something like that,” you muttered, rubbing the back of your neck. “Just… long day. Tutoring, then some unexpected stuff.”

He grunted, setting the pencil down and folding his arms over his chest, the faded security badge on his jacket glinting under the fluorescent light. “Unexpected’s the best kind of trouble, long as it ain’t the kind I gotta clean up after. You good?”

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, I’m good. Just gotta figure out how to not overthink everything.”

“Good luck with that,” he chuckled, a dry, raspy sound that made you grin. “Elevator’s waitin’. Don’t stay up all night frettin’ over whatever’s got you twitchy.”

“I'll sure try. Night, Kenny,” you said, pushing off the desk and heading for the elevator. You hit the button, the doors sliding open with a tired groan, and stepped inside, the lobby fading behind you as they clunked shut. The hum of the lift vibrated under your feet as it dragged you up to your floor, Reiner’s text still looping in your head, your fingers itching to type a reply.

The elevator rattled its way up, the numbers above the door blinking slowly until it jolted to a stop on your floor with a faint ding. The doors slid open, spilling you out into the dim hallway, the carpet worn and patchy under your boots. You trudged past a flickering light, fishing your keys from your pocket, the metal jangling softly as you reached your door, 512.

Home sweet home.

You shoved the key in, twisted it, and pushed the door open, the familiar creak of the hinges greeting you like an old friend. Kicking it shut behind you, you let your backpack slide off your shoulder, and it hit the floor with a dull thud, straps splaying out across the scuffed hardwood. The faint glow from a streetlight slipped through the blinds, casting thin stripes across the cramped living room, your couch sagging in the middle, a pile of textbooks teetering on the coffee table.

You flicked on the kitchen light as you passed, the bulb buzzing to life, and peeled off your jacket, tossing it over a chair. Your boots came next, kicked off by the door with a lazy clatter, and you padded toward the bathroom in your socks, the chill of the tiles seeping through as you flipped the switch. The fluorescent flickered, then steadied, painting the tiny space in harsh white light.

You cranked the shower knob, the pipes groaning as water sputtered out, steam curling up in lazy wisps. While it warmed up, you tugged your sweater over your head, the static crackling through your hair, and shed the rest of your clothes in a messy pile on the floor. Your phone sat on the sink, Reiner’s text still glowing in your mind.

God, please say this is real.

Stepping under the shower head, the hot water hit your shoulders, and you sighed, letting it melt the tension from your neck. You tipped your head back, eyes drifting shut as the day replayed behind your lids.

Jean’s voice barking through the library, his pencil jabbing the table with a little to much force, but then Reiner. Freaking Reiner Braun, with his quiet smirks and broad shoulders, tossing you a curveball you still couldn’t catch.

You grabbed the shampoo, working it into your hair as the suds slipped down your back. The flirting, yeah, that’d been there forever. Little jabs, teasing looks, the way he’d lean in too close when you talked.

You loved the little flirting you guys would do. It was electric to you and plus you have had a crush on him for a while.

But for him,

You’d always chalked it up to him being well, Reiner. Easygoing, charming, the kind of guy who could flirt with a lamppost and make it blush. But a date? That was a whole other playbook.

Your stomach flipped again, and you ducked under the water to rinse, the heat soaking into your skin. What if it was awkward? What if you said something dumb or tripped over your own feet? You could already hear Sasha cackling “Let him sweat a little!” and Kenny’s dry chuckle about not overthinking it. Too late for that.

You twisted the knob off, the water cutting to a drip, and stepped out, grabbing a towel from the rack. The mirror was fogged up, your blurry reflection staring back as you wrapped the towel around yourself, droplets sliding down your arms. Reiner’s text was still out there, unanswered, sitting on your phone like a ticking clock. You swiped a hand across the glass, clearing a streak, and caught your own wide-eyed stare.

“Okay,” you muttered to yourself, voice bouncing off the tiles. “Shower’s done. Time to stop being a chicken.”

You padded back into the living room, the cool air prickling your damp skin, and snatched your phone from the sink on the way. Flopping onto the couch, still wrapped in the towel, you pulled up his message again, your thumb hovering over the screen. Your heart thudded, loud and stupid, but a grin tugged at your lips anyway.

You sprawled there on the couch, towel slipping a little as the damp chill of the room crept in, your phone still buzzing with the adrenaline of texting Reiner back. You're gonna send it.

Done.

No takebacks.

Your heart was still doing cartwheels, but a new thought elbowed its way in, you’d need to carve out time for this date. Work was always a juggle, and tomorrow was supposed to be your shift at the coffee shop.

You swiped your phone back up, ready to text Miche, to beg off. Fingers poised over the screen, you froze when you saw his name already lighting up your notifications. A message from earlier, buried under the chaos of the day. You tapped it open, squinting at the timestamp, sent an hour ago while you were still reeling from Reiner’s text.

Boss man: Hey, heads-up, I’m pulling you off tomorrow’s schedule. Got a new hire to train, and I need the extra hands free. You’re back on Saturday. Cool?

You blinked, a grin tugging at your lips as you sank deeper into the couch. Relief washed over you, tinged with a little pang, less money in your pocket, sure, but a whole day wide open now. More time to overthink this date, or maybe just enjoy it. Thank God, Miche is so laid back.

This was golden.

You fired off a quick reply, keeping it casual.

You: Hey, yeah, that’s cool. Thanks for the heads-up. Good luck with the newbie!

You hit send, then flipped back to Reiner’s thread, the glow of his message still staring at you.

You: Hey, I’d love to. Tomorrow actually works perfect, boss just gave me the day off.

You sent it, then glanced at the clock on your phone.

9:50 PM.

Ten minutes had slipped by since you’d stumbled out of the shower, all damp hair and racing thoughts. The screen dimmed, and you set it down on your stomach, letting your head flop back against the couch cushion.

The apartment hummed around you. Fridge buzzing faintly, a car rumbling past outside, the distant thump of a neighbor’s music. Tomorrow. A date with Reiner Braun. You tugged the towel tighter, a giddy shiver running through you that had nothing to do with the cold. Less cash this week, yeah, but a night with him? Worth every penny you weren’t making. . . . The next day came in a flash. The morning air carrying a sharp bite as you slid into your Jeep, the engine sputtering to life. You used the rest of the money that Onyankopon lent to you yesterday to cover gas this morning.

The tank needle twitching up from empty as you pulled out of the Shell, the fallen leaves crunching under your tires. The drive to campus was quick, the streets quiet save for the occasional rustle of wind scattering leaves across the pavement, and you parked near the science building. Chemistry class was your first stop, and you were early as usual, 20 minutes, give or take. Your boots tapping against the asphalt as you headed inside.

You’d dressed with a little extra care today, the buzz of Reiner’s date humming under your skin. A burgundy off-the-shoulder sweater hugged your frame, the soft knit brushing your collarbone, paired with a long plum denim skirt that swished faintly as you walked. Black square-toe Mary Janes clicked against the floor, and your afro was out, catching the light with every step.

Gold hoops dangled from your ears, a thin gold necklace to match, glinting at your neck. Your backpack slung over one shoulder, you pushed through the classroom door, the faint hum of the overhead lights greeting you as you stepped into the empty space, or nearly empty.

Jean was already there.

of course,

Perched at his usual spot near the front, his long legs stretched out under the desk like he owned the place. He wore a black knit pullover, the fabric snug across his broad shoulders, and dark retro jeans that tapered at the ankle, his usual silver chain catching the light, his rings glinting as he scrolled through his phone. His ash-brown hair was mussed, falling over his forehead in that careless way that annoyed you more than it should’ve.

After last night, his yelling, the pencil-stabbing bullcrap he was doing, you should’ve been pissed, should’ve felt the familiar itch to snap at him. But today, it didn’t stick. Reiner’s text, the promise of dinner tonight, had you floating too high to care, a quiet ecstasy bubbling in your chest as you crossed the room, humming softly to yourself, a tune you couldn’t quite place but couldn’t shake either.

You dropped into your seat a few rows back, the chair creaking faintly as you set your bag down, the smile tugging at your lips refusing to fade. Jean’s head tilted slightly, his hazel eyes flicking up from his phone to settle on you, one eyebrow arching as he registered your attitude. He set the phone down, leaning back in his chair, his arms crossing over his chest in that lazy, deliberate way he had.

“You’re… oddly happy today,” he said, his voice low and dry, tinged with something that wasn’t quite suspicion but close. “What’s with you?”

You shrugged, unzipping your bag to pull out your notebook, your humming pausing just long enough to answer. “What, I can’t be happy?” you said, your tone light but edged with a little defiance, your gold hoops swaying as you tilted your head.

“Never said that.”

He snorted, a short, sharp sound that carried more weight than it should’ve, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “You should be worried, not sitting there grinning like an idiot. Check your school email.”

Your hands stilled, the notebook halfway out of your bag as your stomach did a small, uneasy flip. “What are you talking about?” you asked, your voice tightening as you fished your phone from your pocket, the screen lighting up with a swipe.

You opened the email app, scrolling past a string of unread messages, club reminders, syllabus updates, until you hit it:

Subject: Calculus Pop Quiz Tomorrow Prof. Levi Ackerman.

Your breath caught, your eyes widening as you skimmed the details, unannounced, in-class, covering everything from the last week, including the intermediate value theorem. The same shit Jean had screamed you through last night.

You looked up, the smile gone, your heart thudding against your ribs as Jean’s smirk widened, slow and deliberate, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk, his rings glinting as he clasped his hands. “Told you,” he said, his voice dripping with a smugness that made your skin prickle. “Levi doesn’t mess around. Guess we’ll see if you were actually paying attention last night.”

You glared at him, your jaw tightening as the shock twisted into irritation, your fingers gripping the phone a little too hard. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?” you said, your voice low and sharp, the words clipped as you shoved your phone back into your bag. “What, you get off on watching me freak out?”

“OH you'd love that wouldn't you?”

He said in a low tone as he began leaning back again, his smirk unshaken. “Just saying hope you’ve got that theorem locked down,” he replied, his tone casual but biting, his eyes flicking over you like he was sizing up a challenge.

“Let’s hope I didn’t waste my time dragging you through it. Wouldn’t wanna see that 4.0 slip, right?”

You rolled your eyes, the irritation flaring hotter as you yanked your notebook out, the pages rustling louder than necessary. “Oh, please,” you muttered, your voice tight as you flipped it open, your pencil tapping against the desk. “Like you’d lose sleep over my grade. You’d probably throw a party if I bombed it.”

“A party doesn't sound bad,” he said, his smirk twitching into something closer to a grin, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Thanks for the idea.”

You didn’t respond right away, just stared at him, the classroom’s quiet stretching awkward and heavy between you. The memory of last night, his yelling, the pencil snapping, the way it echoed your mom’s rages flickered faintly, but the buzz of Reiner’s date tonight kept it at bay, a lifeline you clung to as you forced your focus back to the present.

“I’ll be fine,”

You said finally, your voice flatter than you meant, your pencil scratching out a random doodle in the margin, a jagged little spiral. “Not like I’ve got much choice now.”

Jean huffed, a faint, almost laugh that didn’t carry any warmth, and picked up his phone again, scrolling with that same lazy flick of his thumb. “Yeah, well, good luck with that,” he muttered, his tone dismissive as he leaned back, his chain glinting faintly. “Try not to fail.”

You didn’t bite, just kept your eyes on your notebook, the doodle growing tighter, more jagged, as the classroom slowly filled with the rustle of other students trickling in, backpacks thudding, voices murmuring about the weekend. The pop quiz, a dark cloud over your morning, but your date was the light that poked through the clouds, a quiet promise that kept your heart steady, even as Jean’s smirk lingered in the corner of your eye, smug and unshaken, like he was waiting for you to crack.

The pop quiz loomed in your mind, Levi’s email a dark, insistent weight that twisted your stomach into a tight knot.

Intermediate value theorem, continuity, all the shit Jean had drilled into you last night under that furious glare. You could still hear his voice, sharp and cutting, echoing faintly against the memory of your mom’s cigarette-stained rants, but you shoved it down, your focus splintering.

Your date tonight glowed brighter, a warm, thrilling counterpoint that sent your heart skittering every time you thought about it. Dinner tonight, with him Reiner who’d you been crushing on for a while.

The mix of it all, quiz anxiety, date nerves, had you humming again, that same tuneless melody slipping past your lips, soft but steady, a nervous tic you barely noticed.

Jean’s head didn’t turn, but his shoulders stiffened, the faint tap of his foot pausing under his desk as your humming carried through the quiet. After a beat, he set his phone down with a muted clack, his voice cutting through the low chatter, low and irritated but not quite a snap. “Hey, can you tone that humming down a bit? It’s giving me a headache.”

You blinked, your pencil freezing mid-swirl as his words registered, your lips parting slightly in surprise. Normally, that would’ve sparked a retort.

Something sharp, something to toss his attitude right back in his face. Eight years of rivalry had honed that reflex to a fine edge, but today, it didn’t come. The buzz of Reiner’s date, the faint high of finally nailing those calculus problems last night, even under Jean’s yelling, it all bubbled up, too bright, too buoyant to let his jab sink in.

You tilted your head, your gold chain shifting against your neck, and to his surprise, and yours, you just shrugged, your voice light and easy. “Okay.”

He froze for a split second, his hand hovering over his phone, his hazel eyes flicking back to you over his shoulder, narrow and searching, like he didn’t trust what he’d just heard. “Wait?” he muttered, his brow creasing as he half-turned, his chain catching the light. “You’re not gonna argue?”

You smirked, small and smug, leaning back in your chair as you tapped your pencil against the desk, the rhythm softer now, deliberate. “Nope,” you said, popping the p with a casual flick of your tongue. “Too happy to care about your headache today, Kirstein.”

His eyebrow shot up, his smirk faltering into something closer to confusion, though that smug edge lingered, like he wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or impressed. “Huh,” he grunted, turning back to face the front, his voice dry but quieter now. “Weird. Didn’t think you had an off switch.”

“Guess I’m full of surprises,” you replied, your tone teasing but light, your humming replaced by a faint tap of your Mary Janes against the floor as you flipped your notebook open, skimming your notes from last night. The intermediate value theorem stared back, endpoints, continuity, zeros, and your stomach twisted again, the quiz anxiety clawing at the edges of your mood.

Jean didn’t push it, just shook his head slightly, his hair falling over his forehead as he picked up his phone again, scrolling with a faint huff that might’ve been a laugh, or irritation, hard to tell with him. The classroom buzz grew louder, more students trickling in, their voices overlapping as the professor’s arrival loomed closer. You glanced at Jean’s back, his pullover tight across his shoulders, and felt a flicker of something, not anger, not today, just a strange, fleeting truce born from your own high.

The classroom buzzed as more students trickled in, their shoes scuffing against the floor, voices bouncing off the walls, and backpacks thudding onto desks.

The door swung open again, and Marlo walked in, his lanky frame hunched slightly under a gray hoodie, his dark hair a little messy like he’d just rolled out of bed. His sneakers squeaked faintly as he crossed the room, his backpack slung over one shoulder, and you perked up, a smile tugging at your lips as he headed your way.

He’d been out last week, sniffling and miserable, and you’d texted him a few times to check in. He dropped into the seat beside you, the chair creaking as he set his bag down.

“Hey, you feelin’ better?” you asked, turning toward him, your voice warm but curious as you rested your elbow on the desk.

Marlo chuckled, a low, raspy sound that still carried a hint of that cold, and rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand. “Yeah, I’m good now, finally,” he said, his voice a little nasal but steady. “Man, that shit hit me hard, though. Never felt that bad before, like, I swear it was damn near the flu. I was laid out for days, just chillin’ with NyQuil and watching some show on Peacock”

You winced, sucking your teeth in sympathy as you leaned back, your gold chain shifting against your neck. “Damn, for real?”

He grinned, small and tired, unzipping his bag to pull out a beat-up notebook. “My roommate was pissed, though, said I was groanin’ too loud in my sleep.” He paused, settling back in his chair, then tilted his head toward you, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as he caught your ‘aura’. “Hold up,what’s got you so happy today? You’re, like, glowin’ or some shit. What’s up?”

You bit your lip, the grin you’d been fighting breaking free as you glanced around the room, Jean still up front, a few other students chattering, the professor nowhere in sight yet. You leaned closer to Marlo, dropping your voice to a conspiratorial hush, your excitement spilling over. “Okay, don’t tell nobody yet, well, Sasha knows, but still, I got a date tonight.”

His eyes widened, his brows shooting up as he leaned in too, his hoodie rustling faintly. “No shit, you? A date?” he said, his voice low but surprised, a grin tugging at his lips. “Who’s the lucky dude?”

You hesitated, just for a second, then let it out, your voice a hushed rush. “Reiner.”

Marlo blinked, his head tilting as he processed it, then nodded slowly, recognition clicking into place. “Wait, Reiner? You mean Bertholdt’s blonde muscled friend?

You nodded, your grin widening as you shifted in your seat, your Mary Janes tapping faster now. “Yeah,He texted me last night, talkin’ ‘bout ‘you free this weekend, I lost my damn mind!”

Marlo laughed, a short, genuine burst that made his shoulders shake, his hand coming up to cover his mouth like he didn’t want Jean or anyone else overhearing. “I'm shocked.”

“Right?” you said, your voice rising slightly before you caught yourself, dropping it back to a whisper as you leaned closer, your gold hoops swaying. “I was standing’ outside the library last night, freezing’ my ass off, and boom, there it was. I didn’t even know he liked me like that!”

Marlo shook his head, still grinning as he propped his elbow on the desk, resting his chin in his hand. “What’d you say back? You goin’?”

“Hell yeah, I’m goin’!” you said, your voice a hushed squeal as you clapped your hands together once, the sound muffled against your palms. “I texted him last night.‘I’d love to, dinner sounds great, and now I’m just tryna not freak out ‘til tonight. Sasha screamed her damn head off when I told her, almost crashed the car.”

He chuckled again, softer this time, his eyes bright with amusement. “I bet But damn, that’s cool.You think it’s gonna be, like, chill or fancy? Where’s he taking you?”

You shrugged, your pencil twirling between your fingers as you thought about it, the excitement fizzing up again. “No clue yet, he just said dinner, so I’m hopin’ it’s chill. Like, maybe that diner off campus with the good fries?”

Marlo nodded, leaning back with a small smirk. He paused, then tilted his head, his voice dropping a little. “You nervous, though?”

You sucked your teeth, waving a hand like you could brush it off, but the flutter in your chest betrayed you. “A lil’ bit, yeah, I'm not gonna lie. It’s gonna be fun though.”

“I bet,” he said, his grin widening as he nudged your arm with his elbow. “I'm happy for you, though, hope it’s chill and he don’t fuck it up.”

You laughed, the sound bright and easy, your shoulders relaxing as you leaned back. “Thanks,he better not.”

The classroom grew louder, more students settling in, their voices a steady hum as the professor’s arrival loomed closer. Jean stayed up front, his head still forward, oblivious or ignoring your chatter.

The door opened, and Professor Hange walked in, their usual whirlwind energy. Their wild brown hair was barely contained in a loose ponytail, strands sticking out at odd angles, and their lab coat hung crooked over a mismatched sweater and slacks, the sleeves rolled up to reveal ink-stained forearms. They carried a towering stack of papers and a clinking tray of glassware, their goggles perched precariously atop their head as they grinned at the room, their voice booming over the low chatter.

“Alright, my little scientists, titration labs today! Let’s see if you can measure an acid without blowing something up for once!” They dropped the tray onto the front table with a clatter, the glass vials rattling as they clapped their hands together, eyes gleaming with enthusiasm.

The room shifted into motion, chairs scraping back as students shuffled toward the back where the lab coats and goggles hung on hooks along the wall. You slid out of your seat, your burgundy off-the-shoulder sweater slipping a little further as you stood, the plum denim skirt swishing faintly against your legs. Your Mary Janes clicked against the floor as you followed the crowd, your afro bouncing with each step, the gold hoops at your ears catching the fluorescent light. You reached the back, grabbed a lab coat from the rack, and slipped it on, the sleeves dangling past your wrists as you fished a hair tie from your pocket.

Jean was already there, tugging his own lab coat over his black knit pullover, the silver chain glinting against the white as he adjusted the collar with a quick, impatient flick. His retro dark jeans shifted as he reached for a pair of goggles, and he glanced your way, his eyes narrowing slightly as you started pulling your afro up into a messy bun, the coils springing free before you wrangled them into place. You hummed faintly under your breath, the same tune from earlier, your fingers deft and unbothered as you secured the hair tie, the lab coat rustling around you.

“God, can you stop with that damn humming already?” Jean muttered, his voice low and sharp, cutting through the chatter as he snapped the goggles onto his face, the elastic band tugging at his hair. “You haven’t been getting on my fucking nerves that much this morning, don’t ruin it.”

Normally, that would’ve lit a fuse.

Your temper flaring, a snarky comeback already halfway out your mouth,but today, it barely grazed you. Not today satan. You glanced at him, your smile widening slightly as you adjusted the lab coat, your tone light and easy. “Again, can I not be in a good mood?”

He snorted, turning to grab a pair of gloves from the box on the counter, his movements sharp and jerky. “You’re never in a good mood,” he shot back, his voice dripping with that same ‘I’m not interested in anything you have to say’ tone as he tugged the gloves on, the latex snapping against his wrists. “Being a jackass is your default setting, thought you’d trademarked it by now.”

You laughed as you slipped your own goggles over your eyes, the plastic cool against your skin. “I’m always in a good mood, Jean,” you said, leaning against the counter as you adjusted the straps, your gold bracelet clinking faintly. “You just don’t notice ‘cause you’re too busy being a dick. But today? I’m in a really good mood. Got a date tonight.”

He froze mid-motion, one glove half-on, his head snapping toward you so fast the goggles shifted slightly on his face. Then he laughed a short, harsh bark that didn’t reach his eyes, his lips curling into a smirk as he yanked the glove the rest of the way down.

“A date? Who the hell would ask you out?” he said, his tone mocking, sharp enough to cut if you’d let it.

Your irritation flared, a flicker of the old fire sparking beneath the happiness as you straightened, your smile tightening into something sharper. You stepped closer, throwing a finger in his face, the lab coat sleeve flapping as you pointed, your voice rising just enough to carry over the room’s hum. “Reiner did, asshole,” you snapped, the words hot and quick, your gold hoops swaying with the motion.

Jean’s eyes widened, the smirk faltering for a split second as he processed it, his gloved hand hovering over the counter. Then he laughed again, louder this time, a disbelieving scoff as he leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, the lab coat crinkling. “Reiner? I knew he was dumb, but damn, didn’t think he was that desperate.”

You sucked your teeth, the sound sharp and loud as you dropped your hand, your irritation flaring hotter now, though that Reiner buzz still kept you tethered. “You’re such a dick,” you muttered, turning back to the counter to grab your titration kit, the glass vials clinking faintly in your grip. “He’s got good taste.”

Jean smirked, unfazed, slipping his gloves on with a slow, deliberate snap. “Good taste? Sure, if loudmouth ingrates are his type, sure.” he said, his voice dry as he adjusted his goggles, pushing them down over his eyes. “Good luck to him. He’s gonna need it.”

You rolled your eyes, your jaw tight as you set the vials down on your lab station, the glass clinking harder than necessary. “Keep talkin’, Jean. Maybe if you spent less time runnin’ your mouth, you’d figure out why you’re still single,” you shot back, your voice low but biting, the words slipping out before you could stop them. The irritation was there now, simmering under your skin, but you still didn’t let it take over, Reiner’s date was too close, too real, to let Jean drag you all the way down.

He snorted, grabbing his own kit as he moved to the station next to yours, his chain glinting as he turned.

“Single by choice,”

He said, his tone smug as he set up his burette, the glass clinking faintly.

“I think you're single 'cause no girl wants to deal with you,” you muttered, pouring the base solution into your flask, the liquid sloshing faintly as you steadied your hands. “Reiner is a nice guy, way better company than your ass, that’s for sure.”

Jean smirked again, his goggles fogging slightly as he leaned over his setup, his voice dropping to a mock whisper. “Crazy you think I want your company anyway.”

You glared at him, your gold hoops swaying as you turned your head, but before you could fire back, Hange’s voice cut through the room, sharp and impatient. “Alright, enough chitchat. Let's get those titrations going! I wanna see some precision!” They clapped their hands again, pacing toward the front, their lab coat flapping as they moved.

You huffed, turning back to your station, the irritation still prickling. Marlo glanced over from his spot on your other side, his grin faint but knowing as he mouthed, “Ignore him,” before focusing on his own setup. You nodded, pouring the acid into your burette, the steady drip starting as you forced Jean’s smirk out of your mind.

Let him talk. tonight was yours, and no pop quiz or smart-ass comment could touch that.

You stood at your station, the lab coat stiff over your shoulders, goggles perched on your forehead as you adjusted the burette, the acid dripping slowly and precisely into the flask below. The base solution swirled faintly with each drop, a soft pink blooming as the indicator reacted, and you kept one eye on the meniscus, your gloved hands steady despite the faint ache from gripping the pencil too hard earlier. Marlo worked beside you, his gray hoodie peeking out from under his lab coat, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he squinted at his setup, the burette valve squeaking faintly as he turned it.

“Man, I always forget how finicky this part is,” Marlo muttered, his voice low as he leaned closer to his flask, watching the color shift. “Too fast and it’s over, too slow and Hange’s hovering over you like a hawk.”

You chuckled, a soft sound that carried over the lab noise as you noted the volume on your burette,18.2 mL, and jotted it down in your notebook, the pencil scratching faintly. “Yeah, for real.,” you said, shaking your head as you wiped a stray drop from the flask’s rim with a gloved finger. “You good over there, or you need me to swoop in and save you?”

He grinned, small and lopsided, adjusting his goggles as he turned the valve again, the drip slowing to a crawl. “Nah, I got it, just tryna not look like a total clown this time,” he said, his voice light but focused as he watched the pink deepen. “Think I’m at…17.8? Yeah, close enough.”

You nodded, leaning over to check his flask, the color a steady match to yours. “Looks good, don’t overthink it, though. Hange’s chill ‘til you start second-guessing and spill half the bench like last week,” you said, your tone teasing as you tapped your pencil against the desk, the rhythm faint but steady.

Marlo laughed, a short huff as he shut off his burette, scribbling his result with a quick flick of his wrist. “I honestly didn’t mean to do that,” he said, setting his pencil down as he peeled off a glove, the latex snapping faintly. “Speaking of not screwing up, though, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

You raised an eyebrow, turning to face him fully as you capped your own burette, the glass clinking softly. “Oh? What’s up?” you asked, your voice curious.

He shifted, leaning against the counter, his hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets as he glanced around, like he was checking for eavesdroppers, though Jean was too busy bickering with someone across the room and Hange was up front, scribbling on the whiteboard. “So, you know Hitch, right? From theater?” he said, his voice dropping slightly, a nervous edge creeping in.

You nodded, crossing your arms over your lab coat as you leaned back, the counter cool against your hip. “Yeah, I know her, short, kinda loud, always smells nice? She’s in Bert’s play, right?” you said, picturing her from the few times you’d seen her bossing around the stage crew.

“That’s her,” Marlo said, his grin flickering as he rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers tangling briefly in his hair. “I’ve been thinking about asking her out, but I don’t know, man. She’s a lot.” You smirked, tilting your head as you watched him fidget, his usual calm cracking just a little. “What, you can’t handle all that?” you asked, your tone playful but probing, your goggles slipping slightly as you adjusted them.

He groaned, a low, exasperated sound as he dropped his hand, his shoulders slumping. “Maybe? She’s just wow but like…okay so last rehearsal, she was pissed at me for dropping a prop, and I just stood there like an idiot,” he said, his voice wry but tinged with real nerves. “But she’s cool, you know? I just don’t wanna come off like a total dork if I try.”

You laughed, soft and easy, nudging his arm with your elbow as you straightened up. “Dude, you’re already a dork, that's your charm,” you said, your voice warm. “But nah, for real, just ask her. She’s in theater, she’s gotta be used to big moves. What’s the worst she can say? No?”

Marlo grimaced, his brow creasing as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter. “Yeah, but it’s how she’d say it,” he muttered, though his grin peeked through like he half-liked the idea. “I was thinking maybe after rehearsal tomorrow, casual, like, ‘Hey, wanna grab a coffee or something?’ Keep it low-key.”

“Smart,” you said, nodding as you tucked your pencil behind your ear, the wood cool against your skin. “Keep it chill,don’t overthink it into some big speech. You got a spot in mind?”

He shrugged, straightening up as he glanced at his titration setup, the pink still holding steady in the flask. “Maybe that café off campus, the one with the decent muffins? Not too fancy, but not, like, a total dump either,” he said, his voice steady as he talked it out. “Figure she might like that, neutral ground, you know?”

You grinned, giving him a small thumbs-up as you adjusted your lab coat, the fabric rustling faintly. “Solid choice, muffins are a good bribe if she’s on the fence,” you said, your tone teasing as you leaned over to double-check your results,18.3 mL now, close enough. “Just don’t drop the damn coffee when you ask her, keep those shaky hands in check.”

He laughed a louder burst this time, his shoulders relaxing as he shook his head. “No promises, my luck, I’ll spill it right on her and she beats my ass,” he said, his voice light as he grabbed his goggles, sliding them off to rub at his eyes. “But yeah, I’ll try, see if I can pull it off without looking like a complete fool.”

“You won’t,” you said, your voice firm as you clapped a hand on his shoulder, the lab coat crinkling under your grip. “She’d be dumb to say no, you’re a good guy, Marlo.”

He smirked, small and grateful, as he turned back to his station, resetting his burette for the next run. “Thanks, here’s hoping,” he muttered, his voice softening as he focused, the drip starting again with a faint plink. The lab noise swelled around you, glass clinking, Hange’s voice barking instructions from the front, and you settled back into your work, the titration steady under your hands, Marlo’s quiet nerves a small, grounding tether in the chaos of the morning.

The lab wound down with a slow, steady clatter as the titration setups were dismantled, the faint plink of dripping solutions giving way to the rustle of lab coats and the clink of glassware being stowed away. The air carried a sharp mix of chemicals, the classroom buzzing with the low chatter of students finishing up. You stood at your station, the lab coat hanging loose over your shoulders as you poured the last of your base solution down the sink, the pink swirl disappearing with a faint gurgle. Marlo was already done, quick as always, his goggles and gloves tossed into the bin as he zipped up his gray hoodie. He grabbed his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder, and shot you a small grin.

“Alright, I’m out,catch you later,” he said, his voice light as he gave a quick wave, his sneakers squeaking faintly against the linoleum as he headed for the door.

“Later.,” you called back, your tone easy as you turned on the faucet, the water rushing out in a cold stream as you rinsed your beaker, the glass slick under your gloved hands. The room thinned out, students trickling toward the exit, their voices fading as Professor Hange scribbled something frantic on the whiteboard up front, muttering to themselves about molarity.

You weren’t alone at the sink, though,Jean was there too, a few feet down, his tall frame hunched slightly as he scrubbed his own beaker, the water splashing faintly against the metal basin. His black knit pullover stretched across his back, his silver chain glinting as he moved, his rings catching the light with each swipe of his sponge. He didn’t look at you, his eyes fixed on his task, but the tension from earlier still hung between you, a low simmer that prickled at your skin despite the Reiner high keeping you afloat.

“Surprised you didn’t blow somethin’ up today,” he muttered, his voice low and dry, barely audible over the running water as he twisted his beaker under the stream, the glass clinking faintly against the sink.

You didn’t look at him either, just kept rinsing, the water splashing against your fingers as you tilted your head slightly, your tone matching his,sharp but quiet. “Surprised you didn’t cry when Hange didn’t pat you on the head for being “perfect,” you shot back, your lips twitching into a faint smirk.

“So, you’re going through with it, huh? That date thing?”

You sucked your teeth, the sound sharp but quiet as you twisted the beaker under the stream, your tone matching his, low, edged, no eye contact. “Yeah, I am. Problem?” you muttered, your voice clipped as you shook the water off the glass, droplets splattering into the sink.

He snorted, a faint, bitter sound as he shut off his faucet with a quick flick, the water cutting silent. “Just didn’t think you’d snag someone dumb enough to deal with you,” he said, his words dripping with that familiar bite as he set his burette in the drying rack, the glass clinking faintly. “Must be a slow week.”

You gripped your beaker a little tighter, the cold biting into your fingers as you rinsed it again, your voice staying low but sharpening. “Funny, thought you’d be used to people picking better company than you by now,” you shot back, shaking the excess water off with a quick jerk, the droplets hitting the sink with a soft plink. “Guess that’s a slow life.”

He huffed, grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser, the crinkle loud in the quiet as he dried his hands, still not looking at you. “Better company? Please, hope he likes hearing you bitch about everything,” he muttered, tossing the towel into the trash with a flick of his wrist. “Gonna be a long night for him.”

You set your beaker in the rack, the glass clinking harder than necessary as you turned the faucet off, your jaw tight as you kept your eyes on the counter. “Least he’ll get a night worth talkin’ about, you wouldn’t know shit about that,” you said, your voice low and sharp, the words slipping out with a heat you hadn’t meant to let loose.

Jean paused, his hand hovering over his lab coat as he stripped it off, the fabric rustling faintly as he balled it up. “Yeah, real thrilling,” he said, his tone dry but edged, his boots scuffing faintly as he turned to hang the coat back on the hook. “You’re a damn headache even when you’re ‘happy.’”

You peeled off your gloves, the latex snapping as you tossed them into the bin, your voice dropping to a hiss as you grabbed your coat. “And you’re a dick even when you’re quiet, guess we’re both consistent,” you muttered, shaking out the coat before hanging it up, your movements quick and jerky.

He didn’t turn, just shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, his chain glinting as he shifted his weight. “Consistent’s one word for it.” he said, his voice low and flat, the words hanging between you like a taunt as he grabbed his bag from the floor, the zipper rasping faintly.

You rolled your eyes, snatching your notebook from the counter, the pages crinkling as you stuffed it into your backpack. “Keep talkin’, Jean, maybe one day you’ll say somethin’ worth hearing,” you muttered, your tone biting but quiet, your shoes tapping against the floor as you slung the bag over your shoulder.

He didn’t respond right away, just headed for the door, his steps deliberate as the lab emptied out, students filtering back to their desks or slipping out into the hall. “Uh huh.” he tossed back, his voice fading as he pushed through the door, leaving it to swing shut behind him with a soft thud.

You stood there for a second, the sink still dripping faintly beside you, the lab quiet now except for the hum of the lights. Your jaw unclenched slowly,before you took a deep breathe. You shook it off, grabbing your goggles to hang them up, the elastic snapping faintly as you let Jean’s words slide away.

Not today.

The chemistry classroom door swung shut behind you, the lab’s chemical tang fading as you stepped into the hallway, the air cooler and quieter. You were walking with a quickness to get out of the building as students milled past in scattered clumps toward their next classes or the exit.

The parking lot waited outside, the chill biting at your face as you pushed through the double doors, the wind kicking up a swirl of red and orange leaves across the asphalt. Your black Jeep Wrangler sat near the back, its matte finish dulled by a thin layer of dust, and you unlocked it with a chirp of the fob, tossing your bag into the passenger seat before climbing in. You started your car the engine rumbling to life with a familiar growl as you pulled out, the tires crunching over the leaves as you headed off campus.

Next stop, Sasha’s place.

The drive to Sasha’s place wasn’t long, the streets lined with bare trees and people walking on the sidewalks. You pulled into the lot, the Jeep’s tires scraping gravel as you parked, and grabbed your bag, hopping out with a quick slam of the door. The wind tugged at your hair as you took the elevator up. The doors slid open as you saw the familiar hallway of their floor and mad your way to their door. Before you could even knock Sasha yanked the door open, her grin wide and wild.

“Yo, finally! Get in here!” she said, her voice loud as she pulled you inside, the warmth of the apartment hitting you with a faint whiff of cinnamon, probably Historia’s doing. You stepped in, expecting just Sasha, but Historia was there too, perched on the couch with her phone, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders as she looked up with a soft smile. “Hey Y/n!” Ymir was nowhere in sight, probably at work.

“Historia’s comin’ too,” Sasha said, grabbing her purse from the counter with a jangle, her energy bouncing off the walls. “We’re takin’ her car. More room for bags!”

Historia laughed, a quiet, bright sound as she stood, slipping her phone into her pocket. “Plus,I have a good eye for clothes. You guys need me” she said, her voice gentle but teasing as she headed for the door. “Ymir’s at work, but she said to tell you she doesn’t get why you’re into Reiner. Even called him a neanderthal.”

You snorted, following them out, the door clicking shut behind you. “I figured she would say something like that. When is Ymir and Reiner ever not at each other's throats?” That earned a chuckle from Historia as you all hopped into the elevator, taking you down to the lobby.

Historia led the way to her car, a sleek little hatchback with a cute interior, all soft beige seats, and a dashboard littered with tiny trinkets. You slid into the back, the leather cool against your legs as you settled in, Sasha claiming the passenger seat with a dramatic flop, her bag thudding to the floor. Historia started the engine, a smooth purr as she plugged her phone into the aux, her playlist kicking on. She pulled out, the tires crunching gravel before hitting the main road, the mall a good 20-minute drive ahead.

|♩♩♩- Too Little To Late| By: JoJo

You leaned back, your head resting against the seat as the scenery rolled by. Sasha twisted around, her arm draped over the seat as she grinned at you. “So, mall plan. Food first, or are we hittin’ stores right off the bat? I’m starvin’, but I know you probably want to shop first.”

You smirked, shifting to cross your legs, the denim skirt rustling faintly. “I mean, yeah,” you said, your voice light but edged with a nervous hum. “But the food’s cool too, long as you don’t drag us to that one restaurant though. You smelled like jerk sauce for hours last time.”

Historia giggled from the driver’s seat, her eyes flicking to the rearview as she merged onto the highway, “She’s not wrong. I had to Febreeze my car after that,” she said, her tone warm but playful. “I’m happy for you both. Tonight’s gonna be nice. What’s the look you’re going for?”

You shrugged, your fingers tapping the seat as you stared out the window, the passing cars a blur of color against the gray sky. “Dunno yet, chill, I guess? Don’t wanna overdo it, but somethin’ cute, you know?” you said, your voice trailing off, the nerves creeping in despite the flutter still simmering in your chest.

Sasha snorted, turning back to face the road as she fiddled with her phone, scrolling through her phone. “Whatever you wear, you're still gonna look fine,” she said, her tone teasing but fond. “But yeah, we’ll find you somethin’. H&M’s got that sale rack. Might snag a top or whatever.”

You nodded, your feet scuffing faintly against the floor mat as you shifted, the car’s gentle sway lulling the conversation into a brief lull. Historia glanced at you through the mirror again, her smile softening. “It’s sweet, though. First dates are always kinda weird, right? Exciting, but weird,” she said, her voice quiet, almost hesitant like she wasn’t sure if you’d bite.

“Yeah, weird’s the word,” you muttered, your tone dry as you rubbed at your neck, the gold chain cool against your skin. “Feels like I’m overthinkin’ everything, like, what if it’s awkward as hell? We have been cool forever, and now it’s this.”

Sasha twisted back again, her grin flashing as she waved a hand. “AGH, you’re overthinking again babe. It’s Reiner, not some rando. Worst case, you talk about dumb shit like old times and eat good food,” she said, her voice blunt. “You’ll be fine, stop actin’ like it’s a damn interview.”

You rolled your eyes, a faint laugh slipping out as you leaned forward, resting your elbow on the back of her seat. “Look who’s talking. You’ve been going on about how nervous you are with Nicollo,” you said, your tone half-joking, half-serious.

“That’s different!”

“No, it's not!”

Historia hummed as she switched lanes. “Anyways! Y/n, you won’t look stupid. It’s just dinner. Besides, he asked you, so he’s probably more nervous than you are,” she said, her voice gentle but firm like she was trying to nudge you out of your head.

Sasha threw her arms in the air, turning to Historia. “I said the same shit last night to her!”

The scenery shifted, strip malls and gas stations giving way to the massive parking lot, a sea of cars taking up most of the spaces. Sasha kept up her chatter, debating food court options, while you leaned back, your fingers tapping the seat as the nerves and excitement tangled tighter in your chest. Historia hummed along to the music, her voice soft as she navigated the turn into the lot, the tires crunching gravel before smoothing onto the pavement.

“Finally,” Sasha said, stretching dramatically as Historia pulled into a spot near the entrance, the engine cutting off smoothly. You grabbed your bag, the straps tangling briefly as you pushed the door open. Sasha hopped out first, slinging her bag over her shoulder, and Historia followed, locking the car with a chirp of the fob. The three of you started walking across the lot, the ground littered with crumpled leaves, discarded wrappers, fucking spit, and gum that looks like it has been there for centuries.

|♩♩♩- I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus| By: The Jackson 5

The doors slid open, and the smell hit you like a punch to the face. Warm, buttery pretzels and the sweet pop of kettle corn, mingling with the distant tang of fried food from the court. The noise followed, a steady hum of voices, footsteps, and the faint jingle of holiday music. Sasha groaned, her head tipping back as she inhaled deeply. “God, I’m gonna eat everything, y’all better hold me back,” she said, her voice loud over the din as you wove through the crowd, dodging a stroller and a pack of loud teens.

Historia laughed, her steps light as she kept pace beside you. “We’re here for clothes first. Focus,” she said, her tone teasing but firm, though her eyes flicked toward the pretzel stand with a flicker of temptation. “H&M’s this way.”

You nodded, the buzz of the date, yours and Sasha’s, pushing you forward as you headed left, the store’s sleek black sign coming into view past a gaudy jewelry kiosk.

The store stretched out, racks of sweaters, jeans, and sparkly holiday tops under harsh fluorescent lights that make you feel like you're going blind. You split off, drifting toward a rack of sweaters near the back, your fingers brushing the knits as Sasha beelined for a display of dresses, muttering about “somethin’ flowy but not too extra.” Historia trailed between you, her hands clasped behind her back, her eyes scanning the shelves like she was half-shopping, half-chaperoning.

You tugged a blue sweater off the rack, a soft, fuzzy thing with a deep V-neck and a slouchy fit, the color catching the light. You held it up, turning it over in your hands, the fabric cool against your skin as you pictured it with your denim skirt.

Casual but cute.

“What y’all think of this?” you called, your voice carrying over the music as you glanced at Sasha, who was wrestling a red dress off a hanger. She looked up, squinting as she held the dress against herself, her head tilting. “Ooh, that’s so fucking cute,” she said, her tone approving but distracted as she tugged at the dress’s hem.

You smirked, draping the sweater over your arm as you dug through the rack for your size. “Good,” you muttered, your fingers snagging a medium as you glanced at Historia, who’d wandered over with a pair of earrings in her hand, the little gold hoops glinting faintly.

“And, what do you think my queen?”

“It’s nice,” she said, her voice soft but warm as she held the earrings up, testing them against the light. “Simple, but it’s got a little something. You gonna try it on?”

“Most likely,” you said, shaking your head as you tucked the sweater under your arm, the price tag dangling. $19.99, not bad. “Sasha, you findin’ anything, or you still tryna make that dress work?”

She groaned, shoving the red dress back onto the rack with a rustle, her hands flapping in frustration. “It’s cute, but it’s too short. I’d be flashin’ everybody if I bend over.” she said, her voice half-laughing as she moved to a pile of tops, digging through like a scavenger. “Need somethin’ else, maybe a skirt? Nah, too cold…”

You snorted, drifting toward a shelf of scarves nearby, the colors a blur as you half-listened to her ramble. “Your ass gonna end up in jeans and a hoodie, watch,” you said, your tone dry as you picked up a gray scarf, then dropped it.

“True,” Sasha said, her voice muffled as she yanked a black top from the pile, holding it up with a squint. “Ooo! This might work, kinda sexy, kinda cozy. What do you think?” She turned, the top dangling from her hand, her grin flashing.

You tilted your head, eyeing it, a loose-knit thing with a low neckline, simple but sharp. “Yeah, that’s good. Pairs good with the high-waisted jeans you got,” you said, nodding as you adjusted the sweater on your arm.

You snagged a cute khaki skirt and a thin black belt that caught the light. Nothing flashy, just enough to tie it together. The mall’s noise pressed in, a mix of chatter, footsteps, and that inescapable pretzel scent wafting from the entrance, as you walked to the back to try your stuff on.

The line wasn’t bad, only a couple of people ahead, shifting impatiently with armfuls of holiday glitter, and you slid in behind them, the items draped over your arm as you waited.

It was finally your turn and you stepped into the fitting room, the door clicking shut behind you. The space was tight, mirrored walls reflecting the fluorescent light harsh and unforgiving, but you hung your stuff on the hook, kicking off your Mary Janes to shimmy out of your skirt, the denim rustling as it hit the floor.

You pulled on the khaki skirt first, it was just below your knee, not too short. Then you tugged the blue sweater over your head. The fuzzy knit draped just right, the V-neck dipping low but not too much, and you looped the black belt through, cinching it with a soft clink.

You turned, checking the mirror. You looked so cute. The blue popping against your skin Your hair bounced as you tilted your head, smoothing a hand over the skirt.

Your phone buzzed in your bag, a sharp vibration against the bench, and you fished it out, the screen lighting up with Bertholdt’s name. You swiped it open, leaning against the wall as you read.

Bertholdt: Hey, heard about your date tonight. Reiner’s been all quiet about it, but I figured it out lol. Hope you have fun!

A grin tugged at your lips, your thumb hovering over the keyboard as you typed back, the faint hum of the store seeping through the door.

You: Thanks, Bert! appreciate it! I’m so nervous but happy!

You hit send and set the phone down, turning back to the mirror to adjust the sweater’s hem. You tousled your hair to make it look cute, swishing your head back and forth to try and get that “natural sexy” look.

Overthinking again.

The phone buzzed again, and you snatched it up, Bertholdt’s reply popping up quick.

Bertholdt: You’ll be fine tho. have a good time!

You laughed under your breath, a soft huff as you texted back.

You: Thank you beanstalk. I will!!!!

Bertholdt:what did i say about that nickname..

You slipped the phone into your bag, the grin sticking as you peeled off the khaki skirt and sweater, folding them neatly over your arm. You slipped your burgundy sweater, denim skirt, and Mary Janes back on, the denim rustling as you smoothed it down, and grabbed your stuff, pushing the fitting room door open with a creak.

The store hit you, Sasha’s voice still carrying from the registers as she waved her top at Historia like a flag. You stepped out, the blue sweater, skirt, and belt clutched tight.

Sasha was up first, plopping her top onto the counter with a grin, the cashier bored-looking girl with a nose ring scanning it with a quick *beep*. “$14.99.” the cashier muttered, her voice flat as she chewed gum. Sasha nodded, digging through her wallet. Historia went next, sliding a pair of small gold earrings across the counter, her purchase was quick. $6.99, and she tucked them into her purse with a soft smile.

You stepped up last, setting the sweater, skirt, and belt down. The total flashed on the screen.

$48.67.

You hesitated, your hand pausing over your wallet as the number sank in. It wasn’t crazy, but your mind flicked to the bills stacking up. Rent, phone, that damn car insurance payment looming next week. You had enough in your account, barely, thanks to Onyankopon, but it’d be tight after this. Still, tonight, Reiner, the date mattered more than the math right now. You swallowed, pulled out your card with a small breath, and swiped it, the machine chirping as the cashier bagged your stuff, her gum popping faintly.

“Receipt in the bag?” she asked, already handing it over, her eyes drifting to the next customer. You nodded, taking it with a quiet “Yeah, thanks,” and stepped aside, the plastic rustling as you joined Sasha and Historia by the exit. The weight of the purchase settled money spent, no going back but the buzz of the date pushed the worry down, at least for now.

Sasha swung her bag, her grin wide as she fell into step beside you, the mall’s pretzel-and-popcorn scent hitting stronger as you passed the food court entrance. “Alright, we’re lookin’ good. Niccolo’s gonna choke when he sees me in this,” she said, her voice loud and bouncing as she elbowed you lightly. “You happy with your purchase?” You smirked, adjusting the bag on your arm as you walked, the gold hoops swaying with each step. “Yup!”

Historia nodded, her hands clasped behind her back as she kept pace, her voice soft but warm. “Both of you are set now! Tonight’s gonna be fun.”

“Fun’s the goal,” Sasha said, stretching her arms over her head with a groan, her bag swinging wildly. “I’m starvin’, though. Can we hit the food court after one more store? I’m dyin’ for a pretzel.”

You laughed, the sound light as you sidestepped a cluster of shoppers, the mall’s noise swelling around you. Kids yelling, bags rustling, that damn Muzak still jingling faintly. “One more, then food. I ain’t tryna carry bags and a pretzel at the same time,” you said, your tone teasing as you scanned the storefronts ahead. “Where we goin’? Forever 21? I could use some earrings or somethin’.”

Historia tilted her head, her blonde hair shifting as she considered it. “Yeah, that works. They’ve got cute stuff cheap,” she said, her voice quiet but decisive. “I might grab a scarf or something, keeps getting colder out there.”

Sasha groaned, dramatic as ever, but nodded as she led the charge, her steps quick and purposeful. “Fine, Forever 21, then pretzels,” she muttered, her voice half-serious as you followed, the crowd parting slightly around her energy.

You fell into step beside Historia, the bags bumping against your hip as you walked. You rolled your eyes, a laugh slipping out as you picked up the pace. The Forever 21 stretched out in a maze of racks and mirrors, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow over piles of sequined tops, faux leather skirts, and clearance bins stuffed with last season’s rejects. You stepped inside, the bag from H&M swinging lightly against your hip, your Mary Janes tapping against the tiled floor as you followed Sasha’s lead, her energy cutting through the crowd like a blade. Historia trailed behind, her steps quieter, her eyes scanning the shelves with that calm curiosity she always had, while you adjusted your bag, the strap digging faintly into your shoulders.

Sasha beelined for a rack of skirts, her fingers already digging through the fabrics as she muttered, “Gotta find somethin’ to match that top.” You smirked, drifting toward a display of earrings near the front, the gold hoops and dangly chains glinting under the lights. Your afro bounced as you tilted your head, picking up a pair of thin gold drops. Simple, light, and perfect to match the outfit you have. Historia wandered over to a pile of scarves, her hands brushing the knits as she held up a cream one.

You turned the earrings over in your hand, the metal cool against your fingers, when Sasha’s voice cut through the store’s hum, loud and sudden as she glanced back at you from the skirt rack. “Yo, hold up. How’d that tutor session with Jean go last night, anyway?” she asked, her tone casual but loaded, her grin flashing as she tugged a black skirt free, holding it up to her waist. “You didn’t say shit about it when I picked you up, just went straight to screamin’ about Reiner.”

You froze for a split second, the earrings dangling as you set them back on the rack, your jaw tightening faintly at the memory. Jean’s yelling, the pencil snapping. The buzz of the date had kept it buried, but Sasha’s question yanked it back, sharp and unwelcome. You shrugged, keeping your voice low, and even as you grabbed another pair of little gold studs this time pretending to focus on them. “It was whatever,” you muttered, your tone clipped as you turned the studs over, the light catching them. “He was a dick, per usual. Yellin’ about calculus like I killed his dog or somethin’.”

Sasha snorted, tossing the skirt over her arm as she moved to a pile of tops, her bag rustling against her side. “Sounds about right,” she said, her voice carrying over the music as she dug through the pile, pulling out a red blouse and squinting at it.

You nodded, your shoes scuffing faintly as you stepped closer to the rack, the studs still in your hand as you glanced at her. “Session was a mess. He lost it over some approximation, acting like I’m hopeless.”

Historia looked up from the scarves, her hands pausing on a gray one as she tilted her head, her voice soft but curious. “Lost it how? Like, yelling-yelling?” she asked, her tone gentle, like she didn’t want to poke too hard.

You huffed, tossing the studs back and grabbing a pair of small hoops instead, your fingers fidgeting as you talked. “Yeah, full-on, in my face, ‘you fucked this up’ bullshit,” you said, your voice low but sharp, the memory of his sharp words flashing quickly. “Had me shook for a sec, but I fixed it and still got the damn answers right. He just, I dunno, somethin’ was off with him.”

Sasha twisted back, her grin fading into a frown as she held the red blouse up, her head tilting. “Off how? Like, more of an asshole than usual?” she asked, her tone blunt as she draped the blouse over her arm, stepping closer like she was ready to hear the dirt.

You shrugged again, your eyes on the hoops as you turned them over, the gold catching the light in a dull gleam. “Yeah. Way more,” you muttered, your voice quieter now, the weight of it settling in. “Came back from some phone call all pissed, then took it out on me, like, screamin’ pissed. I have never seen him that bad. Usually he’s just a smug prick, not…whatever that was.”

Historia frowned, her hands dropping the scarf as she stepped over, her voice soft but firm. “That’s weird. He doesn’t usually snap like that, right? I mean, he’s Jean, but still,” she said, her tone trailing off, like she was piecing it together in her head.

“Nah, not like that,” you said, shaking your head as you set the earrings down and grabbed another pair, deciding on them. “He’s always talkin’ shit, but last night was… intense. Didn’t even argue back at the end, just let him stew in it. Too tired, I guess.”

Sasha sucked her teeth, a sharp sound that cut through the store’s hum as she grabbed a pair of jeans from a nearby rack, her voice dropping. “Sounds like he’s got some shit going on,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact as she checked the jeans’ tag, then tossed them back. “He say what the call was about?”

“Nope,” you said, picking up your H&M bag from the floor where you’d set it, the plastic crinkling faintly. “Just stormed off, came back mad as hell. Didn’t ask, didn’t care. I was just tryna get through it.”

Historia nodded, her frown softening as she picked up the gray scarf again, folding it over her arm. “Jesus, that is a bit weird,” she said, her voice gentle but edged with a quiet worry. “You okay after that, though?”

You smirked, small and tight, brushing it off as you grabbed the hoops again, deciding they’d do. “Yeah, I’m good. I’m not letting Jean ruin my day,” you said, your tone firm as you headed toward the registers, Sasha and Historia falling into step. “Got bigger shit to focus on.”

Sasha grinned, her energy snapping back as she swung her bags, the red blouse dangling from her grip. “Damn right. Tonight’s the priority, not Jean’s tantrums,” she said, her voice loud again as she nudged you, the line for checkout looming ahead. “We’re killin’ it!”

You laughed, the sound easing the knot in your chest as you stepped up to the register, the cashier scanning your earnings. $4.99, a steal and you swiped your card again, the total from H&M still a faint ache in the back of your mind. . . .

The Forever 21 bags rustled in your lap as you sat back into Historia’s hatchback, the beige seats cool against your legs as you settled into the backseat. Sasha was in the passenger seat, a massive pretzel in one hand and a cup of cheese sauce balanced precariously in the other, the salty-buttery scent filling the car as she took a loud bite.

Historia started the engine, the soft purr humming beneath you as she continued to drive down the road. The food court stop had been quick but chaotic. Sasha piling her tray with that pretzel and fries, you grabbing a small order of nuggets to tide you over, and Historia sipping a lemonade she’d barely touched, all of you juggling bags and food as you’d dodged the holiday crowd back to the car.

Sasha twisted in her seat, her mouth half-full as she waved the pretzel, crumbs tumbling onto her lap. “I’m tellin’ you, this is the fuel I need,” she mumbled, dipping it into the cheese with a sloppy splash, her Forever 21 bag crumpled at her feet. “You good back there? Those nuggets holdin’ you over?”

You smirked, popping the last one into your mouth as you leaned back, the H&M and Forever 21 bags stacked beside you, the blue sweater peeking out. “Yeah, I’m straight. I don’t wanna fill up before dinner,” you said, your voice light as you brushed crumbs off your plum skirt, the Mary Janes scuffing faintly against the floor mat. “You’re a mess, though”

Historia laughed, a quiet burst from the driver’s seat as she merged onto the highway, her hands steady on the wheel. “You’re gonna leave crumbs in my car, aren’t you?”

Sasha grinned, unapologetic, licking the cheese off her thumb as she shrugged. “I’ll try not to,” she said, her voice muffled as she took another bite, the pretzel dwindling fast. “Y’all just jealous you didn’t get one. Should’ve listened to me.”

You rolled your eyes, your fingers tapping the bags as the scenery rolled by. Strip malls fading into residential streets, the bare trees stark against the late afternoon light. “I’ll pass. Gotta save room.” you muttered, your tone dry but warm.

The drive back to Sasha and Historia’s apartment flew by, the playlist looping through a couple more songs as Sasha finished her pretzel, wiping her hands on a crumpled napkin she’d fished from her bag. Historia pulled into the lot, the gravel crunching under the tires as she parked near your Jeep, the black Wrangler sitting matte and dusty under the dimming sky.

You grabbed your bags, the plastic crinkling as you pushed the door open. Sasha hopped out, her pretzel gone but the cheese cup still in hand, and Historia followed, locking the car.

“Alright, I’m out. Gotta get cute for my man!” Sasha said, her voice loud and bright as she darted over, planting a quick, sticky kiss on your cheek before you could dodge, the faint salt of pretzel lingering. “Have fun tonight. Tell me everything tomorrow,okay?”

You laughed, wiping at your cheek with a mock grimace as she bolted inside the building, her bags swinging wildly. “You know I will!” you called after her, your tone teasing as she disappeared inside.

Historia stepped closer, her smile soft as she opened her arms, and you pulled her into a quick hug, the warmth of her cutting through the cold. “Bye! Thanks for drivin’ us,” you said, your voice low and genuine as you squeezed her once, the bags bumping against her side. “Catch you later.”

“Anytime! Have a good night, okay?” she said, her tone gentle as she pulled back, her blonde hair catching the fading light as she waved, heading toward the apartment after Sasha.

You turned to your Jeep, the bags rustling as you unlocked it with a chirp, tossing them into the passenger seat before climbing in. The leather was cold, the engine rumbling to life with a familiar growl as you adjusted the rearview.

You pulled out, the tires crunching gravel then smoothing onto the pavement as you headed for your apartment, the streets quiet save for the occasional rustle of leaves skittering across the road.

The Jeep’s engine cut off with a low rumble as you pulled into your apartment lot, the black Wrangler settling into its usual spot near the chipped curb. You grabbed your bags, crinkling faintly as you slung them over your arm and hopped out, the cold biting at your knuckles as you locked the door. Your shoes crunched over scattered leaves, red and orange dust kicking up as you crossed the lot. The building loomed ahead, and you pushed through the lobby door, the hinges creaking as the warmth inside hit you with a faint whiff of stale cigarettes and cleaning solution.

Kenny was there, perched behind the front desk like always, his wiry frame hunched over a dog-eared paperback, his gray hair slicked back under that same worn cap. The lobby was quiet, just the hum of the ancient radiator and the faint buzz of a flickering fluorescent overhead, as he glanced up, his sharp eyes narrowing at the bags dangling from your arm. “Well, damn. Whatcha got there, kid? Robbed a store or somethin’?” he rasped, his voice gravelly but warm, a smirk tugging at his thin lips as he set the book down, the cover creased and yellowed.

You smirked back, shifting the bags to your other arm as you paused by the desk, your backpack straps digging into your shoulder. “Nah, just went to the mall. Got some stuff for tonight,” you said, your tone light. “Ain’t robbing a store yet.”

He chuckled, a low, rough sound that echoed faintly in the empty lobby as he leaned back, crossing his arms over his flannel shirt. “Tonight, huh? What’s the occasion? Hot date or some fancy school thing you college kids are always runnin’ off to?” he asked, his smirk widening as he eyed you, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it anyway.

You hesitated, just for a second, then shrugged, your Mary Janes scuffing the worn tile as you adjusted your grip on the bags. “Date, first one in a minute,” you admitted, your voice quieter now, the nerves creeping in despite the excitement. “Tryna look decent for it, you know?”

Kenny’s eyebrows shot up, his smirk softening into something closer to a grin as he tapped a finger against the desk, the wood scratched and stained from years of use. “No kiddin’Well, shit, good for you,” he said, his tone gruff but genuine. “Who’s the lucky bastard? Better be worth all that shoppin’.”

You laughed, a small huff as you shifted your weight, the bags rustling faintly. “He’s cool. Name’s Reiner, been friends a while,” you said, keeping it short. “We’ll see if he’s worth it. Fingers crossed.”

“Reiner, huh?” Kenny grunted, nodding like he was filing it away, his eyes flicking to the bags again. “Better be if he’s gettin’ you all dolled up,the least he can do is show up on time. You tell him old Kenny’s got a bat behind this desk if he screws it up.”

You grinned, shaking your head as you stepped toward the elevator, the doors looming just past the desk. “I’ll pass it along. Keep that bat ready,” you said, your voice teasing as you hit the call button, the faint ding cutting through the quiet. “Catch you later, Kenny.”

“Later, kid. Don’t trip over them bags goin’ up,” he called, his smirk back as he picked up his book again, flipping it open with a rustle as the elevator doors slid apart.

You stepped inside, the metal box creaking as you hit the button for your floor and leaned against the wall, the bags bumping your hip as it jolted upward. The ride was short, the hum of the cables a steady drone, and the doors opened with a groan, spilling you into the narrow hallway, the carpet worn but soft under your boots. You fished your keys from your pocket, the jangle loud in the quiet as you unlocked your door and pushed it open, the faint coffee scent from this morning greeting you as you stepped inside.

The apartment was small and cluttered, with textbooks stacked on the table, a thrift-store couch sagging under a throw blanket and you dropped your bags onto the bed. The blue sweater spilled out as the mattress creaked. Your backpack hit the floor next, the straps tangling as you kicked off your Mary Janes, the shoes tumbling to the side with a faint clatter. Then you headed for the bathroom, the tiles cool under your bare feet as you flicked on the light. The shower waited, the promise of hot water a small reset before the night kicked off, and you turned the knob, steam curling faintly as you stripped down.

|♩♩♩- Juno| By:Choker

The bathroom filled with steam as the shower hissed to life, the hot water cascading down in a steady stream that fogged the mirror and warmed the tiles under your bare feet. You stepped in, the heat hitting your skin like a wave, washing away the faint ache of the day. Jean’s bitching, the mall’s chaos, the weight of those bags.

Your routine kicked in, a rhythm you’d carved out over years, starting with the soap. A bar of shea butter stuff you’d grabbed from the corner store, its rich, nutty scent cutting through the steam as you lathered it up along with some Dove body wash, the suds sliding over your arms, your chest, your legs. You worked it in slow, deliberate circles, the warmth loosening the tension in your shoulders, the water drumming a steady beat against your back.

Next came the hair wash, your hair soaking up the heat as you tilted your head under the spray, water darkening the coils as it ran through. You grabbed the shampoo, some sulfate-free curl stuff that smelled like coconut and hibiscus, a splurge from last month, and squeezed a dollop into your palm, working it into your scalp with your fingertips, the foam building as you massaged it in.

The scent bloomed, sweet and sharp, mingling with the steam as you rinsed, the water tugging the suds free, your curls springing back soft and heavy. Conditioner followed, the same brand, thick and creamy, slathered generously from root to tip, your fingers detangling as you went, the slip making it easy.

You let it sit, the heat locking it in while you moved to the scrub. A gritty sugar mix with honey and oatmeal, scooped from a jar by the tub. You rubbed it over your arms, and your thighs, the rough texture sloughing off the day’s grime, leaving your skin smooth and faintly sweet.

The water started to cool, a faint nudge to wrap it up, and you rinsed the conditioner out, your curls bouncing back full and defined as the last of it swirled down the drain. You shut off the shower, the sudden quiet loud in your ears as you stepped out, steam curling around you. The towel hung on the rack, big, faded blue, and you wrapped it tight around yourself, the fabric soft but worn as you tucked it under your arm, water dripping from your hair onto the mat. You grabbed a smaller towel, turning it around your head to catch the excess water, the weight grounding as you padded back into the bedroom, the air cooler against your damp skin.

Your phone rang, a sharp trill cutting through the apartment’s hush, and you snatched it from the nightstand, the screen glowing with Bertholdt’s name. You swiped to answer, balancing it between your ear and shoulder as you sank onto the bed, the mattress creaking under you, the H&M and Forever 21 bags still spilled across the comforter. “Hey, Bert! Everything okay?” you said, your voice light but curious, the towel slipping slightly as you adjusted it.

“Yeah girl, Just checking on you”

Bertholdt said, his voice soft but clear over the faint clatter of cups and the hiss of an espresso machine in the background, the café, mid-shift. “Just wanted to call quick.”

You grinned, leaning back against the headboard, the wood cool through the towel as you shifted the phone to your hand. “Aww! You’re so sweet,” you said, your tone warm as you tugged the turban tighter, a stray droplet sliding down your neck. “How you holdin’ up over there?”

He laughed, a quiet, nervous sound that carried through the line. “Yeah, it’s busy. Some guy just ordered four lattes with, like, six pumps of syrup each for whatever fucking reason,” he said, his voice trailing off before picking back up. “Just me and the new girl.”

Bertholdt huffed, a sheepish sound over the line, the café noise swelling for a second, someone yelling about oat milk before fading. “Back to you though” he admitted, his tone lightening. “Where’s he taking you?”

“Dunno yet. Just dinner somewhere,” you said, shrugging even though he couldn’t see, your fingers tapping the bed as you glanced at the bags, the blue sweater peeking out. “Hopin’ it’s nothing to fancy.”

“Yeah, knowing Reiner, probably not,” Bertholdt said, his voice steadying as the espresso hiss cut through again. “Anyway, I gotta go, girl. The new girl’s confused again, and I’m on the bar. Just have a good time, okay? Tell me how it goes.”

“Will do! Don’t spill no lattes, Bert,” you said, your grin widening as you straightened up, the towel slipping slightly. “Thanks for the call.”

“No problem. Later,” he said, the line clicking off as the café noise cut abrupt, leaving you in the apartment’s quiet, the faint drip of the shower still echoing from the bathroom.

You set the phone down, the screen dark as you stood, the towel tight around you as you padded back to the bed, the bags rustling as you nudged them aside. Bertholdt’s words lingered. Time was ticking, the night stretching out ahead, and you let the buzz carry you forward, the shower’s warmth still clinging to your skin as you started pulling out the new fit, piece by piece.

You started with the black lace bra set, the delicate fabric cool against your skin as you hooked it on, the straps settling snugly over your shoulders. Next came the khaki skirt. Soft but structured, sliding it up over your hips, the zipper rasping faintly as you fastened it, the hem brushing just above your knees. You tugged the blue long-sleeve sweater over your head, the knit stretching slightly as it settled, hugging your frame beautifully. You moved to the mirror by your dresser, the wood scratched and wobbly, and grabbed the earrings you bought and slipped them through your lobes, the metal cool as they dangled against your neck.

The belt came next, threading it through the skirt’s loops, cinching it tight to pull the look together. You stepped back, snagging the brow purse from the chair, faux leather, a thrift find with a gold clasp and slung it over your shoulder, the strap resting light against the sweater. The brown leather jacket followed, worn and buttery soft, sliding on with a faint creak as you shrugged it over your arms.

Your brown boots sat by the door, ankle-high, scuffed but loved, and you slipped them on, the leather hugging your feet as you laced them up. You walked back over to the dresser, your reflection catching in the mirror.

Girl, you looked fucking amazing!

You reached for the chocolate perfume Mikasa had gifted you last Christmas, the bottle sleek and dark on the dresser, and unscrewed the cap, the rich, warm scent spilling out, cocoa and a hint of vanilla, deep and sweet. You spritzed it once on your wrists, then your neck, the mist settling light but lingering as you rubbed it in.

You stepped back, giving yourself a once-over in the mirror, the boots scuffing faintly as you turned. The black lace peeked subtly under the sweater’s neckline, the khaki skirt flared just right with the belt, and the burgundy popped against the brown leather.

It felt real now.

Close enough to touch.

The clock ticked closer, the apartment quiet save for the faint hum of the radiator kicking on, and you smoothed a hand over the jacket, the leather cool under your palm. Everything in place as you exhale, the nerves flickering but steady, the night stretching out ahead like an open road. You snatched your keys from the table, the jangle loud in the stillness, and headed for the door, the boots thudding soft but sure as you stepped out, ready to roll.

The apartment door clicked shut behind you, the faint echo bouncing down the hall as you headed for the elevator, your brown boots thudding softly against the worn carpet. You hit the call button and stepped inside as the doors slid open, the metal box groaning faintly as it started its slow descent. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, as you held, more like clenched your phone in your hands.

It buzzed mid-drop, a sharp vibration that jolted you out of your thoughts, and you swiped it open, Reiner’s name lighting up the screen.

Reiner: Hey. I’m here. Parked out front :)

The text read, simple and straight, his voice practically leaking through the words. Your heart kicked up, a quick thud against your ribs as the elevator jolted to a stop, the doors parting with a groan to spill you into the lobby.

You paused, thumb hovering over the screen as you stepped out and typed back quickly.

You: Be out in a sec :)

You slipped the phone into your purse, the buzz of his arrival sinking in. He was here, right now, waiting.

Kenny was still at the desk, his gray hair peeking out from under his cap as he flipped through that same dog-eared paperback. He glanced up as you approached, his sharp eyes narrowing at your getup, a smirk tugging at his thin lips. “Well, shit, look at you, all fancy,” he rasped, setting the book down with a soft *thump*, his voice gravelly but warm. “That boy better not fuck this up.”

You grinned, stopping by the desk as you adjusted the purse strap, the leather jacket rustling faintly. “He’s outside now actually,” you said, your tone light but tinged with that nervous hum, the reality of it hitting harder now. “And he better not, I’m gonna tell him you got that bat ready.”

Kenny chuckled, a rough, rolling sound as he leaned back, crossing his arms over his flannel. “Damn right! Been itchin’ to use it,” he said, his smirk widening as he nodded toward the door.

As if on cue, a sharp honk cut through the lobby’s quiet, muffled but unmistakable from the lot outside, and you laughed, the sound slipping out. “That’s my cue,” you said, glancing toward the glass doors, the faint silhouette of Reiners car idling under the streetlights just visible. “Catch you later, Kenny.”

“Don’t let him off easy,” he called, his voice trailing as he picked up his book again, the pages rustling as you turned for the exit. “And tell him I ain’t kiddin’ about that bat!”

“Will do!”

You tossed back, your boots tapping faster now as you pushed through the doors,the lobby doors swung shut behind you the breeze rushing in to greet you as you stepped out into the dimming light, the sky a bruised gray streaked with fading orange.

Your brown boots crunched over the scattered leaves littering the apartment steps, the cold nipping at your knuckles as you gripped the railing, descending slow and steady, the burgundy purse swaying faintly against your hip. Reiner’s truck sat right there. Its engine rumbling low and deep, headlights slicing through the dusk like twin beams. Your breath puffed out in a faint cloud, the chocolate perfume curling around you as you hit the last step, pausing near the passenger side with a smile tugging at your lips, small but real.

Don’t fuck this up.

Don’t fuck this up!

Don’t fuck this up, Y/n!

Butterflies swarmed your stomach, a wild flutter that climbed up your chest as you caught sight of him through the window. Reiner, broad and steady, his blonde hair catching the faint light, his hands resting easy on the wheel. The khaki skirt brushed your knees, the leather jacket creaking as you shifted, the heart earrings glinting as you reached for the handle.

You pulled the door open, the hinges groaning faintly, and climbed in, the warmth of the cab wrapping around you like a blanket, the faint scent of leather and something woodsy, his cologne, maybe, mixing with your chocolate perfume.

“Hey,” you said, your voice light but tinged with that nervous hum as you settled into the seat, the leather cool under your thighs. You tugged the seatbelt across, the click loud in the quiet as you glanced at him, your smile widening despite the butterflies still rioting inside.

“Hey,” he replied, his voice low and smooth, a grin flashing across his face.

Confident.

Easy, like he’d been waiting for this all day and knew exactly how to play it. His hazel eyes flicked to you, taking you in. The blue sweater, the khaki skirt, the whole fit, before settling back on the road, his broad hands flexing on the wheel. “You look good!.”

Your heart and mind are both screaming right now. Throwing confetti, taking shots, throwing a damn party right along with the butterflies dancing in your stomach. You swallowed and fixed yourself as you responded.

“Thank you, so do you.”

He gave you a sweet smirk and nodded before turning to the road again. “Ready?”

You nodded, your fingers brushing the purse in your lap as you shifted. “Yeah, let’s do it,” you said, your tone steadier now. Reiner’s grin widened, quiet confidence radiating off him as he threw the truck into gear, the engine growling louder for a second before smoothing out. He pulled away from the curb, the tires crunching over the leaves as the apartment faded into the rearview, the streetlights streaking past in amber blurs. His posture was relaxed, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console.

Holy fuck this is really happening!

[raggycookie]

Jean Kirstein x Reader

Honey Boy: Through Gritted Teeth

The automatic doors of the Kroger hissed open with a mechanical sigh, parting just wide enough to usher in a sharp, biting gust of November wind that sliced through the air like a damn blade. It curled greedily around the entryway, sweeping across the polished linoleum floors in a rush that sent a shiver racing up your spine. You stepped inside, boots thudding dully against the glossy tiles, the sound swallowed by the cavernous hum of the supermarket.

Sasha and Connie were right beside you, their own footsteps echoing faintly as the trio of you crossed the threshold into the fluorescent-lit chaos of the store. The chill clung stubbornly to your skin, prickling at the exposed patches where your outfit failed to shield you. You tugged the sleeves of your oversized gray sweater further down over your hands, the fabric soft and threadbare from countless washes, brushing against your knuckles like a whisper of comfort.

Underneath, the crisp collar of a white button-up peeked out, its starched edge resting neatly against the curve of your neck, a quiet nod to the effort you’d put into looking halfway presentable for class later. Your black skirt swayed lightly with each step, the hem grazing the tops of your brown thighs, while the dark stockings beneath did little to nothing to fend off the cold still seeping into your legs.

At least your boots, scuffed, worn-in leather that had carried you through too many late-night walks, kept your feet from turning to ice.

|♩♩♩ - All I want for Christmas is You| By: Mariah Carey

Inside, Kroger had surrendered itself entirely to the Christmas cheer, as if Thanksgiving had been a fleeting suggestion. Garlands of synthetic pine twisted lazily above the aisle signs, their deep green coils flecked with red and gold tinsel that shimmered faintly under the store’s harsh, flat white lights. Oversized plastic ornaments dangled from the ceiling on thin wires, their surfaces catching the glow of fleeting silver and gold glints.

In the seasonal section, a towering inflatable Santa loomed over a display of discounted wrapping paper, his painted grin stretched too wide, his rosy cheeks and unblinking eyes giving off an eerie, almost menacing vibe. And above it all, Mariah Carey’s voice reigned supreme, her saccharine notes drifting through the aisles like a spectral presence. All I Want for Christmas Is You looped endlessly, the melody weaving into the background noise of clattering carts and muffled chatter.

Connie let out a groan, dragging his feet as he shuffled past a towering stack of candy canes wrapped in crinkly plastic. His black shirt hugged his lean frame, the fabric pulling taut across his shoulders, while a thin silver chain glinted at his throat, catching the sterile light with every movement. His baggy jeans slung low on his hips, the frayed cuffs skimming the tops of his scuffed black sneakers. A green beanie sat crooked on his head, the ribbed knit tugged down over his ears. He exhaled sharply, the sound cutting through Mariah’s singing.

“Man, I hate when stores pull this shit,” he muttered, shoving his hands deeper into the front pocket of his hoodie, his shoulders hunching as if the weight of the holiday decor might crush him.

You arched an eyebrow, the corner of your mouth twitching upward in a half-smile as you glanced his way. “Pull what, exactly?”

He gestured vaguely at the garish display around you, his hand sweeping through the air with all the disdain he could muster. “This whole Christmas shit when the turkey ain’t even thawed out yet. Like, can we get through one holiday before they shove the next one down our throats?”

Sasha snorted, her laughter a quick, bright burst as she snatched a pack of chocolate-glazed doughnuts from a nearby shelf and tossed it into the large cart you were walking around with. The box landed with a soft thud, jostling it. Her oversized yellow sweater swallowed her frame, the sleeves pooling around her wrists, the hem brushing the tops of her gray sweatpants.

Her hair was swept back into its usual high ponytail, though a few strands had escaped, framing her beautiful face. “It’s capitalism, Connie,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact as she added another box of doughnuts to the cart. “They’re just tryna suck every dollar out of us before the year’s up.”

“Not my money,”

“Yeah, ‘cause you don’t have any,” you said

Sasha’s laughter erupted again. Connie’s jaw dropped, and he pressed a hand to his chest, his dark eyes widening in mock betrayal. “Girl, you know I’m tryna lock down a job!” he protested, his voice rising an octave. Then, as if struck by a good plan, he pointed at you. “Yo, you think Miche would hire me at the café?”

You scoffed, turning toward the dairy section, your fingers brushing over the cool, damp surface of an oat milk carton. The condensation clung to your skin as you lifted it, inspecting the label absently. “You? Nah, probably not.”

Connie’s brows knitted together, his pout deepening. “Why the hell not?”

You glanced over your shoulder,“Because Miche’s looking for someone who’s actually gonna work, not just sit on their ass all day.”

Sasha hummed thoughtfully, her head tilting as she surveyed the yogurt aisle with an intensity that suggested she was solving a riddle rather than picking a snack. “Yeah, Miche’s pretty chill, but Mikasa and Y/n have told me he doesn’t mess around when it comes to work,” she said, then flashed Connie a teasing smirk. “Guess you’re shit outta luck, bro.”

Connie slumped his shoulders in an exaggerated display of defeat, his lower lip jutting out like a sulky kid. “I’ll find something,” he mumbled, kicking at an imaginary pebble on the spotless floor.

“Mhm,” you murmured, your amusement barely concealed as you dropped the oat milk into the cart.

Sasha’s eyes sparkled as she found the last box of Special K cereal from the shelf, waving it triumphantly before adding it to the growing pile. “You should’ve found your way to a hospital with how you were acting last night at Zeke’s place.”

Connie rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “I honestly can’t remember much of what I did, bro. It’s all a blur.”

You rolled your eyes, already fishing your phone from your purse. A few quick taps brought up the evidence, and you held the screen out for him to see, the shaky video playing in all its chaotic glory.

There he was, Connie, alongside Eren, sprinting full speed toward Reiner’s car in the dead of night, their laughter wild and unhinged as they launched themselves over the hood in a sloppy attempt at a flip. The footage wobbled, the streetlights casting jagged shadows over their reckless stunt.

“Daaammmnn,” Connie whispered, his eyes wide as he leaned closer to the screen, equal parts impressed and horrified.

“Keep acting like that, and I’m signing you up for the Olympics,” you snorted, slipping the phone back into your purse with a shake of your head. Sasha grinned, her teeth flashing. “Hey, there’s your money right there. Gold medals and sponsorships.”

“Tempting,”

Connie mused, scratching his chin as if seriously considering it. “But I heard they don’t let you smoke weed, so nah, I’m good.” You chuckled before turning to look him in the eyes. “Pretty sure they just mean during the competition.”

“I thought it was, like, a total ban,” Sasha interjected, her brow furrowing as she tilted her head.

Connie shrugged, unbothered. “Either way, still a no for me.”

“Waste of talent,” you teased, your voice light as you sidestepped a display of holiday-themed cookies.

With a shameless grin, he slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. The warmth of his body seeped through your sweater, and his cologne hit you, a familiar blend of Adidas Move and the weed that clung to his clothes, grounding and sharp all at once. “Come on, baby, don’t do me like that,” he drawled, his voice dropping low and syrupy in your ear.

“Hm,” you hummed, fighting the smile that threatened to break free as you leaned into him just a little.

Sasha’s gaze flicked toward the meat section, her focus shifting abruptly. “Oh, grab me the large ground beef real quick, I’m making spaghetti tonight,” she said, pointing toward the shelves. Connie disentangled himself from you, striding over to the cooler and snagging the biggest pack of ground beef he could find. He handed it to Sasha with a dramatic flourish, bowing slightly.

“Your beef, milady.”

“Thank you!”

Sasha chirped, tossing it into the cart with a satisfied nod. She turned to you, her expression softening. “Hey, Y/n, you wanna come over tonight for dinner? I’ll save you a plate.” You sighed, offering her an apologetic smile. “Can’t, sadly. Got tutoring tonight. Sorry, pretty girl.”

Connie gasped, clutching his chest again, his eyes gleaming with exaggerated woe. “Ooh, my Shayla! You finna hang out with another man tonight, and it ain’t me?”

“You gotta be quick,” you teased, winking at him.

His grin sharpened, a glint of challenge in his eyes. “I’m not so quick with other things, though.”

“You nasty bi-” you started, but he cut you off, clasping his hands together in a pleading gesture.

“One chance, baby, please!” he begged, his voice dripping with mock desperation, his lashes fluttering dramatically.

“I’ll think about it,” you said, smirking as you turned away.

Sasha laughed, poking your side with a knowing look. “She’s lying. I saw the way you were looking at Reiner last night, girl.” Heat crept up your cheeks, and you swatted her hand away. “We were just talking.”

“Talking?” Sasha raised an eyebrow, her tone dripping with skepticism. “Y’all looked like you were eye-fucking.” Connie groaned, covering his face with both hands. “Don’t say that, bro, my heart can’t take it!”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “You were drunk, Sasha. You didn’t even know what was going on.”

“Ahh, whatever,” she said, waving you off with a flick of her wrist.

“You need to worry about yourself,” you countered, nodding at her. “You and Niccolo’s date is this Thursday, right?” Connie grumbled, grabbing a carton of eggs from the shelf with more force than necessary. “Her ass won’t shut up about it.”

“Because I’ve been craving this date, man,” Sasha said, practically bouncing on her heels, her eyes lighting up. “It’s gonna be perfect.” Connie shot her a sidelong glance. “That’s all you craving, huh?”

Sasha shrugged, unabashed. “I’m not afraid to admit I’ve been fiending over him.”

“More like gooning,” you muttered under your breath.

Connie’s horrified gasp ricocheted down the aisle. “NOOOO!”

Sasha just laughed, unbothered. “Anyway, I’m also craving some Dunkin, so once we’re done here, we can swing by before I drop Y/n off for class.”

“What else do we need?” you asked, scanning the crumpled list in your hand.

“Just the noodles and sauce, then we're good to head out” Sasha said, her voice chipper. Connie tossed his head back with a relieved sigh, brushing his hands together. “Let’s hurry up. I’m sick of hearing Mariah Carey scream in my ear.”

With the noodles and sauce for Sasha’s spaghetti secured, the three of you navigated the bustling aisles of Kroger, weaving past harried shoppers and overstuffed carts until you reached the self-checkout stations. You shift the cart towards the counter with a quiet clatter, its contents shifting slightly as Sasha immediately took charge, her movements quick and efficient so you can all hurry to grab some breakfast.

Her eyes glinted as she snatched a pack of Little Debbie Zebra Cakes from a nearby impulse-buy rack, tossing them into the cart with a casual flick of her wrist. The crinkle of the wrapper was barely audible over the hum of the machine as she began scanning more items.

You raised an eyebrow, leaning one hip against the counter as you watched her. “Aren’t we hitting Dunkin’ after this?”

Sasha didn’t even glance up, her focus locked on the box of cereal she was sliding across the scanner. “Yup. These are for later,” she replied smoothly, her voice carrying that easy confidence that made it impossible to argue with her.

Connie scoffed from beside you, his arms crossed over his chest as he shot Sasha a look of mock disgust. “You so big back,” he said, dragging out the words for emphasis, his lips curling into a smirk.

Sasha’s head snapped up, her hazel eyes narrowing into slits, “Didn’t your ass eat four Crunchwraps in one sitting last weekend?” she fired back, her tone sharp enough to cut glass.

Connie spluttered, his hands flying up in exaggerated betrayal. “And didn’t you do the same, but with three Baja Blasts chugged back-to-back?”

“Fuck you, Connie,” Sasha huffed, rolling her eyes as she swiped the ground beef across the scanner with a little more force than necessary.

Connie leaned against the edge of the counter, his self-satisfied grin widening as he rocked back on his heels. “You mad ‘cause I’m right,” he taunted, his voice full of satisfaction.

You chuckled under your breath, the sound soft and warm as you reached into the cart to help Sasha scan the remaining items. The plastic bags crinkled faintly as you gathered them back into the cart. The self-checkout screen flashed a total, and Sasha tapped her card against the reader, the transaction completed in seconds.

“Jesus, it’s cold,”

You muttered as the three of you stepped back into the biting November air. The automatic doors slid shut behind you with a hiss, sealing off the artificial warmth of the store as the wind hit your skin. It sliced across your exposed thighs, slipping past the thin barrier of your stockings making you shiver.

Connie snorted, yanking the strings of his hoodie tight around his face until only his eyes peeked out from beneath the green beanie. “Should’ve worn a coat instead of tryna look cute,” he teased, his breath puffing out in a faint cloud.

You shot him a sidelong glare, though the corner of your mouth twitched upward. “You think I’m cute?”

He didn’t hesitate, his dark eyes glinting with that familiar mischief as he stepped closer, his voice dropping low and smooth. “Fine as hell.”

A laugh burst from your lips, sharp and bright, your breath curling into the cold air like wisps of smoke. You shook your head, turning toward Sasha’s silver Subaru Outback parked a few spaces away. By the time you reached it, your fingers were starting to numb, the tips tingling even through the stretched-out sleeves of your sweater. Sasha pressed a button on her key fob, and the trunk lifted with a quiet whir, revealing a cluttered mess of reusable bags, a stray hairbrush, and an old blanket shoved into the corner. You loaded the groceries in, shifting them to make space, while Sasha unceremoniously shoved the empty cart toward Connie.

“Take it back,” she ordered, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned against the side of the car, her yellow sweater glowing faintly under the parking lot lights.

Connie groaned, his shoulders slumping as he dragged his feet toward the cart corral. “Damn, a ‘please’ would’ve been nice,” he called over his shoulder, his voice dripping with mock indignation.

“I’m driving. Remember that,” Sasha shot back, her tone dry as she slid into the driver’s seat with a smirk.

“Whatever,” Connie grumbled, though the sparkle in his eyes as he trudged off told you he wasn’t really mad.

Seizing your chance, you darted around to the passenger side and slipped into the front seat, the worn leather creaking faintly beneath you. You buckled in with a click just as Connie returned, his long strides eating up the distance. He reached for the door handle, but before he could grab it, you hit the lock button with a smile. Through the glass, his wide-eyed stare met yours, disbelief etched across his face as he mouthed, “Are you serious?”

You grinned, wiggling your fingers in a taunting wave. “I told you, you gotta be quick.”

His jaw dropped, but the glare he leveled at you held no real venom. “You’re lucky I love your crazy ass,” he said, his voice muffled through the window as he yanked open the back door with a muttered curse, climbing in with an exaggerated huff.

Sasha backed out of the parking spot with a practiced ease, her eyes flicking to the rearview mirror as she rolled them fondly. She scrolled through her phone with one hand, the other resting lightly on the wheel, as she played one of the songs from her playlist. The bass vibrated faintly through the seats, a steady pulse that matched the rhythm of the city streets rolling by.

|♩♩♩- Will I see you again| By: Thee Sacred Souls

Five minutes later, you pulled into the Dunkin’ drive-thru, the neon sign casting a warm, pinkish glow through the windshield. Sasha rolled her window down, the cold rushing in as her breath misted in the air. She leaned out slightly, her ponytail swinging as she called out to the speaker.

“Hi, may I have a pumpkin cream cold brew and two Bismark doughnuts, please?” She nudged Connie’s leg with her elbow, barely glancing back. “What do you want, pinhead?”

Connie leaned forward, resting his elbows on the center console as he peered out the window. “Get me a bacon egg and cheese sandwich and an iced Americano with sweet foam,” he said, his tone casual.

Sasha repeated his order into the speaker, then turned to you with an exaggeratedly sweet smile, batting her lashes. “And for you, my queen?”

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek as you glanced at the menu board glowing faintly. “I don’t know if I have enough for anything,” you admitted, your voice quieter than you intended.

Sasha snorted, waving off your concern like it was nothing. “I didn’t ask about that. I said, what do you want?”

A small smile tugged at your lips, warmth blooming in your chest. “May I have one chocolate doughnut stuffed with the cookies and cream filling and a small pumpkin latte, please?”

Sasha snickered, leaning back out the window with a grin. “And two chocolate cookies and cream stuffed doughnuts with a large pumpkin spice latte. Extra cold foam,” she said, with a smile. The lady over the speaker gave the total and told you all to drive around.

Your eyes widened, a mix of betrayal and amusement flashing across your face. “I asked for a small and one doughnut!”

“Well, I got you a large and two doughnuts,” Sasha quipped, tossing you a wink as she rolled down the window and handed the woman her card. “You’re welcome.”

You stared at her, lips twitching as you fought a grin. “…I’m gonna marry your ass one day.”

“Finally admitting it,” she teased, leaning over to press a dramatic, smacking kiss to your cheek. The sound echoed in the car, and you laughed right as the woman handed Sasha her receipt.

The car inched forward in the line, and Sasha leaned back in her seat with a smirk. “Besides, you’re gonna need all that energy since Jean’s tutoring you again today.”

You groaned inwardly, your shoulders slumping against the seat as a wave of irritation washed over you.

Jean.

The name alone was enough to sour your mood. Smart as hell, sure, annoyingly so, with his perfect grades and that smug little smirk he wore like a badge of honor. But an asshole nonetheless, with his sharp tongue. You scowled, shoving the image of his broad shoulders and stupidly sharp jawline to the back of your mind. The nerve of him, looking that good while being that insufferable. It was unfair, honestly.

The Dunkin’ worker leaned out the window with a bright smile, handing Sasha a tray of drinks and a paper bag stuffed with goodies. “Have a nice day!” they chirped, and Sasha nodded back as the rich smell of coffee and warm dough flooded the car, banishing the cold for a blissful moment. Connie wasted no time, tearing into his sandwich with a groan of pure satisfaction as he sprawled across the backseat, his long legs stretching out like he owned the place.

Sasha’s eyes flickered to the rearview mirror, narrowing with a warning glint. “Connie, don’t spill nothing on my seats, I swear!”

He rolled his eyes, waving a napkin in the air like a white flag. “I’m not, damn! I got a napkin right here, chill!”

You bit back a laugh, lifting your latte to your lips and savoring the first sip. The warmth spread down your throat, sweet and hot. The car coasted down the street, heading towards campus.

In the backseat, Connie munched noisily on his bacon egg and cheese sandwich, the crinkle of the wrapper punctuating the quiet as he sprawled out, one sneaker propped against the back of your seat.

You shifted in the passenger seat, the leather creaking faintly beneath you, and glanced over at Sasha. Her profile was illuminated by the soft glow of the dashboard, her lips still curved in that smug little smirk from her earlier victory at Dunkin’. You took another sip of your latte, the extra cold foam Sasha had insisted on melting sweetly on your tongue, before breaking the comfortable silence.

“So,” you started, your voice casual but laced with curiosity, “what are you wearing for your big date with Niccolo on Thursday? You’ve been hyping it up nonstop, so I know you’ve got something planned.”

Sasha’s eyes lit up, her smirk widening into a full grin as she flicked her gaze toward you for a split second before returning it to the road. “Oh, I’ve been thinking about it, trust me,” she said, her tone brimming with excitement. “I’m leaning toward that black dress, you know, the one with the slit up the thigh? It’s sexy but not, like, trying too hard, you know? Pair it with those gold hoops I got last month and the strappy heels that make my legs look sexy.”

You nodded approvingly, picturing the outfit in your mind. “That’s a solid choice.You’re gonna look hot as hell.”

“Right?” Sasha beamed, her fingers tapping the steering wheel in rhythm with the music. “I want him to be, like, stunned when he sees me. He’s been texting me all week about this Italian place he’s taking me to, and I’m not about to show up looking anything less than perfect.”

Connie’s voice cut through from the backseat, muffled slightly by a mouthful of sandwich. “Yeah, well, just make sure you shave, Sash. You hairy as fuck,Niccolo’s gonna think he’s dating Wild Mike if you don’t.”

Sasha’s head whipped around so fast you thought she might strain something, her eyes narrowing into a glare that could’ve melted steel. Without missing a beat, she reached back with one hand, her arm stretching across the console as she landed a sharp smack on Connie’s knee. The sound cracked through the car, loud and satisfying, and Connie yelped, nearly dropping his sandwich as he jolted upright.

“Ow, what the hell!” he protested, rubbing his leg with exaggerated indignation, though the grin spreading across his face betrayed him.

Sasha turned back to the road, her smirk returning as she shook her head. “Keep talking shit, pinhead, and I’ll leave your ass on the side of the road.”

Connie dissolved into laughter, the sound spilling out of him in deep, infectious waves that bounced off the car’s interior. He leaned forward, resting his chin on the edge of your seat, his breath warm against your shoulder as he wheezed. “I’m just sayin’, Niccolo’s gonna need a weed whacker if you don’t handle that shit.”

You snorted, nearly choking on your latte as you swatted at Connie’s head. “You’re disgusting,” you said, though your own laughter bubbled up, bright and uncontainable.

Sasha rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched upward. “Y’all are lucky I don’t crash this car just to shut you up.”

You turned and looked at Sasha with your mouth slightly open.

“I didn't even say anything.”

Connie, still chuckling, pulled out his phone, the screen lighting up his face in a soft blue glow. “Yo, speaking of wild shit, you see that TikTok going around? The one where that dude’s just throwing chairs at people in a parking lot?”

You turned slightly in your seat, eyebrows lifting. “What? No, show me.”

He tapped the screen a few times, then held it up between you and Sasha, the video already playing. The grainy footage showed a guy in a hoodie hurling folding chairs at unsuspecting passersby, each throw accompanied by a dramatic yell and the startled shrieks of his victims. The chaos unfolded to the tune of some over-the-top action movie soundtrack, and by the time one chair sailed into a group of frat guys who scattered like startled pigeons, all three of you were cackling.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, clutching your stomach as tears pricked your eyes. “I'm hollering!”

“Probably a cradhout,” Connie wheezed, wiping at his face. “Imagine that’s Reiner after we messed with his car last night.”

“After you messed with his car last night.”

Sasha snorted, her laughter sharp and loud as she wiped at her own eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. “Nah, Reiner's a sweetheart.”

“Mhm,” you agreed, still giggling as you took another sip of your latte. “That guy lucky he didn't hit someone who was carrying.”

Connie shook his head, pocketing his phone as his laughter finally tapered off. “My thoughts exactly.”

The car rolled to a stop at a traffic light and you glanced out the window, the familiar silhouette of the math building coming into view a few blocks ahead. The mood settled slightly, the laughter fading into a comfortable quiet as Sasha turned down the music just a notch.

A minute later, she pulled up to the curb outside the building, the engine idling with a low rumble as you unbuckled your seatbelt.

You leaned into the backseat, reaching for your bag. The faint scent of Connie’s cologne lingered as you brushed past him, and he shifted to give you more room, still nursing the last of his iced Americano.

Sasha twisted in her seat to face you, her expression softening as she rested an elbow on the console. “Hey, call me if you need someone to pick you up after your session later tonight, okay? I don’t want you walking home in the dark.”

You slung the bag over one shoulder, the weight settling familiarly against your back as you nodded. “I will. Thanks, Sasha,” you said, offering her a small, appreciative smile. You glanced at Connie, who flashed you a lazy grin, then pushed open the passenger door. The cold rushed in immediately, nipping at your legs as you stepped out onto the sidewalk.

“See y’all later,” you called, lifting a hand in a wave as you turned toward the building. Sasha honked the horn lightly in response, a quick, playful beep that echoed faintly as she pulled away, the Subaru’s tail lights glowing red in the distance. Connie’s muffled laughter trailed after them, fading away as you pushed through the heavy glass doors.

The math building’s lobby swallowed you whole, the air inside thick with the sterile scent of industrial cleaner and the faint buzz of overhead lights. The tiled floor gleamed underfoot, your boots clicking softly against it as you headed toward the elevators.

You shifted your backpack higher on your shoulder, the straps digging into your sweater as you fished your phone from your skirt pocket. The screen glowed to life,five minutes early, not your best but you're still early.

The elevator stood just ahead, its silver doors catching the overhead light in a dull sheen. As you approached, it chimed with a bright, artificial ding, the doors sliding open to reveal a handful of students already crammed inside. Most were hunched over their phones, faces blank and eyes glazed, lost in the glow of their screens.

One guy in a puffy jacket leaned against the wall, earbuds dangling loosely from his ears, while a girl with a messy bun scrolled absently, her thumb flicking across TikTok with mechanical precision. You slipped in beside them and pressed the button for the third floor. The doors eased shut with a soft hiss, sealing you in, and you exhaled slowly, watching the numbers above blink from one to two, then three.

When the doors parted again, you stepped out into the third-floor hallway, the air noticeably quieter here, the clamor of the lobby left behind. The voices that lingered were hushed, muffled by heavy wooden doors and the occasional rustle of paper from behind them. Bulletin boards lined the walls, cluttered with flyers advertising study groups, tutoring services, and some faded poster for a some school event long past, its corners curling inward.

The math classroom waited at the end of the hall, its door propped slightly ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling out into the corridor. You peeked inside as you approached, catching glimpses of students scattered across the room. Some hunched over notebooks, pencils scratching furiously against paper, while others lounged with earbuds in, their thumbs swiping lazily across phone screens. The desks were a mismatched array of scratched wood and chipped laminate, arranged in uneven rows that spoke of years of indifferent use. Near the middle of the room, a familiar head of blond hair caught your eye, and a small wave of relief loosened the knot in your shoulders.

Colt looked up just as you stepped through the doorway, his face breaking into a warm, easy smile that crinkled the corners of his hazel eyes. He raised a hand in a casual wave, the sleeve of his navy hoodie slipping down to reveal a woven bracelet on his wrist, faded and fraying at the edges.

You mirrored the gesture, weaving through the desks to reach him, your boots scuffing softly against the linoleum as you slid into the seat beside him. The chair was cold beneath you, its metal frame biting through your skirt, and the desk’s smooth surface felt cool under your palms as you set your bag down with a quiet thud.

“Hey,” you greeted, your voice light as you unzipped your backpack, the sound sharp in the low hum of the room. “Didn’t think you’d be here early.”

Colt chuckled, a low, rumbling sound as he tossled his hair. “Surprisingly I didn't sleep in this morning so, figured I’d actually be responsible for once instead of rolling in late like usual.” He grinned, his eyes bright with that effortless friendliness that had drawn you to him back in freshman year, when you’d bonded over a shared hatred of 8 a.m. lectures and lukewarm dining hall coffee.

You snorted, pulling out your calculus textbook and letting it drop onto the desk with a heavy thunk. “Well look at you.”

He laughed again, shaking his head, the sound bright and unselfconscious. Then his expression shifted, a spark of excitement lighting up his face as he reached for his phone. “Oh, wait, hold up, I gotta show you these,” he said, his fingers quick and a little clumsy as he swiped through his camera roll, the screen casting a faint glow across his features. “Falco had that soccer game this weekend i told you about, and the kid was all over the field. Scored twice, absolute beast.”

He handed you the phone, and you took it, the cool glass smooth against your fingertips. The screen lit up with a photo of a boy no older than twelve, his blond hair a sweaty, tousled mess sticking to his forehead, his cheeks flushed pink beneath the harsh glare of a midday sun.

His soccer jersey hung loose on his slight frame, the number 12 emblazoned in bold red across the chest, but the grin stretching across his face was pure, unfiltered joy, teeth flashing, eyes squinted shut in triumph. You swiped to the next image: Falco mid-kick, one leg extended as the ball sailed through the air, his focus razor-sharp. Another showed him with his arms raised, mid-celebration, while a third captured him half-tackled by a teammate in a messy, jubilant hug, both of them laughing as they hit the grass.

You smiled, the warmth of the moment seeping into you as you handed the phone back. “He’s getting taller,” you remarked, your tone soft but genuine. “How old is he now?”

“Twelve,” Colt corrected himself with a sheepish grin, scratching the back of his neck. “Just turned it last month. Swear he’s growing an inch every time I blink, kid’s gonna pass me up soon, and I’m not ready for that.”

You chuckled, leaning back in your chair, the cold metal creaking faintly beneath you. “He looks happy. You take these yourself?”

“Hell yeah,” Colt said, his grin widening with a touch of pride as he tucked his phone back into his hoodie pocket. “I was screaming on the sidelines like a damn maniac, mom had to elbow me and tell me to chill out. But, you know.”

The fondness in his voice was palpable, a quiet glow that settled comfortably in the space between you. You smiled, soft and unguarded. “Bet he appreciates it. Not every kid’s got a big brother cheering that loud.”

Colt’s ears flushed pink at the tips, but his grin held steady, unshaken. “Yeah, well, he’s stuck with me whether he likes it or not.” He glanced at you, one brow lifting as a teasing edge crept into his tone. “Anyway, heard about your tutor session with him. If he tries you do you want me to make an escape plan?”

You groaned, letting your head tip back against the chair, the ceiling’s acoustic tiles blurring into a dull white expanse above you. “Please do. Preferably one with zero calculus and zero smug assholes breathing down my neck.”

Colt snorted, the sound sharp and amused as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Can’t help you with the calculus part, but I’ll see what I can do about the assholes. Maybe smuggle you out through the back stairwell when he’s not looking.”

You chuckled, the tension in your shoulders unwinding just a fraction as you straightened up. The room was filling up now, more students trickling in The faint scent of damp wool and coffee lingered in the air, mingling with the sterile bite of the classroom’s atmosphere. You glanced at the clock mounted above the whiteboard, two minutes to spare.

Perfect.

For a moment, you let yourself breathe, the warmth of the room seeping into your bones, the faint trace of pumpkin spice still clinging to your breath.

Colt was still rambling beside you about Falco tripping over a water bottle during halftime, but your attention drifted, snagging on the familiar sound of boots scuffing against linoleum just outside the door.

Jean stepped into the classroom, his presence cutting through the ambient noise like a blade, though there was nothing sharp about the way he moved today. He looked tired, more tired than usual, his broad shoulders slumping slightly as he shuffled through the doorway, his gait heavier than the brisk, purposeful stride you’d come to associate with him.

Normally, he’d already be here by the time you arrived, seated in his usual spot, his notes spread out and his hazel eyes flicking up to track your entrance with a glint of smug superiority. Today, though, he was late, well, late for him. You noted it with a flicker of curiosity, your brow twitching faintly, but the thought dissolved as quickly as it came.

You didn’t care enough to dwell on it, let alone ask. All that mattered was that he’d better be awake enough to make sense of derivatives and integrals when you met him later in the library for your tutoring session. If he couldn’t manage that, you’d have words, sharp ones.

He wore a black turtleneck today, the fabric snug against his frame, hugging the lines of his chest and shoulders in a way that was understated but deliberate. It covered the sleeve tattoos that sprawled across his forearms. His light-wash jeans hung loose on his hips, the denim faded and frayed at the knees, pooling slightly over the tops of his scuffed black boots. The silver chain around his neck glinted faintly under the fluorescent lights, a subtle flash of metal that matched the rings adorning his fingers. Two on his left hand, one on his right, their surfaces catching the light as he adjusted the strap of the worn leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

His ash-brown mullet was a bit messier than usual, strands falling haphazardly across his forehead, and faint shadows clung to the skin beneath his eyes, deepening the hazel to something darker, murkier.

He didn’t spare you a glance as he made his way through the room, his boots thudding dully against the floor. The other students barely registered his arrival, too absorbed in their own worlds, but you tracked him out of habit, your gaze narrowing slightly as he headed straight for the row behind you.

Of course.

He always sat there, close enough to loom over your shoulder, far enough to keep that unspoken distance between you. You shifted in your seat, the cold metal of the chair creaking faintly beneath you, and tugged your sweater sleeves down over your hands, a small barrier against the draft creeping through the room.

Jean dropped into the seat with a quiet grunt, the desk groaning under his weight as he let his bag slide to the floor with a muffled thump. You heard the rustle of fabric as he leaned back, the faint creak of the chair adjusting to his frame, and then the soft clink of his chain settling against his chest. He stretched his legs out beneath the desk, the toes of his boots brushing perilously close to the back of your chair—close enough that you could feel the faint disturbance in the air, a whisper of his presence that set your jaw tightening instinctively. You didn’t turn around. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, not even a flicker of acknowledgment. But you could picture it anyway: the way he’d slouch, one arm draped lazily over the desk, the other resting on his thigh, his rings glinting as he tapped his fingers in that restless, annoying rhythm he always fell into when he was bored.

Colt’s voice pulled you back, his tone light and oblivious to the shift in your focus. “—and then Coach was like, ‘You’re benched if you pull that shit again,’ but Falco just grinned like it was nothing. Kid’s fearless, I swear.” He paused, glancing at you with a crooked smile. “You good? You zoned out for a sec.”

You blinked, forcing your attention back to him as you offered a small, dismissive shrug. “Yeah, just thinking about how much I’d rather be anywhere else right now,” you said, your voice dry but steady. It wasn’t a lie, just not the full truth.

Colt chuckled, oblivious, and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head until his hoodie rode up slightly, exposing a sliver of skin above his waistband. “Fair. This class is bad, even on a good day.”

You hummed in agreement, flipping open your textbook to the chapter on limits, the pages crisp and uncreased despite the semester’s wear. Behind you, Jean shifted again, the sound of his bag unzipping cutting through the air, a slow, deliberate rasp that grated on your nerves more than it should have. You heard the faint clatter of a pen hitting the desk, followed by the rustle of papers as he pulled out his notes, the edges crinkled and worn like he’d been poring over them for hours.

Probably had.

He was nothing if not meticulous, a trait that made your blood simmer. You didn’t need to see him to know he was already scanning the room, those sharp hazel eyes taking stock of everything, everyone,like he was cataloging weaknesses to exploit later.

The professor hadn’t arrived yet, the whiteboard still blank at the front of the room, and the clock ticked on, each second dragging heavier than the last. You rested your elbow on the desk, propping your chin in your hand as you doodled absently in the margin of your notebook, a small little turtle.

You shifted again, crossing one leg over the other, the hem of your skirt brushing your thigh as you adjusted. The movement sent a faint ripple through the air, and you swore you felt the slightest pause in the rhythm of Jean’s tapping fingers, a hiccup in his usual cadence. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the soft scratch of his pen against paper, and you clenched your teeth, forcing your focus back to the textbook.

Professor Levi swept into the room with his usual brisk efficiency, a small figure cutting through the sluggish energy of the classroom like a blade. Levi barely reached the whiteboard before he set down his battered leather satchel with a muted thud, the sound sharp enough to pull a few heads up from their phones. His dark hair was neatly combed back, though a few strands fell loose over his forehead, and his gray eyes, piercing, almost unnervingly so, swept the room in a single, assessing glance.

He wore a charcoal blazer over a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a thin black tie that hung slightly askew, as if he’d tugged at it in irritation earlier. The chalk clicked against the board as he picked it up, his movements precise, almost mechanical, and without preamble, he began scribbling a series of equations, the white dust smudging faintly against his fingers.

The room settled into a reluctant hush, the rustle of notebooks and the soft clatter of pens replacing the earlier chatter. You leaned forward slightly, your elbows resting on the desk, the cool wood grounding you as you tried to focus on the looping symbols taking shape on the board. Levi’s voice cut through the air, low and clipped, carrying that dry edge that made every word feel like a challenge.

“Alright,” he said, turning to face the class, the chalk still gripped between his fingers. “Intermediate Value Theorem. Someone tell me what it states. Don’t waste my time.”

The question hung in the air, heavy and expectant, and for a moment, the room was silent save for the faint hum of the heating system and the occasional shuffle of feet. You traced the spiral in your notebook with your pen, the ink bleeding slightly into the paper, and kept your eyes down. You knew the theorem, vaguely,but the specifics eluded you, tangled somewhere in the mess of limits and continuity you’d been struggling to unravel all damn semester.

Behind you, Jean shifted in his seat, the faint creak of his chair cutting through the silence. His voice came next, smooth and steady, with that infuriating confidence that seemed to cling to him like a second skin. “The Intermediate Value Theorem states that if a function is continuous on a closed interval and k is any number between f(a) and f(b), then there exists at least one point in the interval.”

You didn’t need to turn around to picture the scene: Jean leaning back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the desk, his hazel eyes fixed on Levi with that quiet, self-assured look he always wore when he knew he was right. Which, annoyingly, was most of the time. Levi gave a curt nod, his expression unchanging,blank, almost bored, as if Jean’s correctness was a given rather than an achievement.

“Hm,” Levi said, turning back to the board. He scratched out another problem, the chalk screeching faintly as he drew a jagged graph, two points marked clearly at opposite ends. “Next question. Given this function, continuous, obviously, where does the value lie if I ask for a point between these two outputs? Explain it.”

The room went still again, the silence thicker this time, pressing down like a weight. You stared at the graph, the lines blurring slightly as you tried to piece together an answer. Your mind churned, grasping at fragments of lectures you’d half-listened to, but nothing solid came.

You didn’t know it,

Not confidently, anyway, and you weren’t about to raise your hand and prove it. Colt shifted beside you, his pencil tapping softly against his notebook, but he didn’t speak up either. The other students seemed equally frozen, their heads bowed or their eyes darting nervously toward the front.

Then, from behind you, Jean’s voice broke the quiet again, casual but pointed.

“Looks like Y/n’s got her hand up.”

Your stomach dropped, a cold jolt racing down your spine as your head snapped up. You hadn’t raised your hand, hadn’t even moved, and the lie hung in the air, bold and deliberate. You felt the heat creep up your neck, your fingers tightening around your pen as Levi’s sharp gaze swung toward you.

His eyes narrowed slightly, pinning you in place, the weight of his expectation pressing down like a physical force. The room seemed to shrink, the murmurs fading into a distant hum as every pair of eyes turned your way.

“Well?” Levi prompted, his tone flat but edged with impatience. “Go on. Answer it.”

You glared at Jean over your shoulder, a quick, searing look that you hoped conveyed every ounce of venom you felt. He met your gaze with a flicker of amusement, his lips twitching just enough to make your blood boil before he leaned back, arms crossed, the silver rings on his fingers glinting faintly. Asshole. You turned back to Levi, your jaw tight, and opened your mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. The graph stared back at you, mocking in its clarity, and the theorem you’d barely grasped slipped further out of reach.

“I…” you started, then faltered, the silence stretching painfully. “I don’t know.”

Levi’s expression didn’t shift, but his eyes hardened, a glint of disappointment, or maybe just irritation, flashing in their depths. He tilted his head slightly, the movement so subtle it was almost imperceptible, and set the chalk down with a soft click against the tray. “If you want to pass this class,” he said, his voice low and cutting, “pay attention. I’m not here to babysit.”

The reprimand stung, sharp and public, and you felt the heat flare in your cheeks as you held his stare. You didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, letting your glare sharpen into something defiant even as your pulse hammered in your ears. Levi didn’t blink, his face a mask of cool indifference, but there was a flicker of something, challenge, maybe, before he turned back to the board. He picked up the chalk again, his movements fluid and unbothered, and began to answer his own question.

“The value lies at a point c where the function crosses the horizontal line at that output,” he said, sketching a quick line across the graph with precision. “Since it’s continuous, it has to hit every value between the endpoints. Basic application. You’d know that if you’d read the chapter.”

His tone was dry, almost monotone, and when he finished, he set the chalk down and brushed the dust from his hands, a faint white smear lingering on his fingertips. He didn’t look at you again, his attention shifting to the next problem as if the exchange had never happened.

You exhaled through your nose, slow and controlled, forcing the tension in your shoulders to unwind as you sank back into your chair. Your pen dug into the notebook, the spiral you’d been drawing now a jagged, angry mess of overlapping lines.

Beside you, Colt shot you a sidelong glance, his brow furrowing slightly as he mouthed, “You okay?” You gave a tight nod, not trusting your voice just yet, and flipped to a fresh page in your notebook, the blank space a small reprieve. Behind you, Jean was silent, but you could feel him, his presence like a low hum at the edge of your awareness. You didn’t need to see his face to know the look he’d be wearing: that faint, disinterested slant to his mouth, his eyes half-lidded as if the whole thing bored him. He’d gotten what he wanted.

Rattled you.

Thrown you off.

And now he’d sit there, smug and quiet, like he hadn’t just tossed you under the bus for no damn reason.

You scratched a quick, furious note in the margin Jean’s a dick and underlined it twice, the ink bleeding faintly into the paper. Colt caught sight of it and stifled a snort, covering it with a cough as he ducked his head. You shot him a warning look, but the corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself, a flicker of amusement cutting through the irritation.

Levi moved on and launched into the next concept, the chalk tapping rhythmically against the board. You forced your focus forward, your pen moving mechanically across the page as you copied down the equations, but the sting of Levi’s words,and Jean’s petty little stunt, lingered like a bruise.

You hunched over your notebook, your pen scratching out half-formed equations as you tried to keep up, the numbers and symbols blurring into a chaotic jumble that made your temple throb. Levi’s voice continued on, low and precise, dissecting the properties of continuous functions with the same dispassionate efficiency he brought to everything.

Beside you, Colt shifted in his seat, the soft rustle of his hoodie brushing against the desk pulling your focus for a moment. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper as he tilted his head toward you, his ash-blond hair catching the light in a faint halo. “Hey,” he murmured, keeping his eyes on his own notebook to avoid drawing attention. “You getting any of this? ‘Cause I’m kinda lost on where he’s going with this graph.”

You snorted softly, the sound barely audible as you kept your gaze fixed on the page, your pen hovering over a half-drawn tangent line. “Hell no,” you whispered back, your tone dry but edged with frustration. “I’m still trying to figure out what the hell the last problem even meant.”

Colt stifled a chuckle, the sound catching in his throat as he scratched at the back of his neck, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. “Yeah, same. I thought I had it for a sec, but then he started throwing in all these intervals, and now I’m just, poof.” He made a small, exaggerated gesture with his hand, mimicking his brain exploding, and you bit back a grin, your shoulders relaxing just a fraction.

Before you could respond, Levi’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and cold, halting the quiet exchange dead in its tracks. “Mrs. L/n.” His tone was flat, but it carried a weight that made your stomach lurch, your pen freezing mid-stroke.

You looked up, meeting his gaze across the room, and found those gray eyes locked onto you, narrowed, unyielding, like a hawk zeroing in on prey. He stood by the whiteboard, one hand resting lightly on the chalk tray, the other holding a piece of chalk poised midair, a faint dusting of white clinging to his fingertips. The room went still, the other students’ heads swiveling toward you in a ripple of uneasy attention.

“Either stop talking,” Levi said, his voice low but cutting, each syllable deliberate, “or you can get out of my class. I don’t care which. But I’m not here to waste time, and neither are they.” He jerked his head slightly toward the rest of the room, his expression unchanging, cool, detached, and faintly irritated, like you were a minor inconvenience he’d rather not deal with.

“You’re disturbing everyone else’s learning. Pick one.”

The reprimand landed like a slap, sharp and humiliating, and heat flared in your cheeks as you clenched your jaw, your fingers tightening around your pen until the plastic creaked faintly. You didn’t move, didn’t blink, holding Levi’s stare with a mix of defiance and embarrassment that churned in your gut. The silence stretched, thick and oppressive, the weight of every gaze in the room pressing down on you like a physical thing.

Colt shifted beside you, his posture stiffening as he ducked his head, clearly trying to shrink out of the line of fire, but Levi’s focus didn’t waver. It was all on you, and you alone.

Behind you, Jean’s voice broke the tension, smooth and casual, with just enough edge to make your teeth grind. “She���s just trying to keep up, Professor. Can’t fault her for that.” His tone was light, almost innocent, but there was a thread of condescension woven through it, subtle enough to slip under Levi’s radar but loud and clear to you. You could hear the smirk in his words, the faint lilt of amusement that said he was enjoying this. Enjoying watching you squirm, enjoying the chance to poke at you under the guise of playing peacemaker.

You didn’t turn around, didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction, but your shoulders stiffened, the muscles coiling tight as a surge of irritation flared hot in your chest. Of course he’d chime in. Jean never missed an opportunity to twist the knife, especially when he could do it with that infuriating calm that made it sound like he was doing you a favor. Your pen dug into the notebook, the tip leaving a faint gouge in the paper as you forced yourself to stay still, to keep your mouth shut. The last thing you needed was to give Levi more ammunition, or Jean more fuel.

Levi’s eyes flicked briefly toward Jean, a flicker of acknowledgment, before settling back on you. “I don’t need commentary,” he said, his voice flat, dismissing Jean’s input without a second thought. He set the chalk down with a soft click, brushing the dust from his hands as he straightened, his posture rigid and unyielding. “If you’re struggling, figure it out quietly or don’t. But this isn’t a discussion group. Next time, you’re out.”

The warning hung in the air, final and unnegotiable, and Levi turned back to the board without another word, his movements brisk as he erased the previous graph and began sketching a new one.

The chalk scraped faintly, the sound grating against your frayed nerves as he launched back into his lecture, his tone as dry and unrelenting as ever. The room exhaled collectively, the tension easing as attention drifted back to the front, though a few lingering glances still prickled at the back of your neck.

You sank lower in your chair, your jaw tight and your cheeks still burning as you stared at the fresh page in your notebook. The equations Levi was scribbling blurred into meaningless lines, your focus shattered by the sting of his words and Jean’s smug little jab. You scratched out the gouge in the paper with quick, furious strokes, the ink smearing slightly under the pressure, and muttered under your breath, too low for anyone to hear,

“Asshole.”

Colt leaned closer again, his voice barely a whisper as he kept his eyes forward, pretending to copy down the new graph. “He’s brutal today,” he said, a note of sympathy threading through the words. “You good?”

You gave a short, sharp nod, not trusting yourself to speak without letting the anger spill over. “Fine,” you bit out, your tone clipped as you forced your pen to move, mimicking Levi’s notes even though they made no sense to you right now. Your hand trembled slightly, the frustration simmering just beneath the surface, and you pressed harder, the ink bleeding into the paper in thick, uneven lines.

Behind you, Jean shifted again, the faint creak of his chair a quiet taunt. You heard the soft tap of his pen against the desk once, twice, then a pause before he leaned forward slightly, his voice low enough to stay under Levi’s radar but clear enough to reach you.

“Don’t take it personally,” he murmured, the words dripping with mock sincerity. “Not everyone’s cut out for this stuff.”

Your spine stiffened, a fresh wave of heat surging through you as your grip on the pen tightened until your knuckles whitened. You didn’t turn around, didn’t dignify it with a response, but the urge to spin and snap something vicious clawed at your throat. Instead, you exhaled through your nose, slow and controlled, and scrawled another note in the margin.

Jean can choke.

the letters jagged and sharp. Colt caught sight of it and pressed his lips together, stifling a laugh as he ducked his head, his shoulders shaking silently.

Levi continued at the front, oblivious or indifferent, his chalk tapping out a steady rhythm as he dissected the new problem. The room settled back into its uneasy quiet. You forced your focus forward, your anger a tight knot in your chest, and promised yourself you’d deal with Jean later preferably with a textbook to his smug face if he dared pull this shit during your tutoring session. For now, you swallowed it down as the lecture dragged on.

The final minutes of the class ticked by in a haze, Levi’s voice a steady, unrelenting drone as he wrapped up the lecture with a final flurry of equations scribbled across the whiteboard. The chalk squeaked faintly as he underlined a key point, something about continuity and endpoints, but the words swam in your head, a jumbled mess of numbers and symbols that refused to settle into anything coherent.

Your notebook lay open before you, pages cluttered with half-formed notes and jagged doodles, the ink bleeding where you’d pressed too hard in frustration. Calculus felt like a tide pulling you under, the concepts slipping through your grasp no matter how hard you tried to anchor yourself. You rubbed at your temples, the dull throb behind your eyes growing sharper as the clock above the board hit the hour.

Levi set the chalk down with a soft click, brushing the dust from his hands as he turned to face the room. “That’s it,” he said, his voice flat and final. “Read chapter six by next class. Don’t bother showing up if you haven’t.” His gray eyes swept the room one last time, lingering nowhere in particular, before he stepped toward his desk at the front, the faint clack of his shoes against the linoleum signaling the end of the ordeal.

The room erupted into motion, chairs scraping back and bags zipping open as students surged toward the door, their voices rising in a sudden swell of chatter. You stayed seated for a moment, exhaling slowly as you stared at the mess of equations in your notebook, the lines blurring into a tangle of frustration. Colt shifted beside you, already shoving his textbook into his backpack with a careless efficiency, the zipper catching briefly on the corner of his hoodie.

“Man, that was brutal,” he said, slinging the bag over one shoulder as he stood, stretching his arms above his head until his joints popped. “You surviving over there?”

You snorted, flipping your notebook shut with a little more force than necessary. “Barely. My brain’s just swimming in all this crap, and none of it makes sense.” You started packing up, sliding your pen into the side pocket of your bag, the cold metal of the desk biting into your palms as you leaned on it.

Colt grinned, nudging you with his elbow as he adjusted his glasses. “Yeah, I feel you. I’m gonna need a coffee IV drip just to get through the reading tonight. You coming?”

“Nah,” you said, zipping your backpack shut and slinging it over your shoulder, the weight settling heavily against your back. “Gotta talk to Levi about something. Catch you later?”

“For sure,” Colt replied, giving you a quick wave as he headed for the stairs, his lanky frame disappearing into the stream of students filtering out. “Don’t let Jean get to you too bad later!”

You rolled your eyes, muttering a faint, “No promises,” under your breath as you turned toward the front of the room. The crowd thinned quickly, the last stragglers shuffling out with their heads down, leaving the classroom quieter, emptier, the hum of the heating system more pronounced in the stillness. Your boots tapped softly against the floor as you started down the row, your gaze drifting toward the stairs where Jean was already making his exit.

He descended with that same tired slump to his shoulders, his black turtleneck stretching faintly across his broad frame as he moved.

His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, that disinterested look clung to his hazel eyes half-lidded, distant, like he couldn’t be bothered with anything or anyone around him. As he passed your row, his shoulder clipped yours, a quick, careless shove that sent you stumbling half a step to the side. He didn’t stop, didn’t glance back, just kept moving toward the door with that same infuriating nonchalance, the faint creak of the hinges marking his exit.

You steadied yourself, your jaw tightening as a fresh surge of irritation flared in your chest. “Asshole,” you muttered under your breath, glaring at his retreating back until he disappeared into the hall. The thought of facing him again later in the library for tutoring twisted in your gut like a knot, hours of his smug commentary and that tired, superior stare. It sucked, plain and simple, but you shoved it down, turning your attention to the front of the room where Levi sat at his desk, his focus already buried in his laptop.

You approached slowly, your boots scuffing against the linoleum as you wove through the rows of desks, the faint scent of chalk dust and stale coffee lingering in the air. Levi’s desk was stark, save for his satchel, a stack of graded papers, and the glowing screen of his computer. He didn’t look up as you stopped in front of him, his fingers tapping steadily against the keys. Up close, the shadows under his eyes were more pronounced, the faint lines etched into his face speaking of too many late nights and too little patience. His tie was still slightly askew, the knot loosened as if he’d tugged at it one too many times.

You cleared your throat, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Professor Levi?” Your voice came out quieter than you’d meant, and you straightened, forcing a little more confidence into it. “I was wondering if there’s any extra credit I could do. You know, to… help my grade.”

Levi didn’t pause, his fingers still moving across the keyboard, his eyes fixed on the screen. The blue light reflected faintly in his gray irises, giving them an almost metallic sheen. For a moment, you thought he hadn’t heard you, the silence stretching thin and taut between you, but then he spoke, his voice low and clipped, as dry as the chalk staining his hands.

“I don’t do extra credit,” he said, not bothering to look up. His tone was flat, final, like the slam of a door you hadn’t realized was already locked. “You want a better grade, put in the work during class. I’m not handing out free points because you’re struggling.”

The words hit like a slap, sharp and unyielding, and you felt the heat creep up your neck again, a mix of embarrassment and defiance churning in your chest. You opened your mouth to argue something, anything, but the steady tap of his typing didn’t falter, and his gaze remained glued to the screen, dismissing you without so much as a glance. The faint hum of the computer fan buzzed in the background, a quiet counterpoint to the tension coiling inside you.

“But-” you started, your voice sharper now, but he cut you off without missing a beat.

“No buts,” he said, his fingers pausing just long enough to adjust the stack of papers beside him, aligning the edges with a precise tap against the desk. “You’ve got the same shot as everyone else. Study harder, pay attention, or fail. Your call.” His eyes flicked up then, just for a second cold, piercing, and utterly disinterested before dropping back to the screen, the dismissal clear as day.

You stood there, rooted to the spot, your hands tightening around the straps of your backpack as your jaw clenched. The classroom felt cavernous around you, the empty desks. You wanted to snap back, to tell him you were trying, that this wasn’t just laziness but the weight of his stare, brief as it had been, pinned the words in your throat. Instead, you exhaled sharply through your nose, turning on your heel with a muttered, “Okay, thank you sir” that you weren’t sure he even heard.

You shoved through the classroom door, the heavy wood swinging shut behind you with a dull thud that echoed faintly down the hallway. Your boots tapped against the floor, the sound sharp as you made your way toward the elevator, your backpack bouncing lightly against your spine with each step. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long, sterile shadows that stretched across the gleaming floor, and the faint chill lingering in the air brushed against your legs, sneaking past your stockings to prickle your skin.

Your breath puffed out in a small, frustrated cloud as you jabbed the elevator button with more force than necessary, the glowing circle illuminating with a soft ding. The doors slid open, revealing the same cramped space you’d ridden up in, empty now, save for the faint hum of the elevator lights. You stepped inside and pressed the button for the ground floor, watching the numbers tick down with a slow, mechanical blink.

The ride was quick, the elevator jolting faintly as it settled at the bottom, and when the doors parted, you stepped out into the math building’s lobby. The space was quieter now, the post-class rush having ebbed into a trickle of stragglers.

Students bundled in scarves and coats, their footsteps muffled as they shuffled toward the exit. You pushed through the glass doors, the November chill hitting you like a wall, sharp and biting as it swept across your face and tugged at the edges of your sweater.

The sky hung low and gray, a stark contrast to this morning. You paused on the sidewalk, tugging your sleeves down over your hands as you glanced around and of course, your car wasn’t waiting in the lot. Sasha had picked you up from your apartment that morning.

She’d dropped you off with a promise to call later, but she’d mentioned having something to do around this time, some errand or class you couldn’t quite recall. You fished your phone from your skirt pocket, as you scrolled through your contacts. Bertholdt was probably napping, Ymir was either asleep or working, and the rest of your friends, Connie, Mikasa, Eren, etc. were tied up with work or classes of their own. You sighed, the sound lost in the wind, and shoved your phone back into your pocket.

Walking home wasn’t an option, not in this cold, not with the distance, and you weren’t about to stand there freezing while you figured it out.

Your stomach growled, a low rumble that cut through the frustration, and you decided to head for one of the fast food spots on campus. The dining hall was too far, and your wallet was feeling the strain of bills. Rent, lights, gas, all piling up until your next paycheck. You trudged across the quad, as you made your way toward the cluster of restaurants near the student union.

Wendy’s glowed ahead, its red-and-white sign a beacon to your stomach, and you pushed through the door, the sudden rush of warm air and the scent of food hitting you fast.

|♩♩♩- Symphonia IX| By: Current Joys

The line was short, just a couple of students ahead of you, and you scanned the menu with a practiced eye, calculating what you could afford. Money was tight, and you hated dipping into your savings. Every dollar felt like a lifeline you couldn’t afford to lose. You stepped up to the counter, the cashier, a girl with a nose and lip ring, barely glancing at you as you ordered a small Frosty, the cheapest thing you could justify.

She handed it over in a flimsy cup and you mumbled a quick “thanks” before heading to a table near the window. The dining area was half-empty, a few clusters of students hunched over trays of burgers and fries. You slid into a chair, the plastic creaking under you, and set your bag on the seat beside you, digging the spoon into the Frosty with a slow, deliberate scoop.

Your phone buzzed against the table, the screen lighting up with a FaceTime call from your cousin Onyankopon. You swiped to answer, propping the phone against your bag as his face filled the screen.

A wide, easy grin spreading across his features. “Hey, what’s up?” he said, his voice rich and familiar, cutting through the dull ache of the day.

“Hey, O,” you replied, managing a small smile as you scooped another bite of Frosty. “Just surviving, you know. How you holding up?”

He leaned back in what looked like his living room, the faint flicker of a TV screen in the background. “I’m good, I’m good. Work’s been kicking my ass, but I ain’t complaining. How have you been?”

You snorted, the sound sharp and tired. “Calculus is a nightmare, and my professor’s a dick. Same old.” You took another bite, the chocolate cold against your tongue, and glanced at him. “What about you? Did you ever ask out that girl you were talking about? And what’s Meme planning for the holidays?”

Onyankopon laughed, a deep, rolling sound that made the screen shake slightly. “Man, I’m working on it. She’s still playing hard to get, but I ain’t giving up. And Meme’s already talking about cooking up a storm for Thanksgiving. Turkey, mac and cheese, the works. You better come this year, no excuses.” His eyes narrowed slightly, zeroing in on the Frosty in your hand. “Hold up, that’s all you got to eat? A damn ice cream?”

You shrugged, swirling the spoon through the melting chocolate. “Yeah. Money’s tight till my next check.”

He frowned, his brow furrowing as he shifted in his seat. “Nah, hold on.” Before you could protest, he pulled out his phone, his fingers moving quick across the screen. A second later, your own phone pinged with a Cash App notification.

$50 from Onyankopon, Eat something real.

“There. Go get a burger or something.”

“O, no, let me send this back,” you said, reaching for your phone, but he waved you off, his expression stern.

“Nope. Keep it,” he insisted, leaning closer to the camera. “Meme’d have my head if she saw you out here eating nothing but a damn Frosty. You know how she gets.‘Ain’t nobody in this family going hungry on my watch.’ Go get a real meal, alright? No arguments.”

You sighed, the fight draining out of you as the warmth of his concern settled in your chest. “Fine,” you muttered, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks, O. You’re the best.”

“Damn right I am,” he grinned, leaning back with a satisfied nod. “Now tell me more about this professor, what’s he doing that’s got you so heated?”

You scooped another bite of Frosty, the cold numbing your fingertips as you launched into a rant about Levi’s curt dismissal and Jean’s smug antics, the words spilling out in a rush.

Onyankopon listened, nodding and laughing at all the right moments, and for a little while, the weight of the day felt just a bit lighter.

The Wendy’s table was sticky under your elbows as you leaned forward, the small Frosty cup sweating a faint ring of condensation beside your phone.

“So this Jean guy,” Onyankopon said, his tone lilting with amusement as he propped his chin on his hand, “he’s still the same punk you’ve been dealing with since middle school, right? What’s it been, like, eight years of this shit?”

“Ten, actually.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face as you slumped back in the chair, the plastic creaking beneath you. “And now I’m stuck with him tutoring me because I can’t wrap my head around this damn calculus. It’s humiliating, O.”

He laughed, the sound deep and rolling, shaking his head so his dreads swayed slightly. “Man, he sounds like a real piece of work. Almost kinda like you.”

“Don't ever say that again.”

You scooped a spoonful of Frosty, the chocolate melting slow and cold on your tongue as you rolled your eyes. “Today in class, he called me out in front of Levi, our professor, like I had my hand up when I didn’t. Just threw me under the bus so I’d look like an idiot. And then he’s sitting there behind me, all smug, like he didn’t just set me up. I swear, he lives to make me mad.”

Onyankopon’s grin widened, his eyebrows shooting up. “Oh, he’s petty petty. ”

“Sounds exhausting,” Onyankopon said, his tone softening a little as he leaned back, crossing his arms. “But you’re tougher than him, girl. Always have been. Don’t let him get in your head, especially not over some math.”

You sighed, swirling the spoon through the melting Frosty, the chocolate pooling at the bottom of the cup. “I’m trying, O. It’s just today sucked. Levi shut me down for extra credit, Jean’s being a dick, and I’m out here eating ice cream like it’s a meal because I’m broke till Friday.”

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Which is why I sent you that cash. Go get something real, alright? I gotta hop off, gotta finish some stuff for work, but you better eat, and you better call me if that guy pulls any more stunts. I might be in Marley, but I’ll still fly down there and handle his ass.”

You chuckled, the sound weary but genuine. “Noted. Thanks, O. Tell Meme I’ll call her about Thanksgiving, okay?”

“Will do. Bye.” He flashed one last grin, then the screen went dark as the call ended, leaving you alone with the hum of the Wendy’s dining area and the faint pop song crackling overhead.

You exhaled, pocketing your phone and grabbing the empty Frosty cup to toss in the trash. The Cash App money burned a hole in your conscience, but Onyankopon’s insistence echoed in your head, and your stomach growled in agreement. You trudged back to the counter, ordering a junior bacon cheeseburger and small fries, nothing fancy, but enough to count as a “real meal.” The cashier handed you the bag, the paper crinkling warmly in your hands, and you headed out, the November wind biting at your cheeks as you stepped back into the chilly campus.

The library wasn’t far, so you decided to head there early. Jean wouldn’t show up for tutoring for another hour, but you had nothing else to do, and the quiet might help you wrestle some sense into the calculus swimming in your head.

Your boots crunched through the orange and yellow leaves as you crossed the quad, the fries still warm in the bag as you pushed through the library’s double doors. The air inside was dry and warm, heavy with the scent of old paper and dust. You gave the librarian a smile as you made your way past the front desk.

You wandered toward the stacks, the tall shelves looming like sentinels as you trailed your fingers along the spines of books. The Greek mythology section caught your eye, a distraction, something to pull you out of the math-induced fog and you spotted The Odyssey wedged between a worn copy of The Iliad and a thick anthology of myths. You tugged it free, the leather cover cool and smooth under your touch, and carried it to the table where Jean would meet you later, a secluded spot near the back, tucked against a window overlooking the leaf dusted courtyard.

You dropped your bag on the floor, the burger and fries set on the table, and sank into the chair, the wood creaking faintly under your weight.

|♩♩♩- Its Hard to Get Around the Wind| By: Alex Turner

Opening the book to Chapter One, you slipped your earbuds in as Odysseus fought during the Trojan War, the wooden horse, the chaos of battle. The words pulled you in, a welcome escape from derivatives and theorems, and you munched on a fry as you turned the pages, the salt sharp on your tongue.

The library was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of pages or the distant tap of a keyboard, and the leaves outside fell in slow, hypnotic drifts, blanketing the world in silence.

By Chapter Two, though, the warmth of the library and the weight of the day began to drag at your eyelids. Odysseus was plotting his next move, but your focus slipped, the lines blurring as your head dipped forward. You propped your elbow on the table, resting your cheek against your hand, but it wasn’t enough.

The earbuds looped softly, the book lay open, and your breathing slowed, deepening into the steady rhythm of sleep. Your lashes fluttered shut, the Greek hero’s journey fading into a dreamless haze as the library’s stillness swallowed you whole, leaving the table littered with fries, an untouched burger, and the looming specter of Jean’s arrival still an hour away. . . . The walls are painted a soft lavender, peeling slightly at the corners where the tape from old posters still clings. Your twin bed sits snugly against the window, a faded unicorn comforter draped over you, its edges frayed from years of love.

The room smells faintly of strawberry lip gloss and the musty pages of library books stacked haphazardly on your nightstand. A tiny TV-VCR combo hums on a wobbly wooden stand across from you, its screen flickering with the opening credits of The Powerpuff Girls. The bright colors, pink for Bubbles, green for Buttercup, blue for Blossom, dance across the glass, and you clutch a worn stuffed turtle to your chest.

It’s late, probably past your bedtime, but this was one of your favorite episodes, so sleep didn't really matter.

You sink deeper into the pillows, the theme song’s bouncy beat filling the quiet. “Sugar, spice, and everything nice,” you whisper along, your voice small but steady. The girls on screen zoom through Townsville, saving the day, and you imagine yourself flying beside them, fearless and strong. Your room feels safe, a little bubble of warmth with the faint hum of the heater kicking on in the background.

The episode rolls on. Mojo Jojo’s cackling fills the air as he hatches another ridiculous plan, and you giggle, pulling your turtle plushie closer. The light from the screen casts shadows on the walls, turning your plushie collection into a silent audience. You glance at them, their button eyes glinting, and decide they’re rooting for the Powerpuff Girls too. For a moment, everything is perfect, your little world, your little show, your little escape.

Then, a sound creeps in. It’s faint at first, muffled through the floorboards, but it grows sharper, cutting through the cartoon chaos. Voices.

Your parents.

They’re downstairs, and they’re loud, not the fun kind of loud. This is different. Angry. You pause, fingers tightening around your rabbit, the TV still chattering away. Blossom punches a monster, but you barely hear it now. The voices rise, jagged and fast, words tumbling over each other like they’re fighting too.

“You never listen!” your mom shouts, her voice cracking like it might break. Your dad snaps back, “Don’t put this on me!” and there’s a thud, something heavy hitting the ground.

You sit up a little, the comforter slipping off your shoulders. Your heart starts to thump, a quick, unsteady rhythm. Yelling. You hate yelling. It’s like the sound itself is clawing at you, scratching at the safe little bubble you’ve built.

The TV blares on, oblivious. Bubbles is saying something sweet, but it’s drowned out by a sudden, sharp crash.

Glass.

Shattering.

You flinch, eyes wide, picturing the kitchen downstairs, plates, cups, something fragile now in pieces on the tile.

Your breath catches, and you pull your knees to your chest, the turtle squished between them. The yelling stops for a second, just long enough for you to hear your own heartbeat, then it starts again, louder, angrier. Heavy footsteps pound below, stomping across the floor like they’re coming closer. You stare at your door, its chipped white paint suddenly too thin, too weak to keep anything out.

The footsteps climb the stairs now. Each one shaking the house, shaking you. Your hands tremble, and you drop the turtle, its soft body tumbling to the floor.

You hate this.

You hate the noise, the way it fills every corner of your head until there’s no room left for anything else. The banging starts then, fists on your door, hard and fast.

Boom, boom, boom.

The knob rattles like it might give way. You can’t move. Your whole body shakes, a shiver that won’t stop, and the yelling is everywhere now, seeping through the walls, the floor, the air.

“Y/N!”

The dream shattered with a sudden, jarring thud, a heavy book slamming onto the table, the sound reverberating through the quiet like a gunshot. Your head snapped up, a sharp gasp catching in your throat as your earbuds slipped free, dangling over the edge of the table.

You blinked rapidly, the world swimming back into focus, and wiped at the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, the dampness smearing across your skin as you registered the figure looming across from you.

Jean stood there, his broad frame casting a shadow over the table, that same tired, disinterested look etched into his eyes. His ash-brown hair was messier than it had been in class, strands falling haphazardly over his forehead, and the black turtleneck stretched faintly across his shoulders as he dropped his bag beside the chair.

You sighed, the sound heavy with exasperation, and rolled your eyes before rubbing at your temple, the dull ache blooming beneath your fingertips. “You just love being an ass, don’t you?” you muttered, your voice rough from sleep as you straightened in your seat, the chair creaking faintly beneath you.

Jean didn’t flinch, his expression unchanging as he pulled out the chair across from you and sank into it with a lazy slouch. “No,” he said, his tone flat and clipped, “I just want to get this tutor session over with.” He set a cup on the table.

A familiar logo from the café where you worked part-time stamped on the side, and he took a sip, his lips twisting into a faint grimace as he swallowed. “Whoever made this shit didn’t make it right,” he mumbled under his breath, more to himself than to you, his rings glinting faintly as he nudged the cup aside.

You didn’t bite.

Where you worked wasn’t his business, and you weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of dragging you into a petty tangent. Your jaw tightened as you watched him, his disinterest a palpable thing that hung between you like a wall. He nudged the cup again, this time pushing it toward the spot where your head had just been, the faint sheen of drool still glistening on the table’s edge.

“Wipe your slob up,” he said, his voice edged with disgust as he nodded toward it. “That’s fucking disgusting.”

You bucked your eyes at him, reaching for a napkin from the Wendy’s bag with a deliberate slowness, the paper crinkling under your fingers. “People drool, Jean,” you shot back, your tone dry as you swiped at the damp spot, the napkin smearing the faint ink stain from the book into a grayish streak.

“That much?” he countered, one eyebrow arching slightly as he leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, the silver chain around his neck catching the library’s dim light.

You didn’t dignify it with a response, just finished wiping the table and crumpled the napkin into a tight ball, tossing it aside with a flick of your wrist. You opened your notebook, the pages rustling as you flipped to a blank one, and grabbed your pencil, the wood cool and worn under your grip.

Jean mirrored you, reaching into his bag for his own pencil, the faint scratch of graphite against paper filling the silence as he jotted something down. He slid the notebook toward you, tapping the tip of his pencil against a neatly written equation, some tangled mess of variables and exponents that made your stomach sink.

“Solve it,” he said, his voice flat, his eyes fixed on you with that same disinterested stare.

You stared at the problem, confusion knitting your brows as you tried to parse the steps in your head. “What?” you muttered, glancing up at him, your pencil hovering over the page.

He sighed, a short, impatient sound, and leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharpening as if you were the dumbest thing he’d seen all day. “Solve the damn problem,” he repeated, enunciating each word like you might’ve missed it the first time.

You grimaced, the irritation flaring hot in your chest as you pulled the notebook closer, your pencil scratching out the first tentative step. You barely got through one line, substituting a value, your handwriting shaky and uncertain, before his pencil darted out, blocking yours with a quick, decisive tap.

“Wrong,” he said, his tone cutting as he sat back, tapping his pencil against the table in that annoying rhythm you’d come to hate.

“I didn’t even finish,” you snapped, your eyes narrowing as you glared at him, your grip tightening on your pencil until the wood creaked faintly.

“Didn’t need to,” he shot back, his voice cool and unyielding. “You’re wrong already. Do you even pay attention in this class?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just reached over and snatched the notebook back, his long fingers brushing yours for a split second. Enough to make you recoil instinctively.

He started solving the problem himself, his pencil moving with a fluid, infuriating precision as he broke it down step-by-step, the graphite leaving crisp, clean lines on the page.

You watched, your jaw tight, as he worked through it, substituting, simplifying, solving, like it was nothing, like the tangle of numbers that had stumped you was child’s play to him. He didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge you, just kept writing, his rings glinting faintly with each flick of his wrist.

When he finished, he shoved the notebook back toward you, the solution laid out in stark clarity, and tapped it once with his pencil.

“There,” he said, leaning back again, his tone clipped. “That’s how it’s done. Try not to screw it up next time.”

You stared at the page, the neat steps mocking you as the heat crept up your neck, a mix of embarrassment and anger simmering under your skin. “Gee, thanks,” you muttered, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you pulled the notebook closer, your pencil hovering over the next problem he’d inevitably throw at you.

He didn’t rise to the bait, just took another sip of his coffee and grimaced again, muttering something under his breath about “half-assed baristas” before setting it aside. “Just do the work,” he said, his eyes flicking back to you, that disinterested glaze settling in again. “I’m not here to babysit you.”

You bit back a retort, your teeth grinding as you forced your focus to the notebook, the library’s quiet pressing in around you.

A leaf outside tapped faintly against the window, a soft counterpoint to the tension crackling between you, and you wondered, not for the first time, how you’d survived eight years of this without strangling him.

Middle school felt like a lifetime ago, but the rivalry hadn’t dulled, only sharpened into this bitter, unspoken competition that neither of you could let go of. You sighed, shoving the thought aside, and started on the next problem, determined to get through this session without giving him more ammunition or losing what little patience you had left.

You exhaled sharply, shoving your curls back and out of your face as you glared at the equation, your voice low. “Okay, but that’s not what Professor Levi was saying in class today. He was going on about verifying if a function’s continuous on a closed interval or some shit—”

Jean cut you off, his tone clipped and impatient as he leaned closer, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s exactly what I wrote down. You’re just not listening, like usual.”

You bristled, your whisper sharpening as you leaned forward too, your pencil gripped tight enough to dent your fingers. “I am listening, asshole. You’re just shitty at explaining.”

He rolled his eyes, the motion slow and deliberate, like he was dealing with a particularly dense child. “It’s not that hard,” he said, his voice a hissed edge of frustration. “If f(a) and f(b) are on opposite sides of the x-axis and the function’s continuous, then there’s some point c in the interval [a, b] where f(c) = 0. How the hell are you not getting this? It’s basic.”

You jabbed your pencil toward him, your whisper rising into a strained growl. “Maybe try explaining it more human and not like a robot.”

He stabbed his pencil into the paper, the tip digging in hard enough to leave a faint tear as he glared at you, his own whisper turning harsh. “This is basic calculus and Levi looks like a human to me and he explains it just fine. What the hell were you even doing in class today? Staring at the ceiling?”

Your jaw clenched, the memory of Levi’s cold reprimand flashing hot in your mind as you leaned in closer, your noses almost brushing. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe I was too busy getting my ass dragged in front of the entire class by Levi, thanks to somebody who can’t keep his damn mouth shut.”

Jean’s lips twitched, a flicker of something, amusement, maybe, crossing his face before he smothered it, his voice dripping with mock innocence. “Not my fault you looked like you had your hand up.”

You slammed your pencil down against the table as you hissed, “Oh, you know damn well my hand wasn’t raised, Jean. Don’t play dumb.”

He shrugged, leaning back with that infuriating calm, his pencil twirling lazily between his fingers. “Looked like it to me.”

“No, it didn’t!”

“Yeah, it kinda did.”

You snapped, your whisper rising into a furious rasp as you pointed at him, your finger trembling slightly. “No, it didn’t, you lying-”

“It looked like it to me,” he repeated, his tone flat and unyielding, cutting you off as he met your glare with that same tired, disinterested stare.

You sucked in a breath, your hands balling into fists as you fought the urge to lunge across the table. “Are you ever gonna stop trying to piss me off, or is this just your life’s mission now?”

Jean stabbed the pencil into the paper again, harder this time, the tip snapping off as he leaned forward, his whisper a low, simmering growl. “I might if you’d stop whining and actually solve the damn problem instead of bitching about it.”

He tossed the broken pencil onto the table, the pieces skittering across the surface as he grabbed a new one from his bag, his movements sharp and impatient. “Do the problem,” he said, his voice a low, gritted command as he slid the notebook back toward you, his eyes boring into yours. “Or we’ll be here all damn night, and I’m not in the mood.”

You snatched the notebook, your fingers digging into the edges as you glared at him, your whisper a venomous hiss. “Fine. But if you stab this paper one more damn time, I’m stabbing you in the ass, you hear me?”

He smirked, just a faint twitch of his lips, barely there, before leaning back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Mhm,” he hummed, the sound dripping with sarcasm as he watched you, his gaze heavy and unrelenting.

You forced your eyes to the page, the intermediate value theorem staring back at you like a taunt.

F(a) and F(b) on opposite sides, continuous, some point c where it hits zero. Your pencil scratched against the paper, tentative and shaky as you tried to piece it together, the steps Levi had outlined in class flickering faintly in your memory.

Jean’s presence loomed across the table, a quiet pressure that made your skin prickle, and you could feel his eyes on you, tracking every move like a hawk waiting for you to screw up again. Your jaw tightened, the frustration bubbling as you worked through the first step, then the second, the graphite smudging under your grip.

He shifted, the faint creak of his chair cutting through the silence, and you glanced up, catching the flicker of impatience in his expression. “You’re still doing it wrong,” he muttered, his whisper sharp as he reached for the notebook again, but you yanked it back, your own impatience boiling over.

“Let me finish, damn it,” you hissed, your voice trembling with the effort to keep it low. He rolled his eyes before grabbing his phone and opening it.

His thumb flicked lazily across the screen.

Twitter or X now, probably, or some other pointless distraction.

You exhaled through your nose, forcing your focus back to the problem. The equation stared at you. f(a) = -2, f(b) = 3, continuous on [a, b] and you traced the steps in your head, the memory of Levi’s dry lecture flickering faintly behind your irritation.

Opposite sides of the x-axis, so there’s a point where it hits zero. Simple enough. Your pencil scratched against the paper, the graphite leaving a trail of tentative calculations as you worked through it.

Checking the endpoints, confirming continuity, pinpointing where the function crossed. It clicked, finally, the pieces slotting into place with a clarity that felt foreign after hours of frustration.

You finished the last step, circling the answer with a small, triumphant flourish, and slid the notebook across the table toward Jean, the pages whispering against the wood.

“Did I get it right?” you asked, your voice low but edged with a mix of exhaustion and cautious hope as you leaned back, crossing your arms.

Jean didn’t look up right away, his thumb still scrolling as he muttered something under his breath, a retweet, maybe, or a scoff at whatever dumb take he’d stumbled across.

After a beat, he lowered the phone slowly, setting it face-down on the table and dragged his gaze to the notebook. He raised an eyebrow, the motion slow and deliberate, his lips pressing into a thin line as he scanned your work. The silence stretched, heavy and expectant, and you shifted in your seat, the chair creaking faintly under you.

“Shockingly, yeah,”

He said finally, his tone dry as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. The words hung there, laced with that familiar condescension, but there was a flicker of something else, surprise, maybe, that he couldn’t quite mask.

You blinked, caught off guard, a small jolt of pride sparking in your chest before confusion crept in. “Wait, really?” you muttered, leaning forward to peer at the page as if you didn’t trust your own handwriting.

Jean didn’t answer right away, just picked up his pencil and started marking your work, the tip scratching faint lines and circles across your steps.

You watched, your brow furrowing as he paused at one point, then another, his movements precise and annoyingly meticulous. He tapped the pencil against the paper, the sound sharp in the quiet, and glanced up at you, his expression shifting back to that disinterested slant.

“You did it a different way,” he said, his voice flat but tinged with a grudging acknowledgment. “Still got the right answer, though. But if you want full points from Levi, you’ve gotta do it his way. The way he showed in class.”

You frowned, pulling the notebook back toward you to study his marks, the red ink bleeding faintly where he’d pressed too hard. “What do you mean, ‘a different way’?” you asked, your tone sharpening as you traced your steps with your finger. “I checked the endpoints, confirmed it’s continuous, found the zero, it’s the same damn thing.”

Jean sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, the strands falling messily back over his forehead. “Yeah, but you went the long way around,” he said, tapping one of your lines with his pencil.

“You threw in all this extra crap, plugging in random points to guess where it crosses. Levi’s method is cleaner: endpoints, continuity, done. You don’t need to overcomplicate it.”

You bristled, your jaw tightening as you glared at him. “It’s not ‘overcomplicating’ if it works,” you shot back, your voice a low hiss to keep it library-appropriate. “I got the answer, didn’t I?”

He shrugged, leaning back with that infuriating nonchalance, his pencil twirling between his fingers. “Sure, you did. But Levi’s a stickler, you know that. He’ll dock you for inefficiency, and I’m not here to watch you bitch about half-points later.”

You let out another sigh before nodding slowly. “Alright.”

Jean nodded and pointed at another question in the notebook for you to try, “Now do these three.”

You grabbed your pencil again and got to work. You had to remind yourself,

No guesswork,

No extra steps,

Just the bare bones of it, the way Levi demanded. Your pencil moved tentatively at first, tracing f(a) = -4 and f(b) = 5 from a new problem you’d pulled from the textbook, checking the signs, confirming the function’s unbroken sweep across the interval.

The steps flowed smoother this time, your handwriting steadier as you followed Jean’s method, the solution snapping into focus with a clarity that felt almost satisfying.

Across the table, Jean slouched in his chair, his phone still in hand as he scrolled through whatever Twitter rabbit hole he’d fallen into, his thumb flicking lazily across the screen.

You ignored him, your focus narrowing to the problem, the faint thrill of getting it right pushing back the irritation that had simmered between you since he’d slammed that book down to wake you.

Your pencil circled the final answer. There exists a c in [a, b] where f(c) = 0 and you leaned back, a small, triumphant breath escaping as you double-checked your work. It held up, clean and tight, just like he’d shown you.

You glanced at Jean, half-tempted to shove it in his face, but before you could say anything, his phone buzzed sharply against the table, the vibration rattling through the wood. He didn’t even glance at you, just snatched it up and stood, the chair creaking faintly as he pushed it back with his knee.

He spoke in a whisper “Do your work” without breaking stride, his lips forming the words in that same tired, commanding way that made your skin prickle, and then he was gone, striding toward the stacks with the phone pressed to his ear, his voice a low murmur fading into the shelves.

You waved a dismissive hand at his retreating back, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurt, the gesture lost on him as he disappeared behind a row of dusty hardcovers. “Jackass,” you muttered under your breath, turning back to the notebook with a huff. His coffee cup sat abandoned on the table, the faint steam long gone, and your cold fries stared back at you, a silent reminder of the day’s chaos. You shook it off, flipping the textbook open to the next problem, the momentum of getting the last one right sparking a flicker of confidence you hadn’t felt all semester.

The new equation was trickier, f(a) = -1, f(b) = 7, with a note about the function being continuous but not necessarily linear, but the process felt familiar now, the steps slotting into place like a puzzle you’d finally cracked.

You scribbled out the endpoints, checked the signs, opposite, good, then noted the continuity, your pencil moving faster as you worked through it. The library’s stillness wrapped around you. You circled the answer, a quiet satisfaction settling in your chest as you leaned back, tapping your pencil against the table in a rhythm that mirrored Jean’s earlier impatience.

You glanced toward the stacks where he’d vanished, his muffled voice drifting faintly from somewhere deep in the mythology section, probably arguing with Eren or bitching to Connie about something trivial. You snorted softly, shaking your head as you pulled the textbook closer, flipping to another problem. The confidence lingered, a small ember in the pit of your stomach, and you decided to tackle one more, your pencil scratching out f(a) = -3, f(b) = 2 as you dove back in. The steps came easier now, the logic snapping into place without the usual fog of confusion, and you couldn’t help but feel a grudging nod to Jean’s method, clean, efficient, Levi-approved.

Not that you’d ever admit it to his face.

Your focus was sharp, the equations bending to your will for once. Jean’s absence stretched, his voice a distant hum, and you let the quiet carry you forward, the faint thrill of understanding fueling each stroke of your pencil. You were getting it.

Really getting it.

But that was short lived.

That peace shattered when Jean stormed back, his boots thudding against the floor with a heavier, angrier rhythm than when he’d left. The air shifted as he approached, charged with a tension that prickled at your skin, and you glanced up just as he dropped into his chair, the wood creaking under his weight.

His face was tighter now, his jaw clenched hard enough to make the muscle twitch, and his hazel eyes burned with something darker than the usual disinterest.

Anger, raw and barely contained.

His hair was messier, like he’d raked his hands through it one too many times.

He didn’t say a word at first, just snatched your notebook from the table with a quick, jerky motion, his rings flashing as his fingers curled around the edges. You opened your mouth to protest, but he was already scanning your work, his eyes flicking over the solutions with a speed that bordered on reckless. His breath came short and sharp, a faint hiss through his nose, and after a moment, he shoved the notebook back toward you, the pages fluttering faintly.

“Congrats,” he said, his voice low and clipped, laced with a sarcasm that stung more than usual. “You got ‘em right. Miracle of miracles.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the bite in his tone, your earlier satisfaction souring as you narrowed your eyes at him. “Uh thanks?” you muttered, your voice wary as you pulled the notebook closer, your pencil still hovering over the page.

He didn’t respond, just leaned back and crossed his arms, his gaze fixed somewhere past you, the anger simmering in the tight line of his mouth. “Work on the next three,” he said finally, his tone flat but edged with a sharpness that made your stomach twist. “Let’s see if you can keep it up.”

You glanced at the textbook, flipping to the next set of problems, three of them, each a two-part question, the instructions sprawling across the page in dense, unforgiving print.

The first one loomed: Given f(x) = x^3 - 4x + 1 on [-2, 2], (a) verify the Intermediate Value Theorem applies, (b) approximate where f(c) = 0.

You sighed, the faint ember of confidence still flickering as you tackled part (a). Your pencil scratched out the endpoints. f(-2) = -8 - 4(-2) + 1 = 1, f(2) = 8 - 4(2) + 1 = 1, and you frowned, checking your math. Same sign, not opposite.

You scratched it out, recalculated, then realized the function wasn’t crossing zero at the endpoints, but the theorem still applied if you adjusted the interval. You settled on continuity, cubic functions don’t break,and scribbled that down, your handwriting tight and focused.

Part (b) stopped you cold. Approximating where it hit zero felt like a leap into the dark, the numbers swirling into a foggy mess as you stared at the equation. You tried plugging in a few points. f(0) = 1, f(1) = -2, and saw it crossed somewhere between, but the precision eluded you, the steps slipping through your grasp. You hesitated, then glanced up at Jean, his silence a heavy weight across the table.

“Hey,” you said, keeping your voice low, cautious. “I don’t get the second part, approximating where it hits zero. Can you help?”

His head snapped toward you, his eyes narrowing as if you’d just insulted him, the anger that had been simmering now boiling over into something sharper. “Seriously?” he hissed, leaning forward so fast his chair creaked, his pencil stabbing the table. “You got through the last ones, and now you’re stuck already?”

You recoiled slightly, your own irritation flaring as you met his glare. “Yeah, seriously,” you shot back, your whisper tight and defensive. “I got the continuity part, but approximating’s throwing me off. You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

He scoffed, a harsh, bitter sound as he snatched the notebook again, his fingers gripping it hard enough to crinkle the edges. “It’s not rocket science,” he muttered, his voice low and venomous as he started scribbling over your work, his pencil slashing through your tentative guesses. “You see it crosses between 0 and 1,plug in a midpoint, check it, narrow it down. How is that hard?”

“It’s not about it being hard,” you hissed, leaning forward to match his intensity, your hands balling into fists on the table. “It’s about you acting like I’m a fucking idiot for asking. What the hell’s your deal? You come back pissed and now you’re taking it out on me?”

He froze for a split second, his pencil hovering over the page, then stabbed it down again as he glared at you. “My deal’s that I’m stuck here babysitting you when you should’ve figured this out by now,” he snapped, his whisper harsh enough to cut. “Just do it. Halfway between 0 and 1 is 0.5, plug it in, see what you get.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding as the anger bubbled hot in your chest, his words stinging more than they should’ve. “You’re such a prick,” you muttered, yanking the notebook back as you grabbed your pencil, your hand trembling slightly.

He didn’t respond, just leaned back and crossed his arms, his jaw clenched tight as he stared past you again, the broken pencil rolling faintly across the table.

You turned to the problem, your mind racing as you followed his barked instructions.

Negative, so it was between 0.5 and 1. You scribbled it down, your handwriting jagged with frustration, and glanced at him, half-expecting another jab.

He didn’t look at you, just kept his eyes fixed on the window, his reflection staring back at him through the glass. The library’s quiet pressed in, the tension crackling like static, and you wondered what the hell had set him off.

Something bigger than you, clearly, but he was dumping it all on you anyway. You exhaled sharply, shoving the thought aside as you stared at the half-solved problem, the faint satisfaction of part (a) overshadowed by the mess of part (b) and the even bigger mess sitting across from you.

You worked through the steps anyway, your pencil moving with a tentative precision as you followed his barked-out method, midpoint, plug it in, narrow it down.

f(0.5) = -0.875, negative; f(1) = -2, also negative now that you’d recalculated the endpoints correctly from the last mess-up.

You saw the pattern shifting. It crossed somewhere between 0.75 and 1, and you scribbled out a quick guess, refining it to roughly 0.86 after a final check. Your handwriting was tight, the numbers cramped as you rushed to finish before Jean could snap again.

You were about to slide the notebook toward him, your hand hovering over the page, when you caught it, a sloppy misstep in your midpoint calculation, the decimal off by a hair. “Shit,” you muttered under your breath, erasing the error with a quick swipe of your sleeve, the graphite smudging faintly as you fixed it.

Still negative, but you’d narrowed it enough. Close enough for Levi, you hoped. You exhaled, satisfied, and pushed the notebook across the table, the paper whispering against the wood.

Jean didn’t look up right away, his eyes glued to his phone, his thumb scrolling with a furious intensity that made the screen blur. You cleared your throat, low and cautious. “Hey, I think I got it.”

He grunted, setting the phone down and dragged the notebook toward him. His eyes flicked over your work, his brow creasing faintly as he scanned the steps, his pencil hovering in his grip. After a beat, he scribbled a quick checkmark in the corner, the graphite slashing across the page with a sharp, impatient flick. “Yeah, it’s fine,” he muttered, shoving it back toward you, his voice flat but lacking the venom from earlier. “Do the next two.”

You nodded, pulling the textbook closer and flipping to the next problem. Another two-parter.

You paused, double-checking continuity quadratic, no breaks, then scribbled a note that the theorem didn’t guarantee a zero here, but it still applied if you shifted focus. Your brain churned, the logic twisting as you worked, and you glanced up, half-hoping Jean might chime in.

He didn’t.

He was back on his phone, scrolling with that same angry energy, his thumb jabbing at the screen like he was trying to punish it. His jaw twitched, his lips pressed into a thin, furious line, and his rings glinted as his grip tightened.

You tilted your head, curiosity tugging at you despite yourself, what the hell had him so worked up? The call, sure, but this was next-level, even for him. You’d known him since middle school, seen him pissed plenty of times, but this felt different.

Personal.

Your eyes lingered, tracing the hard set of his shoulders, the way his free hand tapped restlessly against the table.

He felt it, your stare, and his head snapped up, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a glare that hit like a slap. “Stop looking at me like that,” he snapped, his voice low and rough, cutting through the library’s hush. “Like you’re trying to figure me out or some shit. It’s pissing me off.”

You blinked, caught off guard, and leaned back, your pencil stilling mid-stroke. “Jesus, relax,” you muttered, your tone sharp but quieter, mindful of the space. “I was just-”

“Just what?” he cut in, his whisper harsh as he tossed his phone onto the table, the clatter louder than he probably meant. “Staring like I’m some damn puzzle? Focus on your work.”

You bristled, your own irritation flaring as you met his glare, your voice a tight hiss. “You’re the one acting like a psycho over there, scrolling like you’re about to break your screen. What’s your problem?”

“My problem’s none of your damn business,” he shot back, leaning forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. “You wanna get through this? Do the problems. I’m not here to spill my guts ‘cause you’re nosy.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back a sharper retort as you dragged the notebook closer, your pencil digging into the paper.

You exhaled slowly, steadying your grip on the pencil as you finished the last step of the third question and circled your answer, a shaky c ≈ 2.1 after testing midpoints between 2 and 3.

You slid the notebook across the table, the paper whispering against the wood as it came to a stop in front of Jean. “Here,” you said, your voice low and tentative, the earlier confidence fraying under the weight of his simmering anger. “I think I got ‘em.”

He didn’t respond right away, his phone still clutched in one hand, his thumb paused mid-scroll as he dragged his gaze to the notebook. His black turtleneck stretched faintly as he leaned forward, the silver chain around his neck glinting dully in the dim light, and his hazel eyes, usually sharp with disinterest burned with something hotter, something volatile.

He snatched the paper closer, his rings flashing as his fingers curled around the edges, and scanned your work with a speed that felt almost violent, his breath coming in short, sharp huffs through his nose.

After a beat, he scribbled a checkmark on the second question and muttered, “This one’s fine,” his voice low and clipped, the words barely audible over the faint hum of the library. But when he reached the third, his pencil froze, hovering over your approximation, and his jaw tightened, the muscle twitching visibly beneath his skin. He stabbed the pencil down, the tip gouging a faint dent into the page as he glared at the numbers, his eyes narrowing into slits.

“How the hell do you get the second one right but fuck up the last one?” he snapped, his voice rising from a whisper to a harsh, grating hiss that cut through the quiet like a blade.

He leaned forward, his elbows slamming onto the table, and shoved the notebook toward you, his glare locking onto yours with an intensity you’d never seen before not in eight years of sniping, not in all the petty rivalries since middle school.

You flinched, caught off guard, and leaned forward to see where you’d gone wrong, your heart thudding against your ribs as you reached for the paper. “Wait, what-” you started, your voice shaky, but he didn’t let you finish, his words tumbling out in a furious rush, each one louder than the last, though still constrained to a library-appropriate growl.

“You had the damn pattern endpoints, continuity, midpoints and then you screw it up on the easiest part! Look at this shit!” He jabbed the pencil at your approximation, the tip tearing a faint hole in the page as he circled 2.1 with a vicious slash. “You didn’t even check it right. f(2) = -1, f(3) = 16, it crosses way before 2.1! How do you miss that?”

Your hands hovered over the table, your breath catching as you tried to follow his rant, the numbers blurring under the heat of his anger. “I thought I narrowed it down,” you stammered, your voice smaller than you meant it to be, your fingers trembling faintly as you reached for the notebook.

“I tested 2.5 and-”

“Tested wrong, obviously,”

He cut in, his voice a low, furious snarl as he shoved the pencil and paper back at you, the force sending it skidding across the table until it bumped against his abandoned coffee cup. “Jesus Christ, you’re not even trying it’s like you just guess and hope for the best! Do it again, and do it right this time!”

You froze, your hand hovering over the pencil as his words hit you like a slap, sharp and unrelenting. His face was flushed now, a faint red creeping up his neck, and his eyes burned with something wild, something unhinged that you’d never seen in him before, not even during your worst fights.

The library’s quiet amplified it, the faint rustle of pages from somewhere in the stacks a stark contrast to the storm sitting across from you. Your chest tightened, a cold, unfamiliar prickle creeping up your spine, not quite fear, but damn close, enough to make your usual snark wither on your tongue.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry, and picked up the pencil with a shaky grip, the wood cool and slick against your fingers. No comeback came,no sharp retort, no sarcastic jab, just silence as you pulled the notebook closer, your eyes darting over the torn page.

The checkmark on the second question mocked you, the slashed 2.1 on the third a glaring wound, and you forced yourself to focus, your breath shallow as you erased the mistake with quick, jerky swipes, the rubber crumbs scattering across the table.

Jean didn’t move, just sat there, his arms crossed tight over his chest, his gaze boring into you like he could burn holes through your skull. His phone lay face-down beside him, the screen dark but still radiating whatever had set him off, and his foot tapped restlessly under the table vibrating the wood.

You recalculated.

Positive now, so it crossed between 2 and 2.2. You scribbled it down, your handwriting wobbly, and tested 2.1 again f(2.1) = 0.261, closer refining it silently, your heart still pounding as his anger loomed.

You didn’t look up.

Didn’t dare, just kept your head down and your pencil moving, the faint tremble in your fingers betraying the unease you wouldn’t voice. For once, Jean’s fury had stripped you bare, it gave you a feeling.

A weird one that you almost couldn't pinpoint.

No, you knew what it was. It was déjà vu.

The kind that hit you like a punch to the gut, sharp and disorienting, dragging you back to a place you’d spent years trying to outrun. Jean’s yelling, his voice a low, furious growl slicing through the library’s hush, echoed in your skull, but it wasn’t just him you heard.

It was her, your mom, her raspy, nicotine-stained shouts reverberating through the thin walls of your childhood home, the sound bouncing off chipped paint and stained carpet until it lodged itself deep in your bones.

The memory clawed its way up, unbidden and relentless, as you sat there, your pencil trembling faintly in your grip, the notebook’s torn page staring back at you with its slashed 2.1 and Jean’s angry corrections.

You could almost feel it again, the heat of her breath in your face, close enough that her spit would fleck your cheek, warm and wet and nauseating as she loomed over you. Nights like that stretched endless, her voice a jagged blade tearing through the quiet, always sharp with frustration, always reeking of those damn cigarettes.

Marlboro Reds.

The cheap kind she chain-smoked until the air turned thick and gray. The smell clung to everything: her clothes, the couch, your hair, a sour, acrid haze that coated your throat and burned your lungs until you learned to breathe shallow just to survive it. She’d scream about anything. Your grades, the dishes, the way you looked at her wrong. Her words slurring into a torrent of rage that left you small and silent, your back pressed against the wall, waiting for it to end.

Jean’s outburst wasn’t the same, not exactly, but it hit the same nerve, raw and exposed. The way he leaned forward, his hazel eyes blazing with that unhinged fury, his pencil stabbing the table like he could pin his anger there, it mirrored her too closely, the posture, the venom, the way it made the room feel too small.

Your chest tightened, a familiar squeeze that wasn’t fear, not quite, but something close, something that made your breath hitch and your stomach churn. The library smelled of sterile air usually, but right now in your mind, it was cigarette smoke, curling into your lungs, sour and suffocating, until you had to swallow hard to keep the nausea down.

Your eyes didn’t betray it, though.

They never did.

You’d learned early to keep them steady, blank, a mask you’d perfected over years of standing still while she raged, a lesson she had taught you and stuck.

No tears, don't flinch, just keep a flat, defiant stare that hid the storm churning inside your heart pounding, your lungs seizing as the ghosts of those nights clawed at you.

You stared at the notebook now, Jean’s checkmark on the second question blurring faintly as you forced your hand to move, erasing the third problem’s mistake with quick, mechanical swipes. The rubber crumbs scattered across the table, tiny gray flecks catching the light, and you gripped the pencil tighter, willing the tremble to stop, willing the memory to fade.

Jean didn’t notice.

He was too lost in his own anger, his arms crossed tight over his chest, his phone silent but radiating whatever had set him off. His foot tapped under the table, a restless noise that echoed your heartbeat.

You recalculated.

You scribbled c ≈ 2.17, your handwriting shaky but legible, and circled it, your breath shallow as you pushed the past back down where it belonged.

You clenched your jaw, forcing your eyes to stay dry, your face a blank slate as you slid the notebook back toward him, your voice full of fake confidence that only you knew was inauthentic

“Fixed it.”

He snatched it without a word, his rings glinting as his fingers curled around the edges, and scanned your work with that same furious intensity, his breath hitching faintly like he was holding back another outburst. His pencil hovered, then slashed a quick checkmark, the graphite tearing faintly into the page.

His voice low and rough, still dripping with that unexplained anger.

“Next one.” . . . The meeting came to an end after an hour and a half, the library’s quiet stretching thin and brittle as the last problem sat finished in your notebook, its solution circled in shaky graphite.

Jean’s anger had simmered down to a low burn, his hazel eyes still sharp but less wild, the earlier fury dulled into a tight-lipped exhaustion. Your own hands moved mechanically, flipping the textbook shut, the pages creasing where you’d pressed too hard, and you leaned back in the chair, the wood creaking faintly under your weight.

The Odyssey rested beside your tangled earbuds, its spine bent from your earlier nap.

Jean didn’t waste time.

He shoved his phone into his pocket, the screen dark but still radiating whatever had set him off, and started packing up, his movements quick and jerky. His pencil clattered into his bag, followed by his notebook, the zipper rasping shut as he slung it over his shoulder. His black turtleneck stretched faintly across his chest as he stood, and he fixed you with a hard stare, his voice low and clipped.

“Be here on time Thursday,” he said, his tone flat but edged with a lingering bite.

“Hm.”

You didn’t say much.

You didn’t have the energy, didn’t have the fight left. Your throat was still tight from the echoes of your mom’s yelling, the phantom cigarette smoke still curling in your lungs, and you just nodded, your lips pressed into a thin, silent line.

The absence of your usual snark hit him like a quiet victory, and you caught the faintest flicker of satisfaction in his expression, his eyes narrowing slightly, his mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but close.

He was pleased, happy that your ass had finally shut up for once, and he didn’t hide it. Without another word, he popped his earbuds in, as he turned and strode off toward the stacks, his boots thudding faintly against the linoleum until he disappeared around a corner, leaving you alone in the heavy silence.

|♩♩♩- Anxiety| By: Doechii

You sat there for a moment, your breath catching in your chest as the weight of the session, of him, of her, settled over you like a damp fog.

Then you exhaled, deep and slow, the sound shaky as it slipped past your lips, and pushed yourself up from the chair. The wood groaned faintly, the table wobbling as you gathered your things.

Notebook, textbook, pencil, all shoved into your backpack with a careless efficiency, the zipper snagging briefly on the fabric. The Wendy’s bag crinkled as you tossed it into the trash nearby, the faint grease lingering on your fingers, and you slung your bag over your shoulder, the straps digging into your sweater as you adjusted the weight.

Your boots scuffed against the floor as you headed toward the library bathroom, the hallway dim and empty, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. The air grew cooler as you moved away from the main room, the faint hum of the heater fading into a distant drone, and you pushed through the bathroom door, the hinges creaking softly.

The space was small, white tiles gleaming under harsh lights, a row of sinks lined against a streaked mirror that reflected the faint moon glow seeping through the small window. You dropped your bag on the sink. A sound echoing in the quiet, and stepped up to the sink, your hands gripping the cold porcelain as you stared at yourself in the glass.

The reflection looked back, unblinking, your eyes shadowed, hollowed out by the day’s grind and the memories Jean’s yelling had dredged up.

Your skin was a tad bit paler than usual, the November chill clinging to you despite the library’s warmth, and your hair hung messy, strands sticking to your forehead where you’d rubbed at it earlier. You turned on the faucet, the water rushing out in a sharp, icy stream, and cupped your hands under it, splashing your face.

The cold bit into your cheeks, a shock that jolted you back to the present, and you watched the droplets slide down your reflection, clinging to your lashes, dripping off your chin. Your breath steadied, the nausea from earlier ebbing as the cigarette-smoke phantom faded, replaced by the sharp, clean scent of the library’s cheap soap.

Most days you could deal with the smell of cigarettes. It didn't affect you, but why did a bit of yelling have to make you go back to the place.

Make the smell come without a single cigarette being in the room at all. Why did it effect you so damn much?

You straightened, shaking the water from your hands, and grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser, the rough texture scraping against your skin as you dried off. The mirror held your gaze, your eyes still steady, still blank a mask you’d worn too long to shed now. Jean’s anger, your mom’s yelling, they tangled together in your chest, a knot you couldn’t unravel, but you shoved it down, deep where it couldn’t touch you.

You adjusted your sweater, the sleeves tugged over your knuckles, and slung your bag back over your shoulder again, the weight familiar and grounding. The bathroom door creaked as you pushed it open, the hallway stretching out empty and silent, and you stepped back into the library.

You took a deep breath and pushed through it.

A moment of weakness, you told yourself, shaking off the lingering echoes of Jean’s anger and your mom’s ghost as you stepped out of the library bathroom.

The fluorescent lights overhead hum as you adjusted your backpack, the straps digging into your shoulders. Your boots scuffed against the floor, the sound soft but deliberate as you fished your phone from your pocket, the screen glowing bright against your face.

Your fingers moved quickly, typing out a text to Sasha as you walked.

You: Hey, just finished with Jean. Can you pick me up?

You hit send, the little whoosh of the message cutting through the quiet, and shoved the phone back into your pocket, your breath still settling from the bathroom’s cold-water wake-up call.

The library stretched out ahead, you wove through it, the faint scent of old paper and dust clinging to the air, and approached the front desk where the librarian sat, her gray hair pulled into a tight bun, her eyes flicking up from a paperback novel as you neared.

“Goodnight,” you said, forcing a small smile as you gave her a quick wave, your voice steady despite the weight still coiled in your chest.

She nodded back, her lips twitching into a faint, tired curve, and returned to her book, the pages yellowed under her fingers. “Goodnight dear.”

You pushed through the double doors, the hinges creaking softly, and stepped out into the night, the cold biting at your face with a sharp, dry edge that carried the earthy tang of decaying leaves.

The campus loomed dark and quiet, the streetlights casting long, amber pools across the pavement, the fallen leaves skittering faintly in the breeze. You paused on the steps, glancing left and right, your eyes scanning for cars.

No puddles to dodge this time, just the crunch of leaves underfoot as you descended, your boots kicking up faint clouds of red and orange dust.

The air nipped at your cheeks, tugging at the edges of your sweater, and you tugged the sleeves down over your knuckles, your breath puffing out in faint, fleeting clouds. Sasha hadn’t texted back yet, so you resigned yourself to waiting, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as the chill seeped through your jeans.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, a sharp vibration that jolted you out of your thoughts, and you pulled it out, expecting Sasha’s usual On my way, hold tight! with a string of emojis. But the name on the screen wasn’t hers, it was Reiner’s, bold and unexpected, and your thumb hovered over the notification as your pulse kicked up a notch.

You swiped it open, the message spilling across the screen in simple, unassuming text

Reiner: Hey, you free this tomorrow? Wanna grab dinner or something? Like a date?

Your heart pounded, a sudden, heavy thud against your ribs that made your breath catch, and your eyes widened, the words blurring faintly as you stared.

Reiner, big, strong Reiner with his broad shoulders and soft smiles, the guy who’d been your friend since middle school asking you out. On a date.

The phone felt heavier in your hand, the cold metal biting into your fingers as the November air swirled around you, the leaves rustling louder now, a dry, whispering chorus that matched the rush in your ears. You blinked, rereading it, your mind scrambling to process.

Reiner, who’d always been steady, reliable, the one who’d carried your books when your bag ripped in eighth grade, the one who’d laughed with you over Sasha’s dumb jokes. A date?

You stood there, rooted to the spot, the campus fading into a blur of amber light and scattered leaves as your eyes traced the text again.

Hey, you free tomorrow? Wanna grab dinner or something? Like a date?

Your stomach flipped, a mix of shock and something warmer, the faint flicker of excitement, twisting beneath the day’s exhaustion.

Jean’s yelling, the library’s tension, your mom’s phantom smoke, all of it dulled for a moment, overshadowed by the unexpected weight of those words. You glanced up, half-expecting Sasha’s Subaru to roll into view, but the street stayed empty, the leaves tumbling across the pavement in lazy, aimless drifts.

Your fingers twitched, hovering over the keyboard, but no reply came, not yet.

Your breath hitched again, puffing out in a shaky cloud as the cold nipped at your nose, and you tucked your free hand into your pocket, the other still clutching the phone like it might vanish if you let go.

Reiner. A date. The idea spun in your head, wild and uncharted, and you couldn’t tell if the pounding in your chest was nerves or something else entirely. You stood there, rereading his text over and over.

A date?

[raggycookie]

Jean Kirstein X Reader

Honey Boy: Surprise

You wake up before your alarm. The soft hum of the heater in your apartment fills the quiet space, but the cold air slipping through the barely insulated window reminds you why you’re wrapped up so tightly in your comforter. Your phone, facedown on the nightstand, is already buzzing with notifications, but you ignore them for now, letting the weight of the morning settle into your bones.

It takes a minute before you stretch, your limbs stiff from sleep. You sit up, rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes before finally reaching for your phone. The screen lights up, Eren’s name sits at the top of your messages, a reminder of last night’s conversation. Or rather, the conversation you were half-awake for before passing out.

Eren (12:34 AM): you still good to make the cake right? zeke got all the stuff

Eren (12:45 AM): we’re setting up around 7 but you can come before then if you wanna help

Eren (1:12 AM): oh and bring matches for the candles. zeke only got the cake stuff and nothing else bc he’s USELESS

You exhale a slow sigh, rereading his messages as if doing so will make you feel any less exhausted. You should have gone to sleep earlier. Instead, you spent most of last night trying to finish assignments, staring at your dwindling bank account, and debating whether you could stretch the gas in your car for another day. The answer had been no.

Which is why you’re awake this early, layering up because you have to walk. Before getting up, you give Eren a little text back.

You:yes, im still good.

You: I’ll be there early.

You: and tell Zeke that next time he goes to the store, he needs to write down a damn list

|♩♩♩ - 12th & I(interlude) |

By: rum.gold

You toss the covers back and step onto the wooden floor, the cold biting at your toes before you shuffle to the bathroom. The fluorescent light flickers once before buzzing to life, and you stare at your reflection in the mirror. Sleep still clings to your features, your skin slightly puffy, your hair a tangled mess from tossing and turning.

You reach for your bonnet, slipping it off as you begin your routine. The spray of warm water against your face shocks you fully awake, and you move through your skincare quickly, cleanser, toner, moisturizer, a little bit of under-eye cream because late nights are catching up to you. Then it’s on to your hair, the real process. You grab your spray bottle, misting your strands with water before working in leave-in conditioner, separating and detangling section by section. Your fingers move with practiced ease, twisting the curls into place, making sure they’re defined but not stiff. You smooth down your edges, making sure they’re neat but not overdone. It’s a process, but one you’ve done a million times over.

Once satisfied, you pull on your outfit, a grey sweater, warm but not too bulky, paired with your light wash bootcut jeans. The denim hugs your legs comfortably, flaring just enough over your black heeled boots. A quick glance in the mirror tells you you look put together, even if exhaustion lingers in your eyes. The final touch is your gold hoops, a small but necessary addition that makes you feel like yourself.

By the time you grab your bag and step outside, the crisp morning air bites at your skin, your breath forming small clouds as you start your walk to the bus stop. The pavement is slick with early morning dew, and the occasional car passes by, headlights cutting through the grey dawn. You pull your sweater tighter around you, the weight of your bag pressing against your shoulder as your boots click softly against the concrete.

The walk to the bus stop takes ten minutes, just long enough for you to settle into the rhythm of the morning. The city is slowly waking up around you, shop owners rolling up their metal grates, people heading to work, the scent of coffee drifting from a nearby café. You don’t let yourself think too much, just focus on each step, on the familiar route you’ve taken before.

When you finally reach the stop, the bus is just pulling up, the brakes hissing as the doors swing open. You step inside, holding up your student id to the driver before finding a seat near the window. The warmth inside is a welcome contrast to the cold outside, and you let yourself relax for a moment, head resting against the glass as the city moves past in a blur.

Campus isn’t far, but the ride gives you time to mentally prepare for the day ahead. 

Classes.

Work. 

Armin’s party.

The ever-present weight of everything else. 

You exhale slowly, closing your eyes for just a second. Just a few more stops, and then the real day begins.

The bus doors hissed as they swung open, releasing a blast of cold morning air. You stepped down onto the pavement, pulling the hem of your sweater down as the chill immediately crept through the fabric. The campus was already alive with students, some moving with purpose while others dragged their feet, clearly still half-asleep. The scent of coffee from a nearby cart mixed with the crisp autumn air, and fallen leaves crunched underfoot as you made your way toward the science building.

You fell into an easy pace, your boots hitting the concrete in a steady rhythm. The walk was familiar, muscle memory guiding you down the same worn paths you’d taken countless times before. As you reached the entrance, you pulled open the heavy glass door and stepped inside. Warmth wrapped around you instantly, a stark contrast to the cold outside. The building smelled like old textbooks, dry-erase markers, and the lingering scent of lab chemicals.

Your biology classroom was just down the hall. As you approached, a quick glance inside confirmed what you’d hoped,

Jean wasn’t here yet. 

A small, satisfied smirk tugged at your lips.

Sliding into your usual seat near the front of the class, you set your bag down with a soft thud and pulled out your phone. The screen illuminated your face in a cool glow as your thumb absentmindedly scrolled through notifications, the outside world reduced to snippets of messages and your Instagram feed. The classroom was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of paper or the faint scratching of a pen from another student already buried in their notes.

Then, thirty seconds later, the door creaked open behind you.

You didn’t need to turn around. The footsteps that followed, unhurried, confident, just a little too heavy to be anyone else’s, told you exactly who had arrived.

Jean strolled in, his eyes glued to his phone, the dim glow reflecting off the silver rings that adorned his fingers. The soft shuffle of denim against denim accompanied his movements, his baggy jeanssitting good on his hips, effortlessly slouched. The light gray hoodie he wore was slightly oversized, draping over his broad frame in a way that made it look both comfortable and intentional. 

The faint glint of his chain peeked out from beneath his collar, catching the fluorescent light just enough to make its presence known.

Without acknowledging anyone, he moved toward the back of the empty classroom, the air subtly shifting in his wake. The space felt fuller, as if his presence alone had a gravitational pull. He barely glanced up as he spoke, voice low and laced with dry amusement.

“The devil woke up early today.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, shaking your head as your gaze remained fixed on your screen. The corner of your lips twitched, but you refused to let the smirk fully form.

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” you replied smoothly, the familiar bite of your banter settling in like second nature.

The creak of a chair behind you was the only warning before Jean’s scoff cut through the early morning quiet. “No earphones today? It usually keeps your ass quiet.” His voice was low, still rough with sleep, like he hadn’t quite shaken off the heaviness of the morning yet. You didn’t have to turn around to know he was giving you one of those lazy, half-awake glances, probably dragging a hand through his already-messy hair as he pulled out his AirPods, inspecting them like they were the only thing standing between him and peace.

You sighed, tilting your head back slightly in your seat, already exhausted by him and the day hadn’t even properly started. 

“Sadly, I left them at my place. Trust me, I don’t wanna hear your voice first thing in the morning either.” 

The words left your mouth easily, coated in dry sarcasm as you stared ahead, scrolling absently on your phone.

Jean let out a short, dry laugh, the sound more amused than anything. “Yeah? That’s crazy, ‘cause you sure seem to find a way to talk to me every damn day.”

That earned a reaction. You twisted halfway in your seat, giving him a slow, unimpressed look. “You do realize it’s only because you talk first, right?”

He shrugged like it was nothing, already slipping one AirPod into his ear. “Nah, I think you just like hearing yourself argue.”

“Oh my god.” You dragged a hand down your face, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I cannot deal with your bullshit this early.”

“Well, you won’t have to,” Jean shot back smoothly, holding up his other AirPod before sliding it in. 

“Cause I got my AirPods in now, so-”

“Good. Put them in and shut the fuck up.”

Jean exhaled sharply through his nose, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. “Gladly.”

And just like that, he leaned back further, tipping his chair slightly as he started scrolling through his phone, effectively ending the conversation. You rolled your eyes and turned back around, shaking your head as the classroom around you slowly began to fill. 

Students trickled in, some talking in low murmurs, others flipping open notebooks or tapping at their screens like you had been earlier. The quiet hum of the early morning was gradually being replaced with the familiar buzz of movement, the pre-class rustling of papers and hushed conversations.

That’s when you noticed,

Marlo wasn’t here.

He was usually two rows ahead, already bent over his notebook, scribbling something down before the professor even arrived. But his seat was empty, and for some reason, that stood out more than usual. Without thinking, you pulled out your phone and shot him a quick text.

You: You good? Didn’t see you come in.

A minute passed before your screen lit up with a reply.

Marlo: Came down with a cold. Been in bed all morning.

Your brows furrowed slightly as you hovered your thumbs over the keyboard.

You: Damn, that sucks. Need anything?

Marlo: Nah, just trying to sleep this shit off. Appreciate it tho.

You nodded slightly to yourself, slipping your phone back into your bag just as professor Hange finally walked in. 

The door swung open with a little too much enthusiasm, the handle smacking against the wall as Professor Hange strode into the lecture hall, a whirlwind of energy despite the early hour. They clutched a stack of papers in one hand, their ever-present coffee in the other, and somehow still managed to tap at their smartwatch, mumbling something under their breath about "damn notifications."

Without missing a beat, they made their way to the front of the room, setting their coffee down on the podium before turning to the smartboard. With a few quick taps, the screen flickered to life, casting a cool blue glow across the lecture hall. At the same time, Hange reached over and flicked off the overhead lights, plunging the room into dimness save for the brightness of the screen.

“Alright, everyone, let’s talk titration,” 

They announced, their voice cutting through the low murmur of the class settling in. “Since we were working on this in lab last week, I’m hoping, hoping , you all at least vaguely remember what we were doing.” They turned back to the smartboard, pulling up a slide with a colorful diagram of a burette, an Erlenmeyer flask, and a pH indicator, their eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement.

“You see, titration is basically like a very precise game of ‘how much can I add before I mess it all up?’” they continued, tapping at the diagram with their stylus. “Too much titrant? Boom, overshot. Too little? Your results are trash. It’s a delicate balance, people. And chemistry,” they added with a wide grin, “is all about balance.”

A few students chuckled, while others scrambled to take notes, already anticipating that Hange’s rapid-fire explanations would require full concentration. They gestured wildly at the screen, tracing the flow of liquid, the color changes, the crucial endpoint where the reaction was just right. Every movement was animated, as if they were reliving the lab themselves.

The light from the smart board casted a sterile glow over the sea of students hunched over their desks. You sitin the center, arms crossed over the worn grey sweater, barely listening as you tap your pen against your faded jeans. Exhaustion presses against your temples, a dull headache pulsing behind your eyes, remnants of last night’s studying session, where you stared at your History textbook for hours and absorbed everything about the great depression.

Behind you, Jean sprawls out in his chair like he owns the place. His legs are spread wide, one arm slung lazily over the backrest, the other tapping an uneven rhythm against the tiled floor with the scuffed toes of his sneakers. The silver chain around his neck catches the fluorescent light, flashing in the corner of your vision before you quickly dismiss it. You don’t have the patience for him today. 

You never really do, 

But it’s worse when you’re already on edge. And of course, Jean Kirstein has an uncanny ability to sniff out the moments you least want to deal with him and make them exponentially worse.

A small, crumpled ball of paper lands squarely on your desk.

Your jaw tightens. Slowly, deliberately, you unfold it, smoothing out the creases with the tips of your fingers.

Try paying attention for once, unless you wanna fail this class like you’re failing calculus.

Your grip tightens, knuckles whitening as a sharp breath hisses through your teeth. Behind you, Jean's pen scrapes against his notebook, his body angled slightly in your direction. You can’t see him smirking, but you know he is. You can feel it, radiating off him in waves of smug amusement.

Your fingers curl around your pen, sadly playing along with his shit.

This isn’t middle school. The fuck are you passing notes around for?

You flick the paper back over your shoulder, not bothering to be subtle about it. A beat passes. Then another. You hear the faint rustle of paper unfolding, Jean’s quiet exhale as he reads your words.

Another note slides into the crook of your arm.

Just trying to make sure you don't fall asleep on the desk.

Since when have you cared about my well-being??

Oh trust, I don’t. I would just feel bad for the janitor who would have to wipe up your drool from off the table

Your nostrils flared as you scribbled back a response on the paper and threw it over your shoulder, not so much as even sparing him a glance.

Can you get any other personality besides a sarcastic prick?

You don’t even try to be subtle this time, you just toss it over your shoulder, watching it hit his forearm before fluttering onto his notebook. A sharp exhale. The soft, deliberate sound of paper unfolding. The silence between you stretches thin, a thread pulled too tight.

Seconds later, the note returns, landing squarely in your lap.

Big words for someone who clings to their GPA like it’s the only thing keeping them relevant. You’re all numbers, no substance.

A flicker of something dangerous courses through your veins. You should stop. You know this. But Jean has a way of digging beneath your skin, burrowing into places you don’t want him to reach, and it infuriates you how easy it is for him.

Your pen presses harder against the paper.

If you disappeared tomorrow, nothing about this class would change. Hell, I’d probably get a little peace and quiet for once.

The professor’s voice fades into nothing. The world narrows to the scratch of ink against paper, the heat crawling up your spine, the way Jean’s presence looms behind you even without a word.

His response comes swiftly.

You need someone to hate so you can pretend your own miserable life isn’t your fault.

The words slice through you like a jagged knife. Your vision blurs for a split second.

You swallow.

Inhale.

Exhale.

And then,

You write back, pressing down so hard that the tip of your pen nearly tears through the paper.

At least I have drive. What’s your excuse? Daddy didn’t pat you on the back enough?

The second the note leaves your hands, you feel it, something dangerous shifting in the air. Jean stills. You don’t have to turn around to know his entire body has gone rigid, that his fingers have likely curled just a little tighter around his pen.

Seconds stretch into an eternity. Then, with agonizing slowness, the note returns.

Your stomach twists before you even read it.

Drive? More like desperation. Guess you gotta overcompensate when you’re terrified of being nothing.

Your breath comes short and shallow.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you grip your pen.

You want to say something, want to cut deeper, want to knock that arrogance out of his damn chest and make him feel what you feel, but the words lodge in your throat, tangled up in something you refuse to acknowledge.

For the first time in your long history of butting heads, you have nothing left to say.

The class moves on.

"Alright, my little biologists, that's all for today!" Hange claps their hands together, the sharp sound echoing through the lecture hall. "Remember, mutations are just nature’s little accidents, sometimes happy, sometimes catastrophic. Like my last attempt at baking. Don’t forget to review the material before next week’s quiz!"

A collective groan rises from the students as chairs scrape back and bags rustle. Some bolt for the door before Hange can remember any last-minute announcements, while others move sluggishly, weighed down by exhaustion or the sheer dread of their next class. You close your notebook with more force than necessary, the edges of loose papers crumpling beneath your palm. Your notes are a battlefield of barely legible scribbles, underlines, and frustrated annotations, but none of that matters. The only thing lingering in your head is the weight of your last exchange, sharp words slung like knives, each one leaving a cut that still aches.

The air shifts behind you before you even see him.

Jean.

You barely have time to push back your chair before he brushes past, his shoulder knocking into yours without hesitation, a deliberate push that sends a hot spark of irritation straight to your gut.

"You're lucky I even agreed to tutor your ass," he mutters, voice low, edged with something sharp and unyielding.

You freeze for half a second, breath catching at the sheer audacity of him.

Your boots click against the linoleum as you take a step forward, the space between you both charged, crackling like static before a storm as you muttered under your breath.

"I could’ve asked anyone else, but instead, I gave you the chance to feel useful for once in your life."

Jean halts mid-stride, turning to face you with slow precision, as if giving himself a moment to decide whether to be amused or pissed off. The hallway bustles around you, students chatting, rushing past, barely paying attention, but in that moment, the only thing you register is the flicker of irritation in his hazel eyes.

"You gave me a chance?" His laugh is short and humorless, grating against your nerves. He tilts his head slightly, studying you, gaze full of something you can’t quite place. "Right. Because no one else wants to deal with you, is that it?"

Your nostrils flare. 

"Oh, fuck you, Jean."

"That’s the best you got?" His gaze is razor-sharp, cutting straight through your patience. He steps closer, just enough to make your pulse spike. "Come on, if you’re gonna start some shit, at least make it entertaining."

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides, nails pressing crescent moons into your palms. The words sit on the tip of your tongue, ready to be spat like venom, but then-

Then you remember.

Calculus.

Your grade.

Jean fucking Kirstein, the one person standing between you and complete academic disaster.

Shit.

You inhale sharply, biting down on the retort threatening to slip from your lips. The silence between you stretches, heavy and suffocating, and Jean notices.

Something flickers across his face. Victory. Realization. Maybe even satisfaction. He takes another step closer, voice dropping to something quieter, something almost smug.

"Yeah," he murmurs, tilting his head. "That’s what I thought."

And just when you think he’s done, just when you think the moment has passed, he rams his shoulder into yours again, harder this time, knocking you back a step.

You suck in a sharp breath, your entire body tensing as you watch him walk off without so much as a glance back. Your hands shake with the force of what you want to say, what you want to do. Instead, you stand there, blood hot in your veins, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

You quickly grabbed your bag and threw it over your shoulder and walked out of the classroom.

The walk from campus to work was a good 35 minutes, but it still wasn’t long enough to get rid of the anger and tension in your shoulders. The irritation from class still lingers, pulsing beneath your skin, but you force yourself to shake it off. 

No way are you going to let Jean Kirstein ruin your entire day.

Your boots click against the pavement as you make your way to Café Rose, the familiar scent of coffee and baked goods drifting into the air before you even reach the entrance.

It’s something stable after the chaos of the morning. Pushing the door open, you immediately spot Mikasa behind the counter, already tying her apron around her waist. Her dark eyes flick up, and she gives you a small smile, subtle, but warm in the way only Mikasa can manage.

You nod in return before heading straight to the back. 

The employee bathroom is small but functional, just enough space for you to breathe for a moment before your shift starts. Setting your bag down on the counter, you exhale, catching your reflection in the mirror. 

Your afro is slightly frizzed from the wind, the strands refusing to settle, so you gather it up into a bun, securing it in place with practiced ease. With quick, familiar motions, you swap your grey sweater for the black polo from your bag, then slide into your black pants. The red apron comes last, tied neatly around your waist, a final piece locking you into work mode.ing your shoulders, you try to shake off the tension clinging to your muscles before grabbing your things and heading back out.

Just as you step into the hallway, you nearly collide with a broad figure.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” you mutter, stepping back quickly, nearly knocking into a rack of overstocked coffee bags.

Miche Zacharias, your boss, just grins, his signature lopsided smirk making an appearance. He’s always got that easygoing air about him, like nothing ever truly rattles him, not the broken espresso machine, not the endless stream of customers who don’t know the difference between a cappuccino and a latte, and apparently not you almost colliding with him in the cramped hallway leading from the break room.

“It’s all good. Honestly, I’m more shocked you survived in there,” he says, jerking his chin toward the bathroom door behind you.

You blink, confused. “What does that mean?”

“I blew another hole in the damn toilet. Drank too much coffee, I guess.”

Your face twists in immediate regret. “I really didn’t need to know th-”

"You got a minute?" he interrupts, tucking his hands into his pockets.

There’s something about the way he says it. Casual, but with a weight behind it that makes you pause. You nod, pushing aside whatever sarcastic remark had been forming in your head, and follow him toward the back office.

The space is just as familiar as it is cluttered, stacks of schedules pinned haphazardly to a corkboard, inventory lists half-buried under paperwork, and that one coffee cup that you’re pretty sure has been refilled more times than it's ever been washed. 

The air smells like old paper and the faintest trace of cinnamon, probably from the seasonal pastries sitting in the case up front.

Miche leans against the desk, crossing his arms as he meets your gaze, his expression losing its usual humor. “Alright, so here’s the deal,” he starts, his voice still light but firm. “I’m adjusting your hours.”

Your stomach drops, the easy comfort of the moment evaporating in an instant. “Wait, what? Why?”

He holds up a hand before you can fully spiral, reading your panic before you even voice it. “Relax. It’s not a bad thing.”

That doesn’t exactly ease the pressure building in your chest, but you bite your tongue and let him explain.

“I know you’ve got school, and I also brought in a couple of new hires to help cover shifts. Figured cutting back some of your hours would give you more time to focus on your classes without killing yourself over work,” he continues, watching your reaction carefully.

You exhale, the tension in your shoulders loosening, just a little. “Okay, how much are we talking?”

“Not a huge cut,” he reassures you. “You’ll still get enough hours to keep your checks steady, just with a little more breathing room. Thought you’d appreciate that, especially with how hard you’ve been pushing yourself.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, thinking it over. 

You know he’s right. 

Lately, you’ve been stretched so thin you’re practically translucent, between classes, tutoring, and this job, sleep has been more of a luxury than a necessity. Some nights, you don’t even remember closing your eyes before your alarm drags you into another exhausting day.

But losing hours means losing money, and that’s not something you can afford to brush off.

Miche must catch the hesitation on your face because he adds, “Look, if it really messes with you financially, let me know, and we’ll figure something out. But I don’t want you running yourself into the ground, alright?”

His voice is steady, reassuring in a way that makes it hard to argue with him.

You let out a slow breath, the weight of the conversation settling over you. 

“Yeah…yeah, okay,” you murmur, nodding. “Thanks, Miche.”

Miche watches you for a beat, his hazel eyes scanning your face like he’s making sure you’re really okay with this, not just saying what you think you’re supposed to. 

Then, with a small nod, he pushes off the desk and stretches his arms above his head, letting out a groan like an old man.

"Good. ‘Cause I don’t feel like explaining to corporate why one of my best employees collapsed in the middle of a shift from sheer exhaustion," he says, rolling out his shoulders.

“Or worse, watching you turn into one of those dead-eyed, coffee-dependent zombies who hate everything and everyone, including themselves.”

You huff out a quiet laugh despite yourself. "I think I’m already halfway there."

"Exactly my point," he says, pointing at you. "You work hard, and I respect the hell outta that. But you also gotta learn when to ease up before you burn out completely. There’s a fine line between pushing yourself and self-destruction, and kid, you’ve been toeing it for a while now."

You shift your weight, crossing your arms over your chest. It’s not like you don’t know that. The late nights, the exhaustion that seeps into your bones, the way your brain feels like it’s constantly driving at full speed with no brakes. 

It’s all just part of life, right? 

Everyone’s tired. 

Miche leans back against the desk again, more relaxed now, but his gaze is still sharp. “Look, I know it’s not just about the money. You like having something to do, something to keep you moving. I get that. But you gotta ask yourself, when’s the last time you did something just because you wanted to? Not because you had to or because it was expected of you, but because it actually made you happy?”

That question catches you off guard, and for a second, you don’t have an answer. When was the last time you did something just for you? Not for school, not for work, not out of obligation,just because it brought you joy?

You open your mouth, then close it again, your brows knitting together.

You had no answer.

Miche watches your expression shift and lets out a knowing sigh. "Yeah. That’s what I thought."

You feel a sudden urge to argue, to insist that you’re fine, that you don’t need some big intervention, but the words don’t come. Because the truth is, he’s not wrong.

He claps a hand on your shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. "If you ever need to pick up extra shifts down the line, let me know. But for now, go easy on yourself."

You nod, swallowing past the lump in your throat. "Yeah. I’ll… think about it."

"Good," he says simply, then smirks. "Now, get outta my office before I make you clean the bathroom."

"You’re the one who destroyed it!"

"Exactly," he calls after you. "But I gotta go see Nanaba soon and I rather my hands not smell like shit!"

Despite everything, you find yourself laughing as you push open the door, stepping back into the warm, coffee-scented air of the shop.

|♩♩♩ - Japanese Denim |

By: Daniel Caesar

As you step out of Miche’s office, you roll your shoulders, trying to shake off the weight of the conversation. The familiar scent of espresso and vanilla wraps around you, warm and rich, mixing with the quiet murmur of customers chatting over their drinks. 

The steady hiss of the steam wand hums from behind the counter, blending into the background noise of the café. It’s a scene you know well, one you’ve moved through a hundred times before, but tonight, there’s something different in the air, a subtle energy buzzing beneath the surface, anticipation curling at the edges of your thoughts.

Mikasa is already at the register, fingers moving effortlessly over the screen as she punches in an order. 

She’s always had a kind of quiet efficiency to her, a way of handling things with a calm steadiness that makes everything feel under control. You slide up next to her, adjusting your apron as she finishes up.

"Let me guess," she murmurs, not looking up, "Miche gave you the talk?"

You exhale a sharp breath, resting a hip against the counter. "Yeah. He’s cutting my hours a little."

Mikasa hums, like that doesn’t surprise her in the slightest. "Same thing happened to me last semester." 

She pauses, then glances at you with something that almost resembles amusement. "Though I’m guessing your talk came with more colorful phrasing."

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Oh, yes. Something about turning into a ‘coffee-dependent zombie’ and burning out before I even hit twenty-five."

Mikasa snorts softly, wiping down the counter with slow, methodical movements. "Sounds about right."

You let the moment settle before shifting topics, lowering your voice slightly. "Everything set for tonight?"

Mikasa gives a small nod, her fingers still moving over the touchscreen with practiced ease. "Yeah. Eren’s already at Zeke’s, making sure everything’s ready. You’re still bringing the cake, right?" 

Her voice is casual, but there’s an undercurrent of expectation, like she already knows your answer before you give it.

"I’m gonna make it once I get to Zeke’s place and cook some more crap too," you confirm, barely sparing her a glance as your eyes flick toward the clock mounted above the menu board.

Mikasa huffs out a quiet laugh, the kind that's more exhale than sound, shaking her head.Her hands moving almost absentmindedly as she grabs a cloth from under the counter and wipes down the already-clean surface. It’s something to do, something to keep her busy, the same way you keep stacking cups or checking the clock.

"Armin hasn’t figured it out yet, has he?" you ask, your tone shifting just slightly, more curious than concerned. "You know how he is, boy catches onto everything."

Armin is sharp, sometimes too sharp, really. He has a way of picking up on the tiniest details, the subtlest shifts in behavior. It wouldn’t surprise you if he’s already pieced things together, even if no one’s told him outright. He’s the kind of person who can tell something’s off just by the way you phrase a text or hesitate before answering a question.

Mikasa glances at you, then shakes her head as if answering her own question. "If he has, he hasn’t said anything. But I don’t know, I feel like he’d at least pretend to be surprised for our sake."

You smirk, reaching for a clean cup and adding it to the neatly stacked pile beside you. "True. He’s nice like that." Armin might be perceptive, but he also knows when to let things slide, when to act oblivious for the sake of everyone else. 

The soft chime of the café door rings out as Mikasa steps up to take the man’s order. 

Almost at the same time, the tablet in front of you buzzes with a new order, the screen lighting up with fresh details. You step forward, tapping the screen to check it, your eyes scanning the order list with the kind of automatic focus that comes from muscle memory.

Then your eyebrows lift slightly at the familiar name.

"Junebug," you mutter under your breath, clicking to confirm the order.

Mikasa glances over, arching a brow as she hands the man his recipt. "That same one again?"

"Yup." Your fingers hover over the screen for a second longer before you shake your head, exhaling through your nose. It’s become something of a pattern by now. The same name, always for delivery, never pickup. The order itself changes just enough to not feel completely identical, but the core of it remains the same. Like whoever it is has a routine, one they’re sticking to, intentionally or not.

Almost instinctively, your eyes scan the café, like you might actually catch sight of them this time, despite knowing better.

Mikasa hums, her expression unreadable but tinged with quiet amusement. "Maybe they’re a fan of your cooking."

You snort, shaking your head. "If that’s the case, they got real good taste."

As you get the oat milk cinnamon latte started, Mikasa shifts to the register, handling an in-person order for the man waiting at the counter. Her voice is steady, professional but not overly friendly, the kind of neutral tone that makes it clear she’s here to work, not to chat. You, on the other hand, move with practiced ease, pouring, steaming, and adding the finishing touches to the drink before sliding it into a carrier bag with the receipt attached.

A few minutes pass in comfortable silence, just the sounds of the café filling the space between you. The door chimes again, and when you glance up, you see the Doordash driver stepping inside, already holding up their phone screen with the name “Junebug” displayed clearly on the app.

“Here you go,” you say, handing over the drink without much ceremony. The driver nods in thanks before heading back out, and just like that, the small moment of intrigue is over. You don’t think too much about it as you turn back to Mikasa, who’s now finishing up the order for the man at the counter.

As soon as he leaves, she exhales, stretching her arms over her head. “I swear, people act like we’re a five-star restaurant sometimes.”

You chuckle. “You mean we’re not?”

She snorts but doesn’t argue, instead leaning her hip against the counter, crossing her arms. “Anyway, I finally signed up for those guitar lessons.”

That catches your attention. “Oh yeah?” You wipe your hands on a towel, tilting your head slightly. “Thought you were still debating.”

“I was,” Mikasa admits, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “But I figured if I don’t start now, I’ll keep putting it off. So I just did it.” There’s a rare spark of excitement in her voice, subtle but definitely there. “First lesson’s on Saturday.”

You nod, forcing a smile even as something tightens in your chest. “That’s cool girl. You been practicing on your own or just waiting for the instructor to teach you everything?”

“A little of both.” She shrugs. “Sasha tried to teach me a few chords, but she sucks at explaining things, so I gave up on that pretty fast.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

"You’re gonna be good at it," offering a small smile. "You’ve got the focus for it. Bet you’ll be playing songs in no time."

"Maybe." She shrugs, but you can tell she’s pleased. "I just wanna get to the point where it feels natural. Where I don’t have to think about every single note."

You nod, but there’s a strange, creeping feeling in your chest now, something almost like envy, though not in a bitter way. You’re happy for her, truly. It must be nice, having the time to do something you love. To even know what you love.

You’ve never really had that.

As a kid, you wanted to be a ballerina. You remember watching performances on TV, completely mesmerized by the way they moved, graceful, effortless like they weren’t even bound by gravity. 

You remember trying to copy them in your room, clumsy but determined, your little feet trying to mimic movements you’d never been taught. But ballet was never an option for you. 

Classes were expensive. 

Time-consuming. 

And, eventually, it just became one of those things you tucked away in the back of your mind, labeled as unrealistic.

Mikasa keeps talking, and you shake the thoughts away, focusing on her again.

"You’re gonna have to play something for me once you’re decent," you tell her, teasing but sincere.

She huffs out a laugh. "We’ll see."

You smile warmly, pushing past the faint ache in your chest. "I’m happy for you, though. Really."

Mikasa glances at you, something unreadable in her expression, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she just nods. "Thanks."

And just like that, the moment passes. The café door chimes again, and another order pops up on the tablet. You exhale, rolling your shoulders before getting back to work, pushing everything else to the back of your mind.

As the clock hits 6 PM, you untie your apron and exhale slowly, rolling your neck to shake off the stiffness that settled in over the past few hours. The café had been steady, not overwhelmingly busy, but just enough to keep you moving, enough to leave a dull ache in your lower back. Mikasa is right behind you, already tugging off her red apron with that same quiet efficiency she applies to everything, neatly folding it in half before setting it in her bag.

Just as you both turn toward the back to clock out, the door chimes, letting in a gust of cold air and two familiar figures bundled up against the evening chill. Isabel and Farlan step inside. Isabel grins the moment she spots you, already tossing her bag behind the counter with practiced ease.

"Tagging in for you two," she announces, ruffling her hair as she stretches. "Busy shift?"

You roll your shoulders, stretching your arms over your head as you let out a tired sigh. "Not too bad. A couple of weirdos, the usual caffeine addicts, and, of course, Junebug ordered again."

Farlan raises an eyebrow, pausing as he pulls on his apron. "Damn. Again?"

"They just like my skills. Is that a bad thing?," you say, grabbing your bag from the back and slinging it over your shoulder. "At this point, they might as well be our unofficial Customer of the Month."

Mikasa smirks slightly, shaking her head as she nudges you toward the door with a knowing look. "Come on, we need to go."

"Yeah, yeah, I’m coming," you grumble, waving lazily over your shoulder as you both step out into the cool night air. "See y’all later."

Outside, the sky is darkening, streaks of deep blue and purple stretching over the cityscape as street lights flicker on one by one. The crisp evening air wraps around you, a stark contrast to the lingering warmth of the café. Mikasa leads the way to her car, unlocking it with a quick beep, and you slide into the passenger seat, sinking into the familiar space as she starts the engine. 

|♩♩♩ - What a devastating turn of events |

By: Rachel Chinouriri

The soft hum of the heater kicks in, chasing away the chill, and within seconds, Mikasa’s playlist flows through the speakers, something calm, with deep bass and a steady rhythm that makes it easy to just sit back and let go of the day.

"You good to stop at the store real quick?" you ask, clicking your seatbelt into place.

Mikasa glances over as she pulls out of the parking lot, her expression unreadable as always. "Yeah. What do we need?"

You groan, shaking your head. "Candles. Zeke forgot the damn candles for Armin’s cake"

Mikasa exhales through her nose, a sharp little sound of disbelief as she changes lanes. "That man has one job and still manages to forgets."

"Right?" You throw up a hand, exasperated. "Eren texted me in advance about it this morning. Knowing Zeke, he’d probably put one of his lighters in the cake and say blow on that."

Mikasa huffs out something that’s almost a laugh, shaking her head. "Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past him."

As you settle into the passenger seat, the warmth of the car’s heater starts to kick in, chasing away the lingering chill from outside. Mikasa keeps one hand on the wheel, her other resting casually near the gear shift. The soft thrum of the music blends with the sounds of the city outside, cars passing, the occasional honk, the low murmur of people walking along the sidewalks.

You stretch your legs out a little, letting out a breath. "So, what kind of decorations are we working with?"

Mikasa hums, her eyes flicking briefly toward you before returning to the road. "Mostly blue and gold. Historia picked out some banners, and Sasha found these string lights that are supposed to look like stars. Ymir was the one who suggested them."

"Ymir suggested decorations?" You raise an eyebrow, half amused, half surprised.

Mikasa smirks. "Yeah. I think Historia guilt-tripped her into it. Something about ‘if you love me, you’ll help make Armin’s party special.’"

You snort. "Love that girl."

Mikasa nodded as she switched lanes, her gaze focused on the road. "Yeah. He got a firepit going outside, and, get this, he ordered one of those huge inflatable movie screens. A whole projector and everything."

Your brows shot up. "Wait, for real? That’s actually really nice."

"Right?" She smirked. "I guess he figured if we were doing an outdoor thing, we might as well do it big. He said something about playing Armin’s favorite movies."

"Aww, that’s kinda sweet," you admitted. "What do you think he’s picking?"

he hummed, considering. "Something classic. Probably Back to the Future or something around those lines."

You grinned, shaking your head as you leaned back against the couch. "Yeah, that sounds like him. Either that or Interstellar, and then we’re all sitting outside contemplating the meaning of life."

“Sounds about right.”

As Mikasa moved into a new lane you pulled out your phone, aimlessly scrolling through Instagram. 

The soft glow of the screen illuminated your face, casting faint shadows as your thumb flicked upward, barely processing the posts passing by. It was just muscle memory at this point, a mindless habit to fill the silence, until a familiar name made your breath catch.

Reiner Braun. New story

Without thinking, you tapped on it, and the second the image loaded, you had to physically restrain yourself from groaning out loud.

Reiner was sitting in front of a gym mirror, sweat glistening on his golden skin, his shirt nowhere to be seen. His arms looked ridiculous. 

Thick, sculpted, veins running down them like a damn roadmap leading straight to sin. 

His chest? 

Absolutely sinful. 

And as if the universe wasn’t cruel enough, the compression shorts peeking out from under his gym shorts made things so much worse. He was leaning forward slightly, resting his hands on his knees, staring into the mirror with that lazy, knowing smirk. The same one he always had. The one that said Yeah, I know I look good. Go ahead and look.

And God help you, you did.

The car rolled to a stop at a red light, and out of the corner of your eye, you caught Mikasa glancing over. She barely had to look to know something was up. "What?"

You barely moved your head, still staring at the post like it held the meaning of life. "Reiner posted."

Mikasa sighed, eyes shifting back to the road, already unimpressed. "And?"

You didn’t answer right away, too busy biting the inside of your cheek as your thumb hovered over the screen. Eventually, you gave in, tapping the little heart on his story before exhaling a quiet laugh to yourself.

"Jesus Christ..," you muttered under your breath, shaking your head.

Mikasa side-eyed you again, deadpan. "You’re embarrassing."

"I know," you admitted, still smiling like an idiot. "I think I’m ovulating or something."

The light turned green, and Mikasa eased the car forward, hands steady on the wheel. "So, you gonna say something under his post, or are you just gonna stare at it like a creep?"

You scoffed, locking your phone and tossing it onto your lap. "Like hell I’m embarrassing myself in public like that. He can come to me."

Mikasa hummed, that same knowing tone laced in her voice. "Sure."

A few minutes later, you pull into the Walmart parking lot, the bright fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow over the nearly full lot. 

Mikasa eases into a spot near the front, the steady hum of her car’s engine cutting off as she turns down the music. You both unbuckle, the seat belts retracting with a soft click.

"Alright, let’s make this quick," Mikasa says, grabbing her wallet from the center console. Her voice is as even as ever, but you can tell she’s not in the mood to linger.

"Yeah, yeah," you mumble, shoving your phone into your jacket pocket. 

The moment you step outside, the evening air bites at your skin, sharp enough to make you pull your jacket tighter around yourself. November’s chill always finds a way to sink through the seams of your clothes, no matter how thick the fabric.

You walk side by side toward the entrance, the automatic doors whooshing open as you’re hit with an immediate blast of air conditioning that’s way too aggressive for how cold it is outside. 

The familiar scent of cheap buttered popcorn from the front register lingers in the air, mixing with the faint rubbery smell of shopping carts. You grab one of the smaller shopping carts from the front, its plastic handle cool against your palm, and start making your way down the aisles.

"Okay, candles first," you murmur, your eyes scanning the shelves as you walk into the party supply section. Rows of colorful balloons, mismatched streamers, and flimsy paper plates clutter the shelves, but your focus lands on the neatly stacked rows of birthday candles. 

You reach for a pack of simple gold ones, holding them up for Mikasa to see. "These are nice, right?"

Mikasa leans in slightly before nodding. "Yeah, that works. Armin isn’t too picky." She steps further down the aisle, eyes flicking toward the next item on the list. "We still need those blankets too, right?"

You hesitate for a second, mentally running through the things you were supposed to grab. "Yeah," you confirm, "and we might as well grab some extra snacks while we’re here."

"Sounds good,"

The errand was supposed to be quick, in and out, but somehow, the energy in the store shifts as you and Mikasa weave through the aisles. 

Maybe it’s the late-night delirium creeping in, or maybe it’s just the fact that running errands with Mikasa always ends up being more entertaining than expected.

After grabbing the candles, you both head toward the blanket section. Mikasa immediately zeroes in on the thick, plush throws, running her hands over the fabric like she’s judging them for softness.

"This one," she declares, pulling down a large, dark blue fleece blanket and tossing it into the basket before you can even get a word in. "It’s perfect."

You raise an eyebrow. "You sure? There are cheaper ones right there." You gesture toward the thinner, more budget-friendly blankets on the bottom shelf.

Mikasa scoffs. "This one is good."

You snort. "Thought you said Armin wasn’t picky."

"He isn’t. Thats why this blanket is for me." Mikasa’s hand reaches down to grab a light blue blanket and throws it in the cart. “And this one is for Armin.”

You chuckled as you grabbed a simple black blanket and threw it in the cart as well . She’s already moving on, clearly not interested in debating the matter. You shake your head, adjusting the basket on your arm as you follow her toward the snack aisle.

The snack aisle stretched ahead of you, shelves stocked high with brightly colored bags and boxes, the fluorescent lights above buzzing faintly. You reached for a family-sized bag of chips and casually tossed it into the basket Mikasa was holding, the plastic crinkling loudly against the other items inside.

"Alright, that should cover Eren’s bottomless stomach for about ten minutes," you said, shaking your head as you adjusted your grip on the basket’s handle.

Mikasa smirked, barely pausing as she grabbed a pack of chocolate-covered pretzels. "You’re being generous," she quipped. "Five minutes, max."

You laughed, knowing she was probably right. Eren ate like he had a personal vendetta against food, inhaling whatever was in front of him without a second thought. It was almost impressive. Almost.

You both kept moving, grabbing a few more things along the way. A pack of sodas, some cookies, and a bag of popcorn for Armin, since he always preferred something light. Every now and then, one of you would hold up an item in silent question, and the other would either nod or make a face that screamed absolutely not. 

Mikasa stopped in front of the candy section, scanning the shelves, while you picked up a pack of sour gummies and turned it over in your hand. "Think Zeke actually got the food he was supposed to?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Mikasa shot you a look, unimpressed. "It’s Zeke," she said flatly. "What do you think?"

You sighed, already picturing him showing up to the party with nothing but a six-pack of beer and some half-assed excuse. "Yeah, that’s what I thought."

The two of you laughed, shaking your heads as you made your way toward self-checkout. There were only a few people ahead of you, the low hum of beeping registers filling the space. It was nice, this moment, simple, lighthearted. 

For a little while, you weren’t thinking about school, or work, or the heavy weight pressing down on you every time you looked at your bank account. It was just you and Mikasa, cracking jokes and making a late-night Walmart run feel like something more than just an errand.

But as the line inched forward, your phone buzzed in your pocket, a notification from your banking app flashing across the screen. You hesitated before unlocking it, already knowing it wouldn’t be good.

Your stomach tightened.

You had enough for what you were buying, maybe enough to get dinner for tomorrow, but your light bill? That was looking real shaky.

Your fingers hovered over the screen for a second too long before you quickly shut your phone off, slipping it back into your pocket before Mikasa could notice. It was fine. You’d figure it out. You always did.

Sliding your card into the machine, you kept your expression neutral as the total flashed on the screen. You didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate, just punched in your PIN and went through the motions like it was nothing.

Mikasa grabbed the bags, but her sharp eyes flicked to you. "You good?" she asked, her voice even but laced with quiet concern.

You forced a small smile, adjusting the plastic handles around your wrist. "Yeah," you said lightly. "Just thinking."

Mikasa didn’t push, just nodded and led the way out of the store.

As the two of you made your way back to Mikasa’s car, the parking lot was quiet except for the occasional rev of an engine or the distant chatter of late-night shoppers. The air had that sharp, lingering cold that settled deep in your bones, but you barely noticed it, too caught up in your own thoughts.  

Mikasa unlocked the car with a quick beep, and you slid into the passenger seat, pulling the door shut against the chill. She tossed the bags into the backseat before turning the key in the ignition. The low hum of the engine filled the space, followed by another song floating through the speakers. The beat was slow, smooth, the kind of song that made you want to close your eyes and just sink into the moment.  

For a while, neither of you spoke. The road stretched ahead, streetlights flickering past in a rhythmic pattern, casting shifting shadows over Mikasa’s face. The world outside blurred by in streaks of orange and white, and for a brief moment, the quiet felt comforting.  

But then Mikasa glanced over, her voice cutting through the stillness. “You sure you’re good?”  

You hesitated, gripping the sleeve of your jacket like it might ground you. “Yeah. Just tired, I guess.”  

Mikasa didn’t buy it. She never did.  

“You always say that.”  

You let out a dry chuckle, shaking your head. “Because it’s always true.”  

Mikasa exhaled sharply through her nose, but she didn’t let it go. “It’s more than just being tired, though.”  

Your fingers tapped lightly against your thigh, a restless motion that betrayed more than you wanted it to. She wasn’t wrong, but you weren’t trying to get into all that. Not now. Not when your mind was already tangled up with worries bills, school, the constant, suffocating pressure of holding everything together without letting anyone see the cracks.  

So you deflected. “Did you ever find out what Eren’s getting Armin?”  

Mikasa side-eyed you, clearly recognizing the subject change for what it was, but after a brief pause, she let it slide. “He wouldn’t tell me. Which means it’s either something really thoughtful or something completely stupid.”  

You snorted, grateful for the shift in conversation. “Could go either way with him.”  

“Exactly.”  

The two of you laughed, and just like that, the tension eased. The weight in your chest didn’t disappear, but it lightened, just a little.  

A few minutes later, Mikasa made a familiar turn, the soft glow of streetlights illuminating the road leading to Zeke’s house.  Mikasa pulled in beside Zeke’s green BMW X5 M and threw the car into park. She shot you a knowing look. “You ready to cook for a bunch of grown-ass children?”  

You smirked, unbuckling your seatbelt. “Unfortunately.”  

The cold air clings to your jacket as you and Mikasa step out of the car, grabbing the bags from the back and walking up to Zeke’s front door, bags in hand. Even through the thick fabric, the chill settles into your skin, making you instinctively hunch your shoulders. You give the door a quick knock, and almost immediately, Zeke’s voice rings out from inside.  

"It’s open!"  

Mikasa gives you a look, one of those unimpressed, slightly exasperated stares she’s perfected over the years. Without another word, she pushes the door open, stepping inside like she owns the place. "One of these days, someone’s gonna rob your ass," she calls out, shaking her head as she crosses the threshold.  

Zeke, sprawled out on the couch like he’s got not a single responsibility in the world, barely acknowledges either of you. His feet are propped up on the coffee table, an autumn leaf Yankee candle burning nearby, filling the space with a warm, slightly spiced scent that almost makes you forget how much of a mess he probably is. 

The faint aroma of coffee lingers too, mixing with the smell of the candle and whatever laundry detergent he uses, something surprisingly fresh and citrusy. The TV hums at a low volume, Law & Order playing, but Zeke doesn’t even pretend to be interested in anything other than his own comfort.

"I'm still alive though," he replies lazily.  

Rolling your eyes, you toe off your boots near the door, letting the warmth of the house settle over you as the contrast to the freezing air outside. Mikasa does the same before disappearing deeper into the house, probably off to find Eren. That leaves you alone with Zeke, who, despite knowing you’re here, still hasn’t torn his gaze away from the screen.  

"Yo," you greet, setting your bags down on the counter with a slight thud.  

Zeke lifts a hand in a halfhearted wave, his eyes never leaving the TV. "Yo."  

You take a moment to study him, and the realization makes you smirk. "You know," you start, tilting your head, "Stress must be catching up to you quick. You don't look a day over 47."  

Zeke finally drags his gaze away from the TV just long enough to give you an unimpressed stare. "You know what? This is exactly why I don’t do nice things for people. You know I’m fucking 26."  

“Could've fooled me.”

Your grin widens as you toss your bag onto a chair before making your way into the kitchen. "Speaking of nice things-" you start, scanning the counters, already knowing what you’re about to say is going to be met with minimal enthusiasm.  

Zeke doesn’t even let you finish before waving a dismissive hand toward the kitchen, eyes back on the TV. "Got everything you need. Knock yourself out, chef."  

Your brows lift slightly, a bit of genuine surprise slipping through. "Oh, you actually did what you said you would? That’s new."  

"Watch yourself," he mutters, but there’s the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.  

You rifle through the bags he set aside, double-checking everything just to be sure. Flour, sugar, eggs, vanilla extract, it’s all there. But, of course, there’s always something.  

"You forgot the candles," you note, closing the pantry door with a light thud.  

Zeke lets out a long breath through his nose, still unmoved from his comfortable position. "That’s what I was forgetting."  

You shake your head, already expecting this. "Yeah. Good thing Mikasa and I have functioning brains and picked them up before coming here."  

That finally gets him to look at you again, his expression a mix of mild annoyance and begrudging amusement. "You know, the way you talk to me is real disrespectful for someone using my kitchen, in my house, for your little party."  

You smirk, crossing your arms. "You’re just mad your memory loss is already kicking in."  

He points a lazy finger at you without even sitting up. "You wanna use this kitchen, or you wanna get kicked out? ‘Cause I have the power here."  

You snort. "Please. You need me. You tried cooking for Armin last year, and that man looked so *disappointed* when he had to pretend that mess was edible."  

Zeke groans loudly, rubbing a hand down his face like the memory is actually painful. "That was one time! I followed the damn recipe!"  

"And yet," you say, grabbing the apron you keep at Zeke’s place specifically for moments like this, "it still ended up looking like a crime scene."  

"Just make the damn cake," Zeke mutters, waving you off like he’s already exhausted by your presence.  

Laughing under your breath, you tie the apron around your waist and get to work. The familiar motions of baking settle you in a way that surprises you sometimes. Measuring, mixing, following a process, it’s grounding. 

As you pull out the mixing bowls, the soft hum of voices carries in from the other room. Mikasa and Eren are talking, their words indistinct but warm, blending into the background noise of the TV. 

"So, you think the genius already knows about the surprise party?" you ask, cracking an egg into the bowl, glancing at Zeke.  

Zeke doesn’t even hesitate. "A hundred percent."  

"Yeah?"  

He finally tears his eyes away from the screen just long enough to give you a look, the kind that makes you feel stupid before he even says anything. "It’s Armin. He probably figured it out before we even started planning it."  

Sighing, you shake your head. "Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of."  

"Look, just act like everything’s normal, don’t do anything suspicious, and he’ll probably pretend to be surprised for your sake."  

You huff a laugh, shaking your head as you stir the batter. "Great. Love that for us."  

Zeke smirks, stretching his arms over his head before sinking deeper into the couch. "You’re welcome."  

Rolling your eyes, you turn your focus back to the task at hand. Even with all the back-and-forth, the endless teasing, and his general air of laziness, Zeke really is like an older brother to you, a mildly annoying, sometimes forgetful, but ultimately reliable one.

You mix the batter with a steady rhythm, the clinking of the whisk against the bowl filling the quiet space between you and Zeke. As you measure out the vanilla extract, you glance over at him. “How’s coaching going?”  

Zeke hums, finally tearing his gaze away from Law & Order to look at you. “Not bad. Team did alright this season, better than last year, at least.” 

He stretches his arms over his head, then lets them drop back down, one hand ruffling through his already messy blond hair. His expression shifts, something smug creeping in as he eyes you. “Would’ve been nice if certain people actually showed up to my last game, though.”  

You wince, exhaling through your nose. “Yeah, my bad.”  

Zeke gives you a slow, unimpressed look. “Mhm.” Standing up from the couch like a man well into his seventies, groaning a bit as he made his way to the kitchen and leaning against the counter.  

“You know I wanted to be there,” you say, setting the bottle of vanilla down with a soft clink against the counter. “But I had a tutor session that night. I didn’t have a choice.”  

Zeke leans back, his broad frame making an unimpressed face. He crosses his arms over his chest, watching you with that same assessing look he always has when he thinks someone is about to bullshit him. “Since when do you need tutoring?”  

You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head. “Since Calculus started kicking my ass.”  

Zeke smirks, leaning further against the counter. “Damn. Never thought I’d hear you say that.”  

You scowl, stirring the batter a little more aggressively than necessary. “Believe me, I hate admitting it.”  

“Shit happens,” he says, reaching into the kitchen drawer for a cigarette pack. He pulls one out, rolling it between his fingers before popping it between his lips. He doesn’t light it just yet, just twirls the lighter absently in his other hand. His gaze lingers on you, something thoughtful behind it now.

“You’ve always been sharp, though. Even back when you were still just a loud-ass eighth grader, always running around with Eren and them.”  

You scoff, shooting him a side glance. “Wow. Such a sentimental way to describe my youth.”  

Zeke shrugs, flicking the lighter on and off as he exhales through his nose. “You know what I mean. You were always the one with the answers. Always had your shit together, even when the rest of us were barely scraping by.”  

Your grip tightens slightly on the whisk, but you keep your face neutral. If only that were still the case.  

Zeke exhales, tapping the cigarette against the edge of the sink, though he still doesn’t light it. “So, who’s the lucky tutor?”  

Before you can answer, another voice cuts in from behind.  

“Jean,” Eren announces as he strolls into the kitchen, barefoot and looking like he just rolled out of bed. He stretches, cracking his back with an exaggerated groan before heading straight for the fridge. “You told the whole group at Korean BBQ the other night, remember?”  

Zeke almost drops his cigarette.  

You turn just in time to see him catch it between his fingers before it hits the floor, his head snapping in your direction. “Jean Kirstein?”  

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Yes, Jean Kirstein.”  

Zeke looks absolutely scandalized. “Him? The one you’ve been shit-talking since middle school?”  

He leans fully against the counter now, watching you like you’ve just personally offended him. “Jean?” he repeats. “Out of every person on campus, you let him be the one to teach you? What, was the devil himself booked?”  

Rolling your eyes, you turn back to your batter. “He’s the only one I know that is passing the damn class.”  

“...Jean though?”  

“Zeke,” you deadpan. “I need to pass Calculus.”  

Zeke drags a hand down his face, groaning dramatically. “Damn. That’s desperate.”  

Eren smirks, hopping onto the counter. “You should’ve seen her at the BBQ. She looked like she wanted to strangle him across the table.”  

“Still might,” you mutter, cracking an egg into the bowl. “He’s insufferable.”  

Zeke exhales slowly, finally lighting his cigarette. He takes a long drag, watching you through the curl of smoke as he exhales. “I mean, yeah. That’s not news. But damn. You must really be struggling if you’re willing to deal with him.”  

You sigh, tapping the whisk against the side of the bowl before setting it down. “I don’t have a choice. I already failed two quizzes, and I’m not trying to tank my GPA over this class.”  

Zeke shakes his head, still looking at you like you just told him you were taking relationship advice from a Reddit thread. “Jean,” he mutters again, like the name itself is a curse. You shoot him a sharp look. 

“Yes, Zeke. Jean.” 

Zeke just smirks, flicking more ash into the tray. “Nah. This is just funny as hell.”  

Eren grins, taking another sip of his water. “So, how’s it going? You two kill each other yet?”  

You exhale sharply, cracking another egg with just a little too much force. “Not yet. But it’s a work in progress.” 

You set the whisk down, reaching for the flour with a shake of your head as you move easily around the kitchen. The familiar sounds of conversation and the clatter of utensils fill the space, grounding you in the moment. “Enough about my Calculus struggle,” you say, measuring the flour with practiced ease. “What’s everyone getting Armin for his birthday?”  

Eren, still leaning against the counter, twists the cap back onto his water bottle and hops down with a stretch. “I got him a telescope.”  

Your brow lifts, genuinely impressed. “Stop. Thats so nice”  

“I know.” Eren smirks, taking a swig of water, clearly pleased with himself. “I pooled money together for it. He’s been talking about getting one for a while, figured we’d just make it happen.” Zeke lets out a low whistle, taking another lazy drag of his cigarette. 

“Damn. Thoughtful gift. Proud of you, lil bro.”  

Eren’s expression immediately sours, shooting Zeke a glare. “Don’t call me that.”  

Zeke grins but turns his attention back to you. “What about you?”  

You sift the flour into the bowl, shrugging. “A few books he’s been eyeing, and I’m cooking for the party. Y’know, since someone,” you pause to shoot a pointed look at Zeke, “refused to cater and said, ‘Y’all got hands, y’all can cook.’”  

Zeke doesn’t even flinch, exhaling a stream of smoke as he leans back against the counter. “You do got hands.”  

“Whatever.”  

Eren smirks, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth. “Mikasa got him some rare edition of The Iliad she hunted down online.”  

Zeke whistles again, shaking his head. “Man, y’all are making me look bad.”  

You cross your arms, tilting your head slightly. “You should feel bad. What’d you get him?”  

Zeke hesitates for a second, as if debating whether to lie or just accept the inevitable roast. Finally, he exhales through his nose. “…a hoodie.”  

Eren snorts, biting back laughter. “A hoodie?”  

Zeke lifts his hands in defense. “It’s a nice hoodie! Expensive, limited edition, all that.” Your unimpressed stare doesn’t waver. “So you, a grown man with a streaming career and a coaching job, got our best friend a hoodie?”  

Zeke rubs his forehead, clearly anticipating the judgment. “Man, I knew y’all were gonna say some shit.”  

Eren grins, shaking his head. “Because it’s funny.”  

You can’t help but smirk, even as you say, “Armin’s gonna be polite about it, but you know he’s about to rank all our gifts in his head.”  Zeke flicks the ash off his cigarette into the tray, groaning. “Well, damn, now I feel like I gotta run to the store last-minute.”  

Eren leans against the fridge, completely unbothered. “Good luck with that. Party starts in an hour.”  

Zeke groans again, but before he can argue, Mikasa’s voice carries from the hallway, sharp and expectant. “Hey, someone come help me set up the lights!” Eren sighs, already pushing off the counter. “That’s my cue.” He grabs his water bottle, salutes lazily, and heads toward the living room.  

Zeke watches him go before turning back to you. “You finishing the cake first or helping with decorations?”  

You glance at the bowl in front of you, then at the scattered decorations still waiting to be set up. “I’ll help after I get this in the oven.”  

Zeke nods, tapping his cigarette against the tray. “Cool. Just don’t burn the place down.”  

You give him a flat look. “Wow. So much faith.”  

He smirks, pushing off the counter as he heads toward the other room. “Always.”  

You shake your head, but there’s amusement tugging at your lips as you roll up your sleeves and turn back to the cake. 

You scrape the last bit of batter into the third pan, smoothing it out with careful precision before stepping back to survey your work. Three layers, evenly distributed, ready to bake. With a satisfied nod, you slide them into the oven, the warmth hitting your face as you shut the door with a quiet click. The kitchen smells like vanilla and sugar, and for the first time all day, you feel like you’re actually ahead of schedule. That is, until you realize the frosting still needs to be made, the counters are a mess, and you’re still in your work uniform—a wrinkled, slightly flour-dusted reminder that you haven’t had a second to change.

Just as you reach for the powdered sugar, a sharp knock at the door pulls you from your thoughts. You groan, rolling your eyes as you yell over your shoulder, “Zeke, get the door!” No response. You sigh, already knowing the answer. 

“Zeke!”

A muffled voice echoes from down the hall. “I’m in the bathroom, damn!”

Of course. You huff out a breath, wiping your hands on the apron before untying it and tossing it onto the counter. Barely glancing at your appearance, because honestly, what’s the point? You head for the door, yanking it open to reveal Ymir, Historia, Sasha, and Connie standing there, arms full of gifts and bags.

Connie grins the second he sees you, not hesitating before wrapping you in a hug. You barely have time to react before Sasha follows suit, her arms looping around you as well, the scent of something sweet clinging to her clothes. You accept it, though, because it’s Connie and Sasha, and at this point, resistance is pointless.

Sasha pulled back just enough to brush flour from your cheek with her thumb. “You look stressed pretty girl”

You give her a deadpan look. “That’s because I am stressed.”

Ymir steps past you without waiting for an invitation, already making herself at home as she eyes the kitchen. “She’s stressed because she’s a control freak who refuses to let anyone else help.”

You shoot her a look, but she just smirks, plopping down on Zeke’s couch like she owns the place. Historia, ever the peacekeeper, steps inside after her, setting her neatly wrapped gift down before glancing around.

“It smells amazing in here,” she says, giving you a small but genuine smile. “Are you almost done?”

You sigh, stepping back to let the door swing shut. “I got the cakes in the oven, but I still need to make the frosting. And the appetizers. And clean. And, you know, actually change out of my work uniform.”

Connie claps his hands together. “Great. I volunteer to taste-test the frosting.”

“I haven’t even made it yet.”

“I know,” he says, completely unbothered. “Just letting you know I’m available.” Sasha hums, already walking toward the kitchen. “I can help. I’ve been watching The Great British Bake Off lately, I know my shit.”

Ymir snorts. “Binge-watching a baking show at 2 a.m. doesn’t mean you know shit.”

“Okay, but it means I kinda know shit,” Sasha counters, rolling up her sleeves. “Come on, put me to work.”

You hesitate, glancing at the mess of ingredients still waiting to be turned into frosting. You’re not used to letting people help, you like things done a certain way, in a certain order, but the party starts soon, and the idea of handling everything alone is starting to feel more exhausting than efficient.

Finally, you exhale. “Fine. But if you mess up the frosting, I will make you remake it.”

Sasha grins. “Deal.”

Historia moves to start gathering the bowls and washing them in the sink. That girl is such a fucking angel.

You shake your head, but as you step back toward the kitchen, rolling up your sleeves once again, you feel the tension in your shoulders ease just a little. You set out the ingredients for the spinach dip and mozzarella sticks while Sasha eagerly takes over the frosting, rolling up her sleeves like she’s about to compete on a televised baking show. 

You’re skeptical, but at this point, delegation is your only option. You glance at the others as you begin chopping spinach, the rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board grounding you for a moment.

“Alright,” you say, pausing to grab the cream cheese. “We’ve been talking about this all day, so I gotta know, what’d y’all get Armin?”

Historia leans against the counter, wiping her hands on her jeans as she considers. “I got him a custom leather-bound journal. He always talks about needing something for his notes, and I found this place that does personalized engravings.” 

She pauses, a little proud. “His initials are on the front, and there’s a little quote on the back. Something about curiosity being the key to knowledge.”

You nod, actually impressed. “That’s sweet girl.”

Sasha, still mixing, perks up. “I got him a food tour gift card.” She grins. “Because I am a genius and I know he’s been wanting to try that new Mediterranean place downtown.” 

“You or him?”

“...both,”

Ymir leans back in the couch, holding the remote as she looks for something to watch while popping a piece of gum in her mouth. “I got him a framed picture of all of us from freshman year. Figured he’d appreciate something sentimental.”

"Aww," Sasha coos, her hands still busy with the mixer. "That’s actually sweet. Who knew you had a heart?"

"Don’t get used to it."

Connie swings his legs from his place on the couch, smirking. “I got him a gift card.”

You give him a flat look. “A gift card? Seriously?”

“It’s a Barnes & Noble gift card.”

Sasha snorts. “Damn, you really thought you did something there.”

“I did do something,” Connie argues. “Armin’s always talking about how he wants more books, and now he can pick whatever he wants. I’m giving him options.”

Ymir exhales a sharp laugh. “That’s the laziest thoughtful gift I’ve ever heard.”

You shake your head, turning back to your spinach dip, mixing together the cheeses, sour cream, and seasonings while the scent of garlic fills the air. The kitchen feels warm, alive with the buzz of conversation, the sound of the mixer, the occasional scrape of a spatula against the bowl.

Just as you’re about to start on the mozzarella sticks, a loud knock echoes through the apartment.

“I got it!” Connie shouts, already hopping off the couch.

You glance up, wiping your hands on a dish towel as you watch him swing open the door. And there, standing in the dim light of the hallway, are Reiner, Bertholdt, and Annie, each carrying a couple of bags.

Your stomach flips.

Not because you weren’t expecting them, but because Reiner is standing there, broad as hell, casual as ever, his blond hair slightly tousled, the sleeves of his hoodie pushed up just enough to show off his forearms. 

And worse. 

Much worse,

Is the fact that your brain immediately flashes back to his Instagram story from earlier. The one where he was at the gym, sweaty, shirt riding up just enough to make you pause for longer than necessary before scrolling past like it hadn’t done something to you.

You manage a casual wave. “Hey, you guys made it.”

Bertholdt offers a small smile as he sets a bag down by the door. “Yeah, we came straight from campus. They picked me up from rehearsa and I didn’t want to be late.”

“Smart move,” Sasha quips, finally looking up from the frosting long enough to shoot them a grin. “Last time, Armin almost started the party without you.”

Annie, still by the door, shrugs off her jacket and tosses it over the nearest chair. “Wouldn’t blame him.” She glances toward the kitchen, arching a brow. “What’s cooking?”

You motion toward the oven. “Cakes are in. Spinach dip’s about to go in. Mozzarella sticks next.”

Reiner, having been mostly quiet, steps forward, glancing toward the counter where you’re prepping. “Need any help?” Your pulse jumps slightly, but you keep your face impassive, shrugging as you grab the next bowl. “I got it covered.”

Ymir, ever the instigator, leans back in her chair with a smirk. “Nah, let him help. Let him put them big gorilla arms of his to use.”

You shoot her a look that could kill, but she just snickers, clearly enjoying herself. Reiner, for his part, doesn’t seem fazed, just rolling up his sleeves like he’s actually considering it.

“If you want me to, I don’t mind,” he says, voice easy, warm.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want the help, but because standing too close to him after that gym pic might make you visibly stupid. But before you can answer, Connie, bless him, claps his hands together.

“Alright, new arrivals gotta answer the real question: What’d you get Armin?”

Bertholdt hums, considering. “A planetarium ticket. There’s a new exhibit on deep space that I thought he’d like.”

Annie shrugs. “Limited edition Odyssey print.”

Reiner crosses his arms, nodding toward the counter. “Got him a chess set. Wood-carved, some old-school European design.”

Before anyone can add to that, the bathroom door swings open, and Zeke steps out, stretching like he just had the most exhausting experience of his life. He pauses for a second, eyes scanning the room, before he raises a hand. “Okay, first of all, nobody go in there for at least twenty minutes. Maybe thirty.”

A collective groan fills the room, Sasha dramatically gagging as Connie throws a couch pillow in Zeke’s direction, which he dodges effortlessly. “Nasty ass.”

“My house,” Zeke replies smoothly, walking behind the couch with the ease of someone who has absolutely no shame. He snatches the remote right out of Ymir’s hand mid-scroll, giving her a quick, insincere, “Thank you,” before plopping down into the corner of the couch like he owns the place.

Ymir stares at him for a beat, then turns to you. “Why is he here again?”

“Again, my house”

You sigh, sliding the tray of mozzarella sticks onto the counter. “And because he knows where the liquor cabinet is.”

Zeke points at you without looking away from the screen. “See? She gets it.”

Before the conversation can spiral into an argument over remote privileges, the back door swings open, and Eren and Mikasa step inside, bringing in a gust of cold air with them. Mikasa fixing her hair, while Eren stomps his boots off on the rug. He claps his hands together once, scanning the room. “Alright, everything’s set up outside. Tables, fire pit, all of it.”

Historia exhales, relieved. “Oh my God, Armin is gonna love it. I gotta go get a picture of it first before you all ruin it.” Historia stands up from the couch and walks out into the backyard.

Eren shakes his head, though there’s amusement in his eyes as he checks his phone. Then, suddenly, as if remembering something, he looks up. “Shit. Speaking of Armin-” He grabs his keys off the counter and heads toward the door. 

“I’m gonna go pick him up from campus.”

Mikasa tilts her head. “You sure you don’t want me to come with?”

“Nah, I got it.” He pulls on his jacket, glancing around at all of you. “Y’all just make sure everything’s ready by the time we get back. And when we walk in, surprise him properly. None of that weak-ass ‘oh hey, happy birthday’ bullshit.”

Connie nods solemnly. “Full ambush mode. Got it.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips as you watch Eren step out into the cold, the door swinging shut behind him. “Drive safe.”

You turn back to the counter, brushing off your hands before reaching for the bread crumbs. The oil is already heating on the stove, a low simmer promising the perfect crisp once the mozzarella sticks hit. You work efficiently, dipping each piece of cheese into the egg wash, rolling it in the seasoned bread crumbs, and then repeating for an extra thick coating. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Reiner lingering near you, his broad arms crossed as he leans slightly against the counter.

“You need help?” he asks, voice smooth, deep, one of those voices that could make even the most mundane sentence sound good.

You smirk, flicking some stray flour off your fingers. “You tryna actually help, or you just tryna hover and look pretty?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “I can do both.”

You roll your eyes but feel the warmth creeping up your neck. “Alright, then. You can start the next batch.” You nudge the bowl of bread crumbs toward him, watching as he steps closer, rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie. 

His forearms, solid, lightly dusted with blond hair, are right there in your peripheral, and you force yourself to focus on the task at hand instead of how ridiculously built this man is.

He picks up a mozzarella stick and follows your lead, dipping it into the egg wash, then rolling it in the crumbs. It’s surprisingly endearing, watching him concentrate, brow slightly furrowed like this is some high-stakes activity.

“Damn,” you tease, bumping his hip with yours. “Didn’t think you’d take this so seriously.”

He glances at you, a slow smirk forming. “I just dont want to fuck this up. I can barely cook?” You tilt your head. “Not true. I have seen your meal prep posts. Chicken, rice, broccoli. You can cook.”

Reiner snorts. “Thats basic crap.”

You hum in amusement, flipping the first batch of mozzarella sticks in the oil. “Well, you’re doing a very good job right now.”

For a moment, it’s just the two of you working side by side, the rest of the room fading into background noise. Every so often, your fingers brush while reaching for the same utensil, and you acknowledge it, but there’s a subtle shift in the air, something warm, something charged. 

You don’t let yourself dwell on it, though. Instead, you focus on getting everything fried to a perfect golden brown before finally setting the last batch onto a paper towel-lined plate.

You wipe your hands on your apron, glancing up at Reiner. “Alright, muscle man. Good work.”

He leans a little closer, dropping his voice just enough for only you to hear. “Told you I could do both.”

“Mhm.”

Before Reiner can respond, the oven timer dings, signaling that the cakes are done. You wipe your hands on your apron before grabbing some oven mitts, then carefully slide out the three cake pans, setting them on the cooling rack. The golden brown layers look perfect, and you can already smell the vanilla and butter filling the room.

Sasha peeks over from her side of the counter, where she’s finishing up the frosting. “Damn, those look good. You sure you don’t wanna drop out of school and open a bakery?”

You snort, reaching for a knife to test one of the layers. “Yeah, because drowning in student loans and bakery expenses sounds like a great life plan.” You carefully lift each cake and transfer them to a plate before slipping them into the fridge to cool.

Sasha finishes stirring the frosting and dips a spoon in, tasting it before holding it out toward you. “Here, tell me what you think.”

You eye the spoon skeptically before leaning in and taking a small taste. The moment it hits your tongue, your brows lift in surprise. It’s smooth, just the right amount of sweet, with a hint of vanilla and a little something extra you can’t quite place.

“Okay, hold on,” you say, licking your lips as you glance at her.

“Right?! I told you those tv shows help!”

You shake your head with a laugh before checking the time. “Alright,” you announce, exhaling as if shaking off the tension. “I’m done. I gotta go change before Armin gets here.”

Reiner steps back, giving you space as you slide past him, though you can feel his eyes on you as you move. You don’t acknowledge it, don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing just how much you notice, but the heat lingers under your skin as you make your way to the stairs.

Upstairs, Zeke’s house is quieter. The sound of conversation and occasional laughter drifts up from below, but up here, it’s just you. You push open the door to the spare room, stepping inside and shutting it behind you. The room is simple, just a bed, a dresser, and a window overlooking the backyard, where the twinkling lights Eren and Mikasa set up are barely visible from this angle.

You set your bag on the bed, pulling out your grey sweater and jeans. The fabric is soft, familiar, offering a sense of comfort as you slip out of your work uniform and into something warmer. 

You reach up, pulling the hair tie from your bun and letting your afro fall naturally around your face, the coils bouncing back into place. Running your fingers through it, you fluff it out a little, making sure it frames your features just right. It’s always a small but satisfying feeling, letting your hair breathe after a long day. You grab your chapstick, swiping it over your lips before following up with a coat of clear lip gloss, pressing your lips together to make sure everything is smooth.

With one last glance in the mirror, you adjust your sweater and grab your bag, making your way downstairs. The sound of laughter and conversation fills the space, the energy in Zeke’s house feeling warmer now, more alive. As you step into the living room, you immediately notice two more people have arrived, Marco and Jean, each holding gifts for Armin.

Marco grins when he spots you, shifting the wrapped present in his hands to one arm before pulling you into a hug. “Hey, didn’t see you at campus today,” he says as he steps back, his usual easy-going expression in place. “Been busy?”

You nod, offering him a small smile. “Yeah, had a shift right after class, and then, y’know, all this.” You gesture toward the kitchen, where Sasha is sneaking a taste of the frosting again while Historia scolds her.

Marco chuckles, shaking his head. “You really did all this for Armin? Man, he’s gonna lose his mind when he sees everything.”

“Yeah, well, it’s his birthday,” you say, shrugging like it’s not a big deal, but you can’t help the small warmth that settles in your chest at the thought of Armin being surprised. “Figured he deserved something nice.”

Before Marco can respond, Jean steps up, adjusting the bag in his hand. “Brought something for Armin,” he says, nodding toward the sleek, neatly wrapped box in his grasp. It’s clear just from the way it’s packaged that it’s expensive, probably something top-tier, because Jean never half-asses gifts, especially not when his family’s money is involved.

You barely spare him a glance, just brushing past him like he’s nothing more than background noise. You’re still pissed about what he said in class today, and you don’t have the patience to pretend otherwise.

“Okay.”

Jean notices, of course. “Oh, whats with the attitude?” he mutters, his voice low enough that only you hear it.

You stop, turning your head just enough to give him a pointed look. “You tryna act confused, or are you actually that dense?”

His brows furrow slightly, and he exhales, shaking his head. “Look, if this is about-”

“I don’t have time for this, Jean.” You cut him off, your tone clipped. “Just give your expensive ass gift to Zeke so he can put it with the rest”

Jean’s jaw tightens like he wants to argue, but you don’t wait to hear whatever excuse he’s about to come up with. Instead, you turn back to Marco, your expression softening slightly as you ignore the way Jean’s gaze lingers on you.

“So, what’d you get him?” you ask Marco, purposefully steering the conversation away from Jean’s presence.

Marco glances between the two of you, like he’s debating whether or not to acknowledge the obvious tension, but ultimately decides against it. “Some limited-edition book set he’s been talking about,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Took me a while to track it down, but I think he’s gonna love it.”

You smile, genuinely this time. “That’s really thoughtful. He’s gonna freak out.”

Marco grins, the excitement clear in his expression. “That’s the plan.”

Just as you’re about to settle back into conversation, a realization hits you like a truck. The cakes. They’re still sitting in the fridge, untouched. You curse under your breath, spinning on your heel and making a beeline for the kitchen.

“Forgot something?” Historia teases as you pull open the fridge door.

“The cakes,” you say, dragging out the word like you can’t believe you let it slip your mind. You carefully pull out the three cooled layers, setting them onto the counter one by one. Sasha, who had been hanging around by the sink, perks up immediately, already licking a bit of frosting off the spoon she’s holding.

“Alright, move,” you tell her, nudging her out of the way as you grab a spatula and start smoothing the frosting over the first layer.

Sasha groans but doesn’t argue, just licks some frosting off her finger and leans back against the counter. “Not my fault it tastes good,” she mutters, grinning when Historia side-eyes her.

You focus on the cake, working carefully to spread the frosting evenly. It’s surprisingly smooth, and you have to give Sasha credit, she actually made it taste good. You would’ve expected her to mess up somewhere along the way, but it’s light, fluffy, and just the right amount of sweet.

Just as you’re adding the second layer, you hear a voice behind you, far too close for comfort.

“You missed a spot.”

You freeze for a split second before turning your head slightly, just enough to see Jean standing right behind you, leaning forward with his arms crossed over his chest. He nods toward the cake, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

You glance down, and sure enough, there’s a small patch on the side where the frosting isn’t fully smoothed out.

You exhale through your nose, turning back to your work. “Didn’t ask for your input.”

Jean shrugs. “Just looking out. Wouldn’t want Armin’s birthday cake to be half-assed.”

You grip the spatula a little tighter, spreading the frosting with more force than necessary. “Oh, so now you’re an expert on cake decorating?”

He leans in slightly, and you hate that you can feel the warmth of him at your back. “Never said that. Just saying, if you’re gonna do it, do it right.”

You turn sharply, nearly knocking into him. He doesn’t flinch, just tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking between yours like he’s enjoying getting under your skin.

“You’re so damn annoying,” you mutter, pointing the spatula at him like a weapon.

“Took the words right out of my mouth.”

He mirrored your words from this morning, making you grip the spatula to the point you thought you were going to break it. You roll your eyes,ignoring him and turning back to the cake and adding a little extra frosting just to shut him up.

“Mhm.”

You don’t respond, just finish the last of the frosting with deliberate movements, smoothing the spatula over the top one final time before stepping back to admire your work. The cake looks good, better than you expected, honestly.

Historia steps up beside you, nodding approvingly. “Not bad.”

Sasha, of course, immediately reaches for another taste, but you swat her hand away before she can steal more.

“Alright, alright,” she laughs, holding her hands up in surrender. “I’ll wait.”

You shake your head but can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

Bertholdt peeks through the blinds, his tall frame slightly hunched as he scans the driveway. "Eren just pulled up with Armin," he announces, his voice calm but carrying that quiet urgency that makes everyone snap to attention.

The room shifts instantly. You wipe your hands on a dish towel, stepping back as the energy around you sparks to life. Historia and Mikasa move toward the kitchen entrance, their expressions sharp, movements precise like they’ve rehearsed this. 

Reiner and Bertholdt head for the living room, casually positioning themselves near the couch, trying to look natural. Zeke, Annie, Jean, and Ymir claim spots by the hallway, all exuding that forced nonchalance that only makes it more obvious they’re about to yell “surprise” in the next sixty seconds.

Somewhere behind you, Connie and Sasha are still whispering, well, whisper-yelling, about something. Probably food. Because when are they not?

"Would y’all shut the hell up before Armin hears us?" Annie hisses, throwing them a glare.

Connie scoffs. "You act like he’s got sonar or something." He still lowers his voice, though, muttering something else under his breath. Sasha snickers but slaps a hand over her mouth when Mikasa cuts her a look sharp enough to slice through steel.

Footsteps approach the door.

The anticipation in the room tightens like a coiled spring. You can hear Eren’s voice, muffled but casual, keeping Armin distracted. Probably some pointless debate one of those things he gets all fired up about when he’s trying to act normal.

The doorknob turns.

Eren steps inside first, mid-conversation, his words spilling over as he gestures behind him. "I’m just saying, man, if you really think-"

Zeke flips the light switch.

"Surprise!"

The room erupts. Voices overlap, cheers and laughter bouncing off the walls as hands clap and confetti Sasha and Historia’s doing, flutters through the air.

Armin stops dead in his tracks. His mouth parts slightly, eyes wide as his brain struggles to process what’s happening. The decorations. The cake. The stack of gifts by the couch. The sheer number of people all grinning at him.

For a second, it looks like he’s buffering. Then, all at once, he exhales a laugh, raking a hand through his hair. "You guys-" He shakes his head, still caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. "You really didn’t have to do all this."

"Oh, shut up," Eren scoffs, clapping a hand on his shoulder with a lopsided grin. "This is the bare minimum"

Armin rolls his eyes, but before he can fire back, Sasha launches herself at him, locking him in a hug tight enough to make him wheeze. "Happy birthday!"

"You guys are insane," Armin says, breathless but beaming as he takes in the room again, this time slower. His gaze lingers on the cake, the food, the little details that make it obvious just how much effort went into this.

Zeke claps his hands together, the sharp sound cutting through the lingering laughter. “Alright, let’s move this outside,” he announces, his voice carrying the easy authority of an older brother who’s used to taking charge. “Backyard’s set up, and I’m not letting y’all waste all my hard work.”

There’s a collective murmur of excitement as everyone begins shuffling toward the back door. You start to follow but pause, glancing at the cake still sitting on the counter. 

You pivot, heading toward the kitchen, grabbing a box from the cabinet and carefully sliding the cake inside. It’s not perfect, some of the frosting smudges against the side, but at least it’ll survive the trip outside. You grab the tray of spinach dip and the mozzarella sticks next, balancing everything in your arms as you make your way toward the backyard.

The moment you step outside, the sight in front of you stops you for a second.

Zeke, Mikasa, and Eren really went all out. String lights crisscross above the space, casting a warm, golden glow over the backyard. A massive fire pit sits in the center, flames already flickering, surrounded by a ring of chairs and mismatched blankets. Tables are lined up against the fence, covered with trays of food—burgers, wings, pasta salad, all the essentials. And then, at the far end, a large inflatable movie screen stands tall, the projector set up and ready to go.

"Damn," you mutter, setting the food down on one of the tables. "Y’all really did all this?"

Mikasa, standing nearby with her arms crossed, gives a sigh but smiles nonetheless. “Dont remind me. My arms still hurt.”

Sasha’s eyes are already locked onto the food table, practically vibrating with excitement. “Oh, hell yeah,” she breathes, moving faster than anyone else to grab a plate.

You make your way over to one of the tables, setting the cake down carefully before placing the spinach dip and mozzarella sticks beside it. Stepping back, you wipe your hands on your jeans, surveying the spread with pride. Everything came together perfectly.

Grabbing your own plate, you start picking through the options, adding some wings, mac and cheese, and a few mozzarella sticks onto it. Just as you reach for a second scoop of spinach dip, a familiar voice speaks beside you.

“Smells and looks good.”

You glance up to see Reiner, plate in hand, standing beside you with a smirk. You scoff lightly, picking up a mozzarella stick and pointing it at him. “Me or the food?”

“Would it be crazy if I said both?”

You chuckled before turning back to the table full of food and scooping some of the spinach dip on your plate. “Spinach dip is a household classic growing up for me. I just got good taste.”

He chuckles, nodding in mock consideration. “Alright, fair point. What else you got good taste in?”

You pretend to think, tapping your chin. “Music. Movies. The best seat in a lecture hall. And definitely late-night snacks.”

“Late-night snacks?” He raises an eyebrow. “Elaborate.”

You shift, holding back a smirk. “There’s levels to it. You got your basic snacks: chips, candy, whatever. Then there’s mid-tier, like grilled cheese or instant ramen, maybe even a good ass slushie fro the 7-Eleven. But the elite late-night snack? Breakfast food. Pancakes, eggs, waffles at midnight? Unmatched.”

Reiner laughs, shaking his head. “Breakfast at night seems a bit eh to me. Breakfast is breakfast”

You raised an eyebrow, a bit disappointed but his stupid answer before you ask a question yourself. “What about you? What’s on your list of superior taste?”

He hums, glancing down at his food as if considering. “Lifting,” he says, smirking slightly, “obviously.”

You roll your eyes. “I could’ve guessed that one.”

“Alright, alright,” he concedes. “Movies, old action ones, like Die Hard or Terminator. Real classics. And I’d argue I have solid taste in cologne.”

At that, you tilt your head slightly, inhaling subtly. He does smell good. Like warm spice, a little bit of cedar and something else you can’t quite place. You purse your lips, feigning indifference. “It’s decent.”

“Decent?”

“Maybe a seven out of ten.”

Reiner shakes his head, chuckling. “Cold-blooded.”

You smirk, popping a mozzarella stick into your mouth. “Gotta keep you humble.”

Reiner lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he takes a bite of his food. His smirk lingers, like he’s both amused and challenged by you, but before he can say anything else, you decide to make your exit before he gets too comfortable.

"Well, enjoy your decent cologne," you tease, tapping the edge of his plate lightly with your fork before turning on your heel.

You weave through the backyard, the cool night air brushing against your skin as the sound of laughter and conversation fills the space. The fire pit crackles in the center of the yard, its warm glow casting flickering shadows across the grass. Marco and Bertholdt are sitting nearby, plates balanced on their laps as they talk quietly between themselves.

Marco spots you first, his face lighting up with a grin. "Took you long enough to come join the cool kids."

You snort, plopping down on the arm of the chair next to him. “Had to fight for my life at the food table first.”

Bertholdt chuckles, shaking his head as he takes a sip from his drink. "I saw Sasha damn near sprint to get her plate first. Honestly, I'm surprised there was anything left."

“Oh, trust me, I had to act fast,” you say, taking another bite of your mozzarella stick. “I swear that girl could probably smell food cooking from three miles away.”

Marco laughs, nodding in agreement before tilting his head slightly. “So, how’s everything going? You looked… occupied over there.” He raises an eyebrow slightly, his gaze flickering toward where Reiner still stands near the food table.

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Marco replies, but the way he smiles, teasing but knowing, says everything.

Marco hums, clearly not buying it, but he lets it go. “Anyway, I was actually about to ask you something. You’re taking that Modern Lit class next semester, right?”

You nod. “Yeah, with Dr. Hanley. Why?”

“I was thinking of adding it, but I heard the workload is insane,” Marco says, leaning back in his seat. “I figured if you were taking it, you’d probably already looked into how bad it is.”

You make a face. “It’s definitely heavy. There’s, like, three major papers and a ton of reading. But Hanley’s a good professor, so it’s not miserable.”

Bertholdt whistles lowly. “Three major papers? Yeah that might be a pass for me.”

Marco chuckles. “Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of.”

You shrug. “If you’re looking for an easy ride, I’d probably avoid it. But if you’re willing to put in the work, it’s not bad.” Marco hums thoughtfully, tapping his fingers against his plate before nodding. 

“Alright, noted. Appreciate the insight.”

Before you can respond, someone suddenly claps a hand on your shoulder, making you jolt slightly.

"Yo,baby you want to do some drinking games with us?"

You glance up to see Connie grinning down at you, his energy as chaotic as ever. From across the fire pit, Sasha pipes up, already munching on a second plate of food.

“Yeah, someone needs to start the drinking games already!”

You shake your head, laughing. “I think I’m gonna pass.”

Connie frowns before turning his eyes towards Bertholdt and giving him a devious grin. Imagine the grinch’s smile.

Bertholdt sighs, shaking his head but smiling. “You’re gonna make me drink till I fall, man?”

Connie just grins wider. “Just stand up man..”

Bertholdt stands, stretching his long limbs before heading toward the growing group near the cooler, where Sasha and Connie are already arguing over which game to start with. Ymir and Reiner are laughing at them, while Eren shakes his head, nudging Armin closer. You watch as Bertholdt steps in, probably to mediate before Sasha and Connie end up knocking over the whole damn cooler in their excitement.

You stay put, though, shifting in your seat as Marco sighs contentedly beside you. He leans back, gazing up at the string lights crisscrossing above you. “You know,” he starts, twirling the neck of his drink bottle between his fingers, “Ateez is coming into town next month.”

That catches your attention. You turn to him, raising a brow. “No way. Here?”

“Yup. Just announced the dates.” He exhales, shaking his head. “I really wanna go, but tickets are probably gonna be impossible to get.”

You hum, considering it. “I mean we could try? They’re gonna perform the new album so we got to.”

|♩♩♩ - Have my babies |

By: Isaiah Falls

“I know,” Marco groans dramatically. “And I will not be watching another shaky-ass, vertical fan cam on Twitter because I was too broke or too slow.” You snicker, nudging his arm. “Then we’ll just have to be quick about it.”

Marco grins at you, clearly thrilled. “We’re making this happen?”

“We’re making this happen.”

“We’re making this happen?!”

“We’re making this happen!!”

You and Marco do a quick little excited hand gesture before your attention turned at the sound of Jean yelling from across the firepit.

“Connie, what the fuck?”

Your head snaps up just in time to see Jean glaring daggers at Connie, who looks down at Jean’s hoodie, now sporting a dark wet stain, before bursting into laughter. “Aw, man, my bad, bro! That’s crazy!”

Jean looks absolutely livid. “You’re fucking laughing?!”

Connie only cackles harder, completely unbothered, as Jean yanks the hoodie over his head with an exaggerated sigh of frustration. 

You found yourself laughing too.

You always seem to laugh when something bad happens to Jean. Whether it be a stain on his clothes or one of his tires get flat. You thrive in watching that man suffer, like it’s your own personal entertainment. 

But it’s not the hoodie removal that catches your attention, it’s the way his shirt rides up in the process, exposing the sharp lines of his v-line and the defined muscle of his lower stomach.

You freeze mid-sip, your drink hovering just below your lips as your gaze locks onto the sight in front of you.

Shit.

You hate this.

Hate how your eyes linger, hate the way your breath catches slightly at the definition, hate how unfair it is that he looks like that. It’s infuriating, really. 

Jean has always been attractive, you’ve known that since high school, but there’s something about this moment, about the effortless, completely unintentional flash of skin, that makes your stomach twist in a way you refuse to acknowledge.

You sip your drink slowly, eyes still on him, as if trying to will yourself to look away. But your gaze lingers, just for a second too long.

Dear Lord

You’re ovulating remember that.

It’s your body acting up.

You’re ovulating!

You finally snap yourself out of it, forcing your attention back to Marco, who, thankfully, hasn’t noticed a damn thing. “So, uh,” you start, clearing your throat. “What’s the venue like?”

Marco doesn’t seem to pick up on the slight shift in your tone, still focused on the concert. “It’s at the arena downtown. Pretty big, but I’ve heard the sound system is solid.”

You nod, desperately clinging to the conversation, but your mind keeps replaying that stupid moment, Jean’s shirt lifting, the defined lines of his stomach, the way he didn’t even realize what he was doing. It pisses you off how easily he gets under your skin, even when he isn’t trying.

This is so annoying.

You shake it off, forcing yourself back into the present. It’s just Jean. Just a stupid, frustrating, obnoxiously fine Jean. Nothing to dwell on.

You exhale slowly, shaking off whatever that was and shifting your focus back to Marco. Leaning back against the seat, you let your shoulders relax, stretching your legs out slightly as you try to mentally reset.

“So,” you say, feigning nonchalance as you take another sip of your drink. “How much are the tickets going for?”

Marco hums, scrolling through his phone. “Well, it depends. If we wanna go cheap-cheap, nosebleeds are like, sixty bucks.” He glances up, giving you a knowing look. “But I know you’re not about to sit in the back of an arena and watch them look like little ants on stage.”

You snort, shaking your head. “Hell no. If I’m going, I wanna see them. I wanna experience it.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Marco grins. “So, realistically? We’re looking at at least two hundred for a good seat. If we want barricade?” He flips his phone around to show you the numbers, and you grimace.

“Damn,” you mutter. “That’s bills man.”

Marco sighs dramatically, locking his phone and tucking it into his pocket. “Yup. Guess I gotta start selling feet pics or something.”

You bark out a laugh, shaking your head. “Good luck with that with your little freckled feet.”

“Somebody might like it.”

As Marco chuckles beside you, something shifts in the air. A feeling. The kind that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, like when you can feel someone staring.

Your body tenses, and instinctively, you glance to the side, right into Jean’s gaze.

He’s looking at you, arms crossed, expression unreadable at first. But there’s something irritated about it. The way his hazel eyes flicker over you, slow but assessing, like he’s trying to figure something out but already annoyed by the answer. His gaze moves down, taking you in, your relaxed posture, the way you’re leaned back, comfortably chatting with Marco. Then, just as lazily, his eyes drag back up to yours, something vaguely unimpressed settling into his face.

Your brows furrow slightly, your expression immediately shifting into something that very clearly says, ‘The fuck are you looking at?’

Jean holds your gaze for a moment longer, his lips pressing into a thin line before he huffs, rolling his eyes like you’re the one annoying him. Then, without another word, he turns, striding off toward Eren and Armin like he’s already forgotten whatever just went through his head.

Your jaw clenches. 

Oh, okay.

You’re not sure why that irritated you so much. Maybe it was the audacity of him looking at you like that, like you were the one doing something weird. Maybe it was the way he sized you up, clearly had some kind of thought about it, and then just dismissed you entirely. 

Either way, you shake it off, turning back to Marco with a scoff. “Anyway,” you say, forcing yourself back into the conversation, “if I’m paying two hundred for a ticket, I better be making eye contact with at least one of them.”

Marco laughs, oblivious to the way you subtly shake off the lingering tension in your shoulders. “We’ll make a sign, or something.”

Then you smell it,

Smoke.

A firm nudge to your arm as you look up to see Zeke standing over you, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, a smirk tugging at the edges of his lips. His blond hair is slightly tousled from the breeze, and he exhales a slow stream of smoke before nudging you again with the side of his knee.

“Alright, on your feet,” he says, tilting his head toward the table where the cake sits. “Time for cake.”

You roll your eyes but stand up, brushing off your jeans. “I guess I’ll be nice and feed the birthday boy.”

Zeke chuckles, taking another drag of his cigarette before turning toward the others. “Let’s go, we’re doing cake.”

The backyard stirs with movement as people start gathering around the table. Sasha is the first to rush over, practically bouncing in place with excitement. You looked over at Sasha and chuckled. “I dont know why your bouncing cause you’re not getting the first slice.”

Historia and Ymir follow close behind, fingers loosely intertwined. Reiner, Connie, Bertholdt, and Annie make their way over from the drinking games, all of them still a little buzzed, but smiling nonetheless. Jean stands a little ways back, arms crossed as he listens to something Eren’s saying.

Armin stands in the center of it all, looking a little overwhelmed but undeniably happy. His blue eyes shine under the glow of the string lights, and when everyone begins singing “Happy Birthday,” a soft, grateful smile spreads across his face.

The singing is so off-key, but it’s filled with love and loud voices, Sasha holding out the final note way too long just to be annoying. Armin shakes his head fondly as everyone finishes, clapping and cheering before he leans forward to blow out the candles.

A round of applause follows, along with Connie shouting, “You better have made a good wish, bro!”

Armin chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, yeah, I did.”

You step forward, already grabbing the knife to start cutting slices. The cake is still cool from the fridge, but soft enough to slice through smoothly. As you place the first piece on a plate, you turn to Armin and lean in slightly, your voice just low enough for him to hear.

“Now be honest,” you murmur, a teasing smile playing on your lips. “Did you actually not know about the surprise party?”

Armin laughs, shaking his head before giving you a knowing look. “Duh.”

You scoff playfully. “Wow. So you lied to all of us?”

He grins, taking the plate from you. “I figured something was up when Eren insisted on picking me up. He never offers me rides unless he needs something.”

You chuckle, shaking your head as you continue cutting the cake. “Damn. We really thought we had you.”

“You almost did,” Armin says before taking a bite. “Almost.”

You huff dramatically but hand out more slices, moving on to Sasha, who nearly snatches the plate out of your hands. “Bless you,” she says before immediately digging in.

One by one, everyone gets their slice, the hum of conversation and laughter filling the backyard once again. You lean a hip against the table, fingers smoothing over the denim of your jeans as you take a breath, trying to collect yourself. 

For a brief moment, you let yourself relax, shoulders unwinding, until a hand darts out and snatches a plate right from under your nose. 

“And this shit better be good,” Jean drawls, voice flat and unimpressed, though the way he’s already sliding a piece of cake onto the plate betrays his eagerness.

You scoff, eyes narrowing as you fix him with a glare. “Excuse you? When has my baking ever been bad?”

He raises an eyebrow, gaze deliberately avoiding yours as he scoops up a forkful. “Last month at Eren’s place.”

Your mouth falls open, offense flaring hot in your chest. You swat at his shoulder without thinking, but he sidesteps with annoying ease.“Boy, please. That was one time, and you still ate half the tray, so shut up.”

Jean rolls his eyes, a nonchalant shrug lifting his shoulders. But when he takes a bite, you catch the way his chewing slows, the fork pausing midway back to the plate. He hesitates for just a second too long, eyes flicking to the side to avoid yours, and a smug smile pulls at your lips.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” you say, folding your arms with a little too much satisfaction. “All that mouth and you love it.”

He scoffs.

“Calm down, Betty Crocker. It’s alright .”

“Oh, now you’re just lying. You can’t just admit you like something for once?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he shoots back, though his voice lacks its usual bite. He swipes a crumb from the corner of his mouth, and your eyes instinctively follow the motion, unfortunately for you, he notices. 

“Besides, you’re real bold talking about me when you’ve been eyein’ me all night.”

“Nobody was looking at you.”

“Mm-hmm. Could’ve fooled me.”

Your jaw clenches so hard it’s a miracle your teeth don’t crack. Heat crawls up your neck, and you force yourself to scoff, rolling your eyes with enough force to hurt. “You’re delusional.” You guys just stand there glaring at each other for what felt like hours but was probably only thirty seconds.

He takes another slow bite of cake, eyes half-lidded and watching you with a look that makes your hands curl into fists as he walks off towards the rest of the group by the chairs to watch the movie.

“And keep your eyes to yourself next time,” he tosses over his shoulder, voice laced with that usual hint of laziness and irritation.

You grit your teeth, arms crossing tight over your chest as you glower at his retreating form. ‘I hate him’ you mutter under your breath, the words petulant and unconvincing. But your eyes betray you, trailing despite yourself, lingering a second too long on the way his shoulders flex. 

Damn him and damn your hormones.

Everyone starts to drift over to the lawn chairs, the chatter easing into something more comfortable as the night settles in. The fire pit crackles low, casting a warm glow that flickers over faces and reflects off half-empty glasses. You scoop up your drink and follow the flow, rolling your eyes as Connie trips over a chair leg and nearly sends Sasha flying.

Zeke’s crouched by the projector, grumbling under his breath as he fumbles with the HDMI cord. “Who the hell used this last?” he snaps, shoving a hand through his hair. “It’s not that hard to not mess with the settings.”

Eren, sprawled out in a chair with a blanket slung over his shoulders, shrugs lazily. “Pretty sure it was you, man.”

Zeke’s glare could peel paint. “Oh, shut up.”

“Just hurry up before we’re out here all night,” Ymir drawls, slouching in her seat with her legs kicked up on Historia’s chair. Historia swats at her knee with a halfhearted glare.

“Why don’t you come do it then?” Zeke shoots back, finally getting the thing to flicker to life. A collective cheer goes up, and he rolls his eyes, dragging a hand down his face. “Y’all are worse than children, I swear.”

Armin looks through the options and he finally finds what he is looking for. “We're watching The Goonies.”

Called it.

You lean over, grinning as Mikasa's eyes narrow with a knowing glint. “Told you he’d pick an old movie,” you snicker, taking a sip of your drink.

She sighs, though the amusement in her eyes is unmistakable. “He’s predictable,” she murmurs, but there’s no real bite to it. You snort, sinking back into your chair with a satisfied hum.

Jean,who was walking towards his seat 5 seats away from you, rolls his eyes when he catches your smug expression. “Don’t look too proud of yourself,” he mutters, stretching out his legs. “Bet you don’t even know what movie this is.”

You scoff, side-eyeing him. “If you don’t-please. I know more about movies than your pretentious ass.”

“Right. Sure. Name three other movies by this director then.”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing. “I'd rather shove my fist down your throat.”

“Knew it,” he says smugly. “Just runnin’ your mouth.”

Your glare could burn holes, but it only makes him smirk wider, eyes glinting with that familiar mix of challenge. You take a slow sip of your drink, eyeing Jean with a raised brow. 

“The Goonies is directed by Richard Donner, genius,” you say smoothly, voice flat. “And let’s see, Superman, Lethal Weapon, Scrooged, Ladyhawke, and Maverick.” You tick each one off on your fingers, watching with barely concealed satisfaction as his smirk falters.

Jean rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Alright, movie buff,” he drawls, snatching a popcorn bucket off the table. 

You snort. “Now, since you wanna run your mouth, name five movies the lead actor’s been in.”

His eyes narrow right back, a spark of challenge lighting up his gaze. “Sean Astin?” he scoffs, crossing his arms. “Rudy, 50 First Dates, Click, Encino Man, and-” He pauses, eyes flicking to the screen for a second too long.

“Uh-huh,” you hum, biting back a grin. “What’s wrong, IMDB? ”

“Shut up,” he grumbles.

“Lord of the Rings, smartass.” He says it with a finality that makes you roll your eyes, before turning and looking back at the large inflatable screen, the opening credits rolling as you whisper back to him.

“Uh-huh. Sure took you long enough,” 

He flips you off before leaning back in his seat, his eyes now on the screen ahead.

Once everyone finally settles in, the backyard falls into a comfortable hush, save for the movie’s score and the rustle of chip bags passing from hand to hand.

You sink into a lawn chair between Marco and Historia, tucking one leg beneath you and wrapping both hands around your drink, savoring the faint warmth seeping through the cup. Historia is half-buried in a blanket, her eyes wide and gleaming with the reflection of the screen, while Marco has an easy slouch, arms crossed and a small smile tugging at his lips. The night feels soft and slow, cradled in the warmth of the fire and the murmur of laughter weaving through the pauses in dialogue.

Sasha, meanwhile, is nearly cocooned in fleece, only her eyes visible above the blanket pulled to her nose. Her eyes narrow sharply at Connie, who’s sitting beside her with one hand absently scratching at his head, fingers raking through short-cropped hair with a focus that borders on obnoxious.

“Can you quit doing that shit? It’s annoying!” she hisses, voice muffled and eyes glaring daggers over the edge of the blanket.

Connie snorts, the corner of his mouth kicking up. He doesn’t bother pausing, fingers still digging with defiance. “If it itch, I gotta itch it,” he retorts, elbowing her with a grin that only widens when she kicks at his shin in response.

The exchange pulls a soft snicker from you, a smile creeping unbidden at the edges of your mouth. You take a sip from your cup, the carbonation fizzing pleasantly against your tongue, but the warmth that prickles at your cheeks has nothing to do with the fire or the drink. Your eyes flick to the side, unbidden, unintentional, almost instinctual at this point, and catch on Jean a few seats down.

Jean is sprawled back in his chair with that usual careless grace, one leg stretched out and the other bent, fingers absently flicking through his phone.His brow is furrowed, lips pulled into a faint frown, and the muscle in his jaw ticks with whatever he’s reading, the movement subtle but impossible not to notice.

You scowl, snapping your gaze back to the movie screen with a force that’s a little too deliberate, cheeks prickling with heat. The last thing you need is to get caught staring again, especially not by him, smug bastard that he is, he’d never let you live it down. 

You force your eyes to focus on the characters flickering across the screen, but the dialogue is a muffled hum beneath the rapid thud of your heartbeat, and you can still see Jean in your periphery, all shadows and firelight and that damn frown.

Beside you, Marco shifts, his eyes glinting with something way too knowing, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He leans in, voice pitched low enough not to carry past the crackling fire. “You good?” he murmurs, a note of teasing slipping beneath the concern.

You scoff, lifting a brow and tilting your head to give him a deadpan look. “Do I not look good?” you drawl, aiming for nonchalance and missing by a mile.

Marco’s smirk widens, amusement warm in his eyes as he bumps your shoulder with his. “You look like you wanna throw that cup at someone’s head,” he snickers, gaze flicking, not subtle at all, towards Jean.

“Don’t tempt me,” 

You mutter, cheeks burning hot as you lift your cup to hide the scowl pulling at your mouth. The ice rattles faintly as you take a sip from your drink. 

The movie’s barely halfway through when the cold finally starts to bite, the fire pit’s warmth doing little against the evening chill. You huff softly, tugging your sleeves down over your fingers, but it does little to stop the prickling discomfort. After a few more minutes of pretending not to care, you push yourself up with a sigh, muttering something about needing the bathroom.

Historia nods absently, eyes fixed on the screen, while Marco throws you a thumbs-up, mouthing, Hurry back.

You shake your head with a small smirk, stepping around chairs and half-empty soda cans, and slide the patio door open. The warmth of the house is immediate, welcome, and you let out a soft breath of relief, shutting the door behind you. The muffled sounds of laughter and movie dialogue fade, replaced by the low hum of the heater.

You make a beeline for the hallway bathroom, the one Zeke hadn’t nuked an hour ago,and duck inside, flicking the light on. The mirror casts your reflection, faint bags under your eyes from late-night study sessions and flour still dusted across the hem of your sweater. You scoff, wiping at it half heartedly before walking over to the toilet.

You do your business, wash your hands, and smooth a palm over your hair, eyeing your reflection with a little frown. The soft lighting casts warm hues over your skin, bringing out the flecks of amber in your eyes, and you absently swipe a thumb beneath your lashes to catch any stray mascara.

|♩♩♩ - From the dining room |

By: Harry Styles

Just as you’re about to turn back to the door, the patio door slams shut, loud and abrupt, enough to make you freeze for a second, hand still curled around the sink.

Then comes the voice, sharp and tight with anger.

“I said I’m handling it, alright? Just-” A pause, then a frustrated hiss through gritted teeth. “No, I didn’t fail it. I’m not an idiot.”

You hold your breath, heart stuttering. You hadn’t even realized anyone else had come inside, much less

Jean.

His voice is rough, edged with a frustration that has your brows drawing together instinctively. You edge a step closer to the door, movements careful and slow, almost guilty. But you can’t help it, something about the way he sounds has your fingers hovering over the doorknob, hesitating.

“Because I was busy, that’s why,” Jean snaps, voice pitched low but fierce, like he’s fighting to keep it down. There’s a silence, and then a breath leaves him, harsh and shaky

Another pause, this one longer. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, and you can almost hear the way his jaw grinds, the way his fingers probably twist into his hair like they do when he’s pissed.

“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want to do that for the rest of my life,” he bites out finally, tone cold enough to frost over. “Maybe I want- I forgot, you don't give a shit about that” He cuts himself off, breathing hissing through his teeth. “Forget it.”

You blink, heart pounding too fast and too loud in your ears. You shouldn’t be listening, hell, you shouldn’t even be standing here, leaning closer to the door like you’ve got any right to this conversation. But your feet feel stuck, leaden and unwilling to move.

Whoever’s on the other end must’ve said something, because Jean lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, one that sounds like it’s been clawed straight from his throat. “Right. Yeah, of course you don’t get it,” he mutters. 

“ You never do .”

The weight in his voice twists something low in your gut, uncomfortable and unfamiliar. You bite the inside of your cheek, your hand still braced on the doorknob. Jean never sounded like this at school, not even when he was busy trying to one-up you in every class.

The silence stretches again, longer this time, until it’s almost deafening. Then there’s a clipped, “I gotta go,” and the call cuts with a curt beep.

A heartbeat passes, then another, and then there’s a dull thud, like a fist against the wall, followed by a string of curses so dark you almost flinch. You clamp your lips tight, pulse a heavy drumbeat in your ears, and squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for the sound of footsteps, for anything that’ll give you an opening to slip out unseen.

But nothing comes. Just another low curse, this one more defeated than angry, and a ragged sigh that sinks low into your stomach.

You lean back, fingers trembling faintly as you press your palm to your forehead, biting down the unease knotting under your ribs. You shouldn’t have heard that, any of that. Whatever Jean’s deal is, it’s none of your business.

You wait a few more seconds, breath shallow, ears straining for the sound of retreating footsteps. But all you catch is the low, unsteady rhythm of Jean’s breathing from the hallway, the kind that sounds like he’s still trying to collect himself. For a split second, you consider just staying put, waiting it out until he storms off and gives you a clear shot to slip back outside without dealing with whatever that was.

But then he mutters another curse, rough and bitten off, and you can practically see the way he’s probably dragging a hand down his face, trying to shove down whatever had him snapping on the phone.

You grit your teeth. 

Damn it.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you twist the lock and crack the door open just enough to peek out. The hallway light is soft, gold-tinted, and it spills over Jean’s profile, catching on the tight line of his shoulders and the way his jaw ticks under the shadow of stubble. His back’s to you, one hand braced on the wall and the other buried in his hair, fingers tugging so hard you wonder if he’s trying to rip the frustration out by the roots.

It’s a look you’ve never seen on him, tension and something else, something raw and bleeding at the edges. It twists something low in your gut, makes your fingers curl around the edge of the door.

He looked almost human.

Not like he isn’t one, hell, you see him as just some asshole who is always trying to one up you. But right now, he has emotions. An emotion that isn’t arrogance. He looked human.

You don’t mean to say anything, honestly, you’d planned to just slink back and pretend none of this ever happened, but then the words slip out, flat and instinctive.

“Didn’t know the hallway needed an ass-kicking.”

Jean’s head snaps around so fast you almost flinch back on reflex. His eyes narrow, hazel and sharp under the dim light, and for a second, you think he might actually snap at you. But then he scoffs, the sound rough and hollow, and lets his hand drop from the wall.

“Didn’t know you were lurking around corners like a damn creep,” he shoots back, but the bite is duller than usual, half-hearted.

You push the door open a little more, leaning a shoulder against the frame and crossing your arms. “It’s called using the bathroom, genius,” you say dryly, lifting a brow. “Or did you forget people do that sometimes?”

You open your mouth to snap back, you’re not the one throwing a temper tantrum in the hallway, but the words die on your tongue when you catch the way his hand trembles for just a second, barely noticeable if you weren’t looking.

Your gaze flickers, uncertainty crawling up the back of your neck. “… You good?” you ask finally, the words slipping out before you can think better of it. They come out rougher than you meant, more blunt than concerned, but it’s the best you can manage with your throat suddenly tight.

Jean’s shoulders stiffen, eyes flicking to you for half a heartbeat before darting away. “What-yeah,” he says, too quick, too clipped. “Mind your business.”

There it is. 

The normal Jean. 

The one with a stick so far up his ass it’s practically a spinal extension. It grates at your nerves, wipes away any flicker of sympathy in a blink. You grit your teeth, fingers curling at your sides as you watch him stalk off towards the patio door, shoulders squared and steps just a bit too rigid.

Your jaw aches from clenching it so hard, pulse thudding hot under your skin. The urge to snap something else back burns on the tip of your tongue. But then Jean pushes the door open, stepping back outside without a second glance, and the words die before they can form.

You’re left in the silence, the low hum of the hallway light the only sound. It’s cold, too empty, and you hate the way your chest tightens, the way your nails bite into your palms.

“Dick,” you mutter finally, the curse coming out weak and breathless. You let out a sigh before walking down the hallway and back out the back door. You push the door open with more force than necessary, the screen door slamming behind you with a clatter that makes a few heads turn. 

You roll your eyes at Sasha’s raised brow and Connie’s snicker, brushing off the attention as you weave through the lawn chairs and blankets scattered around the backyard. The air’s cooled down some, crisp and biting at your cheeks, but the fire pit crackles steadily, throwing out enough heat to take the edge off.

Most of the group is still sprawled out in front of the inflatable screen, eyes fixed on the movie. Eren and Mikasa are sharing a blanket, her head resting on his shoulder with a softness you’d tease her about if she wasn’t known to hit hard. Historia’s tucked against Ymir’s side, Sasha’s double-fisting mozzarella sticks like it’s her last meal, and Armin’s eyes are bright in the glow of the firelight, lips twitching into a smile at one of the scenes.

You head back to your seat between Marco and Historia and drop into it with a sigh, pulling your sleeves over your hands. The cold nips at your fingertips, so you press them in between your thighs, eyes flicking between the screen and the flames licking at the night sky. For a minute, it’s almost easy to forget the tension still sitting heavy in your chest, the way Jean’s glare felt a little too raw to brush off completely. 

Almost.

Marco nudges you with his elbow, grinning softly. “You good?” he asks, voice low enough not to disturb the others. “You’ve been scowling since you came back.”

“Just tired,” you lie, forcing a shrug that feels too stiff. “Plus, Zeke's bathroom might need to be condemned. I’m pretty sure whatever he ate could kill a man.”

That earns a snort of laughter from Marco and a startled chuckle from Historia. It eases some of the tightness in your chest, and you lean back a bit, exhaling through your nose. The movie plays on, the soundtrack swelling, and you try to lose yourself in it, to focus on the familiar lines and the nostalgic grain of the film.

But your eyes drift, almost against your will, searching the yard until they land on him sitting in his seat, hands shoved in his pockets and eyes dark under the fringe of his bangs. Jean’s face is half-shadowed by the firelight, jaw tight and brows furrowed, like he’s trying to burn holes into the grass. There’s no phone in his hand now, but his shoulders are still bunched with whatever had him pissed in the first place, tension coiling tight in the set of his spine.

You tear your eyes away before they can linger, biting the inside of your cheek hard enough to sting. It shouldn’t bother you. You shouldn’t care. The guy’s an ass with a superiority complex and a resting bitch face, and the sooner you get that through your head, the better.

But it’s hard to shake the memory of the way his voice cracked, just a little, around the edges of that angry tone. You drag in a breath, sip at your drink, and force yourself to focus on the movie, on Marco’s quiet commentary and Connie’s loud snickers.

The night had wound down to an easy sort of tiredness, the backyard a mess of half-empty cups and blankets kicked aside. Someone had knocked over the popcorn bowl, and Sasha had nearly cried about the wasted kernels before Connie dragged her off to the car. Historia and Ymir were still bickering over the movie’s ending as they headed out, Ymir’s arm slung lazy over her girlfriend’s shoulder.

You pulled your jacket tighter, shivering as the cold crept in now that the fire pit was nothing but glowing embers. Mikasa, Eren, and Armin had claimed the guest room for the night, too tired to bother driving back to campus. You were about to ask Mikasa for a ride home when you caught the way she blinked, eyes half-lidded and steps slow. You sighed, waving her off.

“Nah, get some sleep,” you said, catching her faint frown. “Reiner and Bertholdt can drop me off.”

She hesitated, but Eren’s yawn seemed to convince her. You could hear Zeke cursing about something from the kitchen as they headed inside, Armin trying to hide a laugh behind his hand. Before you could follow, Zeke’s voice boomed out, impatient and gruff.

“Hey, clean the fuckin’ kitchen before you leave!” he called, pointing a finger at you. “Ain’t no way in hell I’m dealin’ with that in the mornin’.”

“Thanks for asking so nicely, Zeke”

You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath as you dragged yourself to the kitchen. Most of the dishes had been abandoned in the sink, stacks of plates and half-filled cups littering the counters. You wrinkled your nose at the sticky spots and started the faucet, filling the sink with hot water, soap, and a splash of bleach for good measure.

You roll up your sleeves and turn on the faucet, filling the sink with steaming water, soap, and a dash of bleach for good measure. The scent of lemon and chemicals fills the air, the water hissing and bubbling as you dip a sponge into the mix. It’s mindless work, scrubbing off dried cheese and crumbs, wiping down counters sticky with frosting and spilled soda. The warmth stings at your cold-nipped fingers, but it’s grounding, something to focus on besides the quiet creeping in.

In the living room, Reiner and Bertholdt lounged on the couch, voices low as they scrolled through their phones. Reiner shot you a thumbs-up when you glanced over, a silent ‘take your time,’ and you sighed, bracing yourself against the counter  tried to focus on anything but the dull ache in your feet.

The sound of footsteps crept up behind you, soft at first, and you rolled your eyes, not bothering to turn around, a smile creeping to your face. “Reiner, you know you’re not slick. Either help or go sit your butt down-”

You glance over your shoulder, expecting Reiner to peek in and help you with the dishes, but the sight that greets you is a whole lot taller and more irritating.

Jean leans a shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed and expression unreadable in the dim kitchen light. His hair’s a mess, probably from running his hands through it a thousand times tonight, and his hoodie that was stained earlier slung over one broad shoulder, leaving him in just a fitted black t-shirt that makes you grit your teeth a little too hard.

“You still here?” he asks, voice low and casual, but there’s a flicker of something sharper under the words.

You scoff, turning back to the sink with a pointed roll of your eyes. “Clearly,” you mutter, scrubbing harder. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

He hums, noncommittal, and the silence stretches thin and awkward between the clink of dishes. For a second, you think he might just walk off without another word, like he usually does when it’s not worth the argument, but then he shifts, pushing off the door frame with a sigh.

“Kitchen’s a damn mess,” 

Your grip tightens on the sponge. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” you shoot back, arching a brow. “Or are you just that desperate for my attention?”

“Not at all.” 

He’s closer now, voice low and biting. You glance up, startled to find him right there, eyes sharp and dark. His jaw is tight, shadows carving out the angles of his face. “You better be on time tomorrow for your tutor session with me,” he snaps.

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you focus back on the dish. “I know,” you bite out, words clipped. 

“Could’ve fooled me,” he mutters, turning on his heel with one last glare. His shoulder brushes yours, on purpose, you’re sure of it, and you barely resist the urge to shove him back. His footsteps echo across the tiles, but just before he’s out of earshot, he tosses one last shot over his shoulder, tone laced with smug amusement. “And I mean that. My time is precious”

Your hands are still in the soapy water, jaw clenching so tight it aches. The urge to fling a wet sponge at the back of his head is damn near overwhelming, but you grit your teeth and force yourself to breathe. Ain’t no way in hell you’re giving him the satisfaction of a reaction.

“Asshole,” you mutter under your breath, scrubbing the dish with a vengeance. But your pulse is a little too fast, your cheeks a little too warm, and you hate how he seems to get under your skin so damn easily.

After about 20 minutes, The kitchen’s finally clean, counters wiped down and dishes stacked neatly in the drying rack. You untie the dish towel from your waist, tossing it over the sink with a sigh. The scent of soap and bleach lingers in the air, clinging to your hands as you stretch, rolling the tension from your shoulders. It’s quiet now, Zeke must’ve gone to bed or at least decided to stop hovering with his judgey ass, and for a second, you just stand there, letting the silence settle.

But the living room light spills down the hallway, warm and inviting, and you push off the counter, heading that way with a faint ache in your lower back. Reiner and Bertholdt are where you left them, sprawled out on the couch with Reiner scrolling through his phone and Bertholdt blinking sleepily at the TV, eyes half-lidded. He glances up when you step in, offering a soft, tired smile.

“All good?” Reiner asks, sliding his phone into his jacket pocket and standing with a stretch, muscles flexing under his hoodie.

“Yep,” you reply, popping the ‘p’ as you pull your sweater sleeves back down, still faintly smelling of vanilla and flour. “Didn’t crash out from the mess, so I think I passed.” He chuckles, the sound warm and deep, and nods his head toward the door. “C’mon. Let’s get you home before Zeke finds something else to bitch about.”

You snort, following them out with a faint smirk. You, Bertholdt, and Reiner head for the door. Grabbing your bag from the rack at the front, you yell up to Armin, Mikasa, and Eren upstairs. “Goodnight y’all! Happy Birthday again, Armin”

“Night!”

“Good night y/n. Thank you!”

“See y’all.”

 The night air’s chilly, biting at your cheeks and nose as you step onto the porch. The sky’s a dark, endless sprawl, stars faint and distant, and you tuck your hands into your jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the breeze. Reiner’s car sits in the driveway, dark blue and already on.

Annie’s already in the backseat, earphones in and head tipped against the window. She doesn’t glance up as you slide in, Reiner holding the door for you with a crooked smile and a mumbled, “Seat’s yours.”

You try not to read too much into it, but your cheeks warm anyway as you buckle in, fingers fumbling a bit with the strap. Bertholdt barely makes it five minutes before his eyes start to droop, chin dipping to his chest as the car rumbles to life. The heat kicks on with a low hum, and you relax back against the seat, the warmth sinking into your bones.

|♩♩♩ - Far Away |

By: Nickelback

As Reiner backs out of the driveway, the soft hum of the radio fills the quiet, and you can’t help the snort that escapes when the familiar chords of "Far Away" by Nickelback drift through the speakers. The song’s nostalgic melody weaves effortlessly with the low rumble of the engine, wrapping the car in a sort of warm familiarity that you almost don’t mind. Almost.

“Really?” you tease, arching a brow with all the incredulity you can muster. “You a middle-aged dad now or somethin’?” The corners of your mouth twitch despite yourself, a smile threatening to break through.

Reiner chuckles, deep and unbothered, eyes flicking to you with a glint of amusement as he rolls his eyes. “Shut up. It’s a classic,” he retorts, voice rich with mock indignation. There’s a warmth in his tone that makes your chest flutter in a way you’re not sure you want to unpack. His fingers drum absentmindedly against the steering wheel, rough and sure, and it’s stupid, really, the way you catch yourself staring a bit too long.

“Mm-hm,” you hum, fighting a grin and turning your gaze to the blur of streetlights outside, their soft glow stretching into streaks of gold against the dark. “Next you’re gonna tell me you got Creed on here too.”

“Maybe,” he shoots back without missing a beat, a smirk curling at his lips. “What, you got a problem?”

You scoff, crossing your arms with a dramatic flair that only makes his smirk widen. “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’. Just surprised, that’s all,” you mumble, eyes flicking back to him for just a second too long. It’s a mistake, really, because he catches it, of course he does. His grin turns downright smug, all sharp teeth and boyish mischief, and it makes something twist annoyingly in your gut.

He snorts, clearly reveling in your exasperation, and taps a finger against the volume dial. “Keep talkin’ shit and I’ll put on Daughtry,” he threatens, tone light and teasing, but there’s something softer underneath it, something that makes your pulse stumble.

You huff out a laugh before you can help it, the sound slipping past your defenses, and it’s almost embarrassing how easily he pulls it out of you. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, trying for unimpressed but probably falling short with the way your lips keep twitching. “Okay, now you’re playin” you drawl, rolling your eyes with as much indifference as you can fake.

Reiner’s grin widens, the teasing tilt of it almost unbearably fond, and your heart trips over itself in your chest. You hate how charming he is sometimes, how effortlessly he makes you laugh, how easy it feels to lean into the warmth of his attention. 

From the backseat, Bertholdt’s already dozed off again, head lolling against the window with soft breaths fogging up the glass. Annie, ever the picture of indifference, hasn’t looked up from her phone once, earbuds firmly in place. The road stretches dark and quiet ahead, streetlights casting fleeting halos of amber light over the asphalt. For a few moments, it’s just the low croon of the radio,and the warmth seeping through the vents. Inch by inch, the tension in your shoulders unwinds, the weight of the day slipping into something softer, almost bearable.

Reiner scoffs lightly, shaking his head as if he can hear your thoughts. “My music taste isn’t that bad,” he grumbles, eyes fixed on the road but amusement softening the line of his mouth.

“Debatable,” you shoot back, eyebrows lifting in challenge.

He grins, unrepentant and wide, teeth catching on the soft glow from the dashboard. “Hey, don’t hate,” he fires back smoothly. “You’re the one singing along under your breath.”

Your mouth snaps shut immediately, cheeks burning with betrayal. “mhm,” you grumble, turning pointedly to glare out the window, arms crossing defensively. Soon it begins to rain, making you happy that it came later and not during Armin’s party. Droplets racing down the glass in frantic patterns, but it’s not enough to drown out the snicker that rumbles from Reiner’s chest. It’s warm, deep, and it settles somewhere under your ribs in a way that makes you want to both squirm and smile.

His hand drapes casually over the wheel, fingers flexing absently, and you can’t help but notice how secure they look, how secure he looks. It’s too easy to banter with him, to lean into the warmth of his presence and the way his eyes flicker over to you with that soft sort of fondness that makes your pulse trip. When he glances over, grin still tugging at his mouth, you can’t help the way your own lips twitch, a reluctant smile breaking free.

“I’m getting to you,” he says, voice dropping to something low and warm, teasing but gentle in a way that makes your breath hitch.

“Boy, hush,” you scoff, shoving at his arm with a laugh that bubbles up unbidden, bright and a little too genuine for comfort. “Eyes on the road before you crash us.”

“Yes ma’am”

Reiner chuckles, the sound rumbling and soft, but he doesn’t look away from you for a few seconds longer than he probably should. Eventually, he does focus back on the road, humming along to the chorus under his breath, and you drag your eyes away from the way his hands look on the steering wheel. 

Bertholdt’s still knocked out, cheek squished against the window, and Annie hasn’t moved an inch, gaze fixed out at the passing streets with her usual disinterest. Typical. But even the soft rhythm of the rain and Reiner’s off-key humming isn’t enough to keep your mind from drifting back, back to earlier, to the harsh set of Jean’s jaw, the low bite in his words, the way your pulse had stuttered when he’d stepped closer. 

Your chest tightens uncomfortably, the flutter of warmth from Reiner’s smile dimming. You frown, fingers tracing absent patterns against the cold glass of the window. But the thought of tomorrow’s tutor session claws its way back up, unwelcome and irritating. The idea of being stuck alone with Jean again, dealing with his sharp tongue and bad ass attitude yeah, no. You’ll need a lot more than a good night’s sleep to survive that.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Reiner’s voice cuts through the spiral, soft and curious, pulling you back with a gentle tug. 

You blink, pulled from your mind’s dark corners with a start. His eyes flicker over to you, brows raised in question, and you force a smile, shrugging with a nonchalance that even you can tell is half-baked. “Nothin’ important,” you lie smoothly, fingers curling tighter against your sleeve. “Just tired.”

He hums, gaze lingering a second longer than necessary before he chuckles, the sound warm and grounding. “If you say so,” he drawls, lips curling. “You looked ready to fight someone.”

“Who knows,” you mumble, words quiet and wavering, eyes fixed firmly on the rain-splattered glass. “‘Might hurt someone tomorrow if i’m feeling good.”

Reiner’s laugh is a balm, warm and deep and comforting. “Try not to get arrested,” he teases, elbow brushing yours with a nudge that’s both playful and grounding.

You huff, the corner of your mouth twitching despite yourself. “No promises,” you mutter, voice lighter but still weary, fingers curling tighter. 

But even as you joke, the knot in your chest doesn’t loosen, and the thought of tomorrow, of Jean, claws its way back to the front of your mind, insistent and unrelenting.

[raggycookie]

Jean Kirstein x Reader

Honey Boy: Bitter Tongues

August 18th, 2014

|♩♩♩ - Matilda |

By: Harry Styles

The air is thick with the lingering warmth of summer, the golden August sun casting long shadows on the pavement. The morning carries a crispness that hints at the approaching autumn, but the heat still clings stubbornly to your purple shirt. Cicadas hum in the distance, their droning song blending with the chatter of students and the occasional honk of a passing car. 

You stand at the base of the grand brick school building, your small fingers laced tightly around your father’s calloused hand. The weight of your bookbag presses against your shoulders, its straps digging into your skin like the reality of change settling deep in your bones. Your heart thrums in your chest, each beat loud against the quiet moment you share with the man who has always been your anchor.

Your father crouches down, his warm brown eyes searching yours, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His presence is a steady force, a lighthouse in the storm of your nerves. He squeezes your hand reassuringly, thumb brushing over your knuckles, a gesture he’s done since you were small. 

“Hey now,” he murmurs, his voice low and comforting, the same tone he uses when you wake up from bad dreams or scrape your knee playing outside. “It’s gonna be okay, baby girl. Middle school ain’t nothing you can’t handle.”

You swallow, your throat tight, glancing up at the looming building with its tall windows and endless rows of doors. The other kids mill around in clusters, their voices a chaotic blend of excitement and nerves. You can see some clinging to their parents, others rushing ahead without so much as a glance back. 

Your fingers curl tighter around his. “What if it’s not?” you whisper. 

Your dad lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Oh, it will be,” he assures you. “And if it ain’t, we’ll figure it out together. But I got a feeling you’re gonna do just fine.” 

You don’t respond right away, just chew on the inside of your cheek, feeling the weight of uncertainty pressing against your ribs. He sees it, the hesitation, the fear you don’t want to say out loud. And so, like he always does, he finds a way to lighten the moment. 

“Besides,” he says, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “I already told the principal if they don’t treat my baby right, I’ll have to come up here and show ‘em how your old man still got hands.”

Your eyes widen before a giggle bubbles up in your throat. “Dad!” you scold, but the smile that stretches across your face is bright and genuine. 

“There she is,” he grins, tapping your nose with his finger. “That’s the smile I love to see.”

You take a deep breath, trying to soak in the reassurance he is giving you, the warmth of his presence, the steadiness of his love. And then, without thinking, you step forward and wrap your arms around him. He is solid beneath your touch, the scent of his aftershave and laundry detergent familiar and safe. 

“Alright, alright,” he says, though he hugs you back just as tightly. “Now, don’t be making me cry out here. I gotta keep my reputation up.”

You laugh, pulling away just enough to look at him. “You don’t got a reputation, Daddy.”

“Not yet,” he jokes. “But I’m working on it.”

You roll your eyes, shaking your head, but the nerves have settled into something more manageable. Your dad is right. You are going to be okay. 

You move into your little handshake, three claps, a snap, then a quick point at each other. It’s something you’ve done since you were five, a ritual that feels like a shield against the unknown. 

“Go on, baby girl,” he says as the first bell rings, his voice softer now, full of pride and love. “You got this.”

You nod, taking a step toward the building, then another. When you turn back to wave, he is still kneeling, watching you with that same unwavering smile. 

“My little baby girl,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. 

And with that, you walk forward, stepping into the unknown, your father’s love wrapped around you like armor.

The cool air inside the school is a sharp contrast to the warmth of the morning sun. The scent of freshly waxed floors and faint traces of pencil shavings fill your nose as you step through the large double doors, your backpack bouncing slightly against your back. Students swarm in every direction, their voices blending into an incoherent hum of excitement, nerves, and whispered gossip. You inhale deeply, steadying yourself as you scan the hallway. To your right, a table is set up with stacks of crisp white papers, the words "SCHOOL MAP" printed in bold letters across the top. You quickly grab one, unfolding it with slightly trembling fingers as you trace the unfamiliar layout with your eyes. Your first class is down the hall, the second door on the left.

Room 107. English

You glance up, trying to get your bearings, but the hallways stretch on endlessly, bodies weaving in and out as everyone scrambles to find their own destinations. The only friend you knew here was Bertholdt, a quiet boy you had known since elementary school. But even that comfort is fleeting, he’s in different classes now. 

You are on your own. Shouldering the weight of that realization, you steel yourself and push forward, weaving through the crowd. Lockers slam, laughter erupts from nearby groups, and a shrill bell sounds over the intercom, signaling the last few minutes before class begins. Your grip tightens on the strap of your backpack as you finally reach Room 107, the door wide open, revealing the bustling space inside.

|♩♩♩ - Par 5 |

By: Kitty Craft

Rows of desks are arranged neatly, students already settling in, some chatting animatedly, others nervously adjusting their supplies. The teacher, a middle-aged woman with sharp glasses and a warm smile, is flipping through a folder at her desk. As you step in, you hesitate for just a moment, scanning the room for a place to sit. That’s when you hear a voice, bold, casual, and brimming with curiosity.

“Hey, Right here!” 

Your eyes snap to the speaker, a boy with messy brown hair and striking green eyes. He leans back in his chair with an easy confidence, his hands clasped behind his head. There’s something about the way he looks at you, like he’s already decided you’re interesting before you’ve even spoken a word. Before you can respond, another voice chimes in, softer but just as curious.

“Are you lost, or do you actually belong in this class?” 

Your gaze shifts to the blond boy sitting next to him, blue eyes bright with interest. He doesn’t have the same loud presence as the first boy, but there’s something sharp and intelligent in the way he observes you. You clear your throat, willing your voice to be steady. “Uh, I think I belong here.”

The green-eyed boy grins. “Good. Otherwise, we were gonna have to steal you from your real class.” The blond boy nudges him with his elbow. “Eren, don’t scare her off.” Eren just shrugs, completely unapologetic. “I’m being nice.” You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. Something about their dynamic feels natural, easy, like they’ve been best friends forever. Before you know it, you’re sliding into the empty seat next to them, your bag settling at your feet.

“I’m Eren,” the boy says, tilting his head slightly toward you. “That’s Armin.” Armin gives you a polite nod. “Nice to meet you.” You tell them your name, feeling the weight of their attention as they take it in, as if committing it to memory.

“I’m y/n. Nice to meet you guys.”

“So,” Eren says, spinning his pencil between his fingers, “what do you like to do?” The sudden question catches you off guard. “Uh, I don’t know. I like to read. And draw, sometimes.” Armin perks up at that. 

“Oh, what kind of books do you like?” 

You hesitate, surprised by his genuine interest. “Mostly fantasy. And some sci-fi.” Armin’s eyes light up. “No way! I love sci-fi! Have you ever read—”

“Okay, but more importantly,” 

Eren interrupts, leaning forward, “What’s your stance on video games?” 

You blink. “My stance?” 

“Yeah,” he says, dead serious. “Are you a fan, or are you one of those people who thinks they rot your brain?” Armin groans. “Eren, not everyone has to like what you like.” Eren ignores him, eyes still fixed on you expectantly. You laugh, shaking your head. “I mean, I don’t think they rot your brain. I watch my older cousin play sometimes”

Eren fist-pumps. “Yes! That means there’s hope for you.” You raise a brow. “Hope?” He leans in, “Hope that you’ll actually be cool.” Armin sighs. “I apologize in advance for him.” 

You can’t stop the grin from forming on your lips. You barely have time to process the way Eren’s declaration about video games leaves him beaming with satisfaction before he moves on, launching into another question with boundless energy. “Alright, since you passed the first test, what’s your stance on movies?”

Armin huffs beside him, adjusting the neatly stacked notebooks on his desk. “Eren, this isn’t an interrogation.”

Eren ignores him, his green eyes trained on you expectantly. You hesitate for a moment, then shrug. “I like movies.”

Armin perks up slightly. “Any favorites?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know. It’s hard to choose.” You shift in your seat, thinking. “I like animated movies a lot. The ones with good stories and really pretty animation.”

Eren lets out an exaggerated groan, flopping back in his chair. “Please don’t tell me you’re about to say Frozen.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What if I was?”

Armin snickers as Eren grimaces like he just swallowed something sour. “It’s not a bad movie,” Armin interjects, ever the peacemaker. “It’s just… everywhere.”

Eren sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “Exactly! And the songs. My mom played ‘Let It Go’ so many times last year for the girls in my 5th-grade class, I just can’t listen to it anymore,”

You laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing as the conversation flows. “Okay, fine. No Frozen. What about you guys?”

Armin brightens, clearly ready for this topic. “I really like anything with a good story and cool characters. Have you seen Back to the Future before?”

You shake your head. “Not yet, but I’ve heard it’s really good.”

“Oh, it is,” Armin says, his excitement bubbling up. “It’s so well thought out, and the science behind it is actually kind of cool too. Its what inspired this new show called Rick and Morty”

Eren groans, cutting him off. “You’re gonna lose her, man.”

Armin deflates a little but still grins. “Sorry, I just really like the movie.”

You nod. “I’ll have to watch it.”

Eren crosses his arms, tilting his head. “Alright, but what about action movies?”

You smirk. “I like some. As long as they’re not just explosions for no reason.”

“Thank you,” Armin says, exasperated. “That’s what I always tell him!”

Eren scoffs. “Action is supposed to be cool! You don’t need a deep plot if the fight scenes are awesome.”

Armin rolls his eyes. “That’s not how storytelling works.”

Eren leans forward, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth. “Tell that to every Fast & Furious movie ever.” You chuckle, watching them bicker, feeling oddly at ease. There’s something refreshing about how naturally they talk, how easy it is to jump in and just exist in their space. 

You open your mouth to comment when Eren suddenly grins and jerks his thumb toward the front of the classroom. “By the way, our teacher is my mom.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Wait, what?” Armin sighs like he’s been through this before. “It’s true.”

Eren shrugs. “Yep.”

Your gaze flickers to the teacher at the front of the room, still flipping through her folder. The resemblance is there, the same sharp eyes, the confident posture. She was a very beautiful woman with a kind smile. Her eyes weren’t green, so he must get his eye color from his dad. 

You turn back to Eren. “That’s kinda cool though.”

“No, it isn’t,” Eren confirms, leaning back in his chair. “She doesn’t cut me any slack, either. If anything, she’s stricter with me.” Armin nods knowingly. “She really is.”

Eren groans. “Last year, I turned in my book report late by like, two minutes, and she still docked points. Two minutes!”

Armin smirks. “Rules are rules.”

Eren shoots him a glare. “Traitor.”

You stifle a laugh. “So, do you ever call her ‘Mom’ in class?” 

Eren’s eyes widen in horror. “Absolutely not.”

Armin grins. “But he almost did once.”

Eren groans, slumping dramatically onto his desk. “It was the worst moment of my life.”

You giggle, shaking your head. “I feel like I’d slip up at least once.”

“Yeah, well, I’m never making that mistake again,” Eren mutters, before perking up again. “But hey, the plus side is that I always know what’s coming up in class.”

Armin snorts. “And yet, you never study.”

Eren waves him off. “That’s beside the point.”

The classroom continues to fill up as more students trickle in, the noise level rising. You glance at the clock, realizing that class is officially starting soon. The conversation with Eren and Armin has made time fly, and for the first time that morning, you don’t feel so nervous.

Eren nudges you with his elbow. “Alright, last question. This one’s important.”

You brace yourself. “Okay?”

He leans in, eyes serious. “Pineapple on pizza. Yes or no?”

Armin groans. “Eren, please.”

You laugh, considering your answer, already knowing that whatever you say, you’re in for another round of lively debate.

The classroom hummed with quiet anticipation, the scent of freshly sharpened pencils and clean paper thick in the air. Mrs. Yeager, standing at the front with her warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners, flipped open her binder. The metal rings clicked into place, a crisp, familiar sound that signaled the start of something new.

“Good morning, everyone,” she said, her voice carrying the kind of calm authority that made even the fidgety students straighten in their seats. “I’m Mrs. Yeager, and I’ll be your sixth-grade English teacher this year.”

The words rolled off her tongue with ease, practiced yet genuine. She wasn’t just saying it because she had to there was something in the way she looked at each student, something soft and knowing, as if she saw the stories inside them before they had even learned how to write them down.

The classroom, a space bathed in soft autumn light from the high rectangular windows, was alive with the quiet shuffling of feet, the rustle of backpacks, and the faint whisper of excitement. It was the first day, after all. Anything could happen.

Mrs. Yeager began taking roll call, her voice dipping and rising as she called out names.

“Armin Arlert?”

“Here.”

“Margo Peters”

The rhythm of introductions continued, each name a note in the melody of a fresh beginning. But then—

The door creaked open.

Heads turned, the air shifting like ripples on water. A boy stepped inside, the hallway’s fluorescent glow momentarily framing him in golden light before the door swung shut behind him.

He moved with the kind of easy confidence that wasn’t forced, just natural, like he belonged anywhere he set foot. His brown undercut was slightly tousled, the longer strands on top falling just so, giving him an air of effortless cool. 

A white graphic tee, slightly oversized, hung comfortably over his frame, tucked just enough into his khaki shorts to show that he had a sense of style, even if he didn’t try too hard.

But it was his sneakers that caught the most attention, pristine, laced up just right, the kind that made sneakerheads turn their heads in appreciation. They weren’t just shoes; they were a statement for simple-minded middle schoolers.

He held up a late pass between two fingers, casual yet respectful, his expression unreadable but not impolite.

Mrs. Yeager met his gaze with a smile, unfazed by the interruption. “And you are?”

The boy blinked once, shifting his weight slightly before speaking. His voice, though quiet, carried a certain weight like he didn’t say much unless he meant it.

“Jean Kirstein.”

The name settled into the room, the syllables stretching out like they belonged there. A few students exchanged glances, some curious, others indifferent.

Mrs. Yeager nodded toward the rows of desks. “Go ahead and find a seat, Jean.”

He scanned the room, his hazel eyes flickering from face to face, before finally moving toward an empty desk near the middle. His footsteps were unhurried, measured. When he sat down, he leaned back just slightly, one arm draped over the back of his chair, the other tapping absentmindedly on the edge of the desk.

The moment passed, the door firmly closed behind him, but something about his arrival left a ripple in the air. A shift, almost imperceptible.

Mrs. Yeager continued with the roll call, but the first impression had already been made.

And Jean Kirstein, whether he intended to or not, had just become a name that no one would forget. 

Your gaze flickered toward the boy who had just walked in, taking in the way he slouched in his seat, eyes fixed on the board with an expression of pure disinterest. Something about his presence unsettled you, an air of indifference that felt almost dismissive.  

Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t even realize when his gaze shifted towards you.  

On impulse, you offered a small smile, a quick wave, a silent attempt at friendliness. Maybe he’d return the gesture, maybe a nod, or even the faintest curve of his lips, some acknowledgment.

But no.  

Instead, he rolled his eyes, as if the mere effort of looking at you was an inconvenience. Then, without a word, he turned back to the board, resting his chin in his palm, already checked out.  

That was all you needed to know.  

What a jerk.

Present Day

Your stomach is full, warm, and content, but your mind? 

Your mind is caught in the grip of something else. Something that tugs at the edges of your focus like an unspoken thought lingering at the tip of your tongue.

Jean.

You grip the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary, rolling your shoulders back as if the motion could shake off the memory of two nights ago, the cold splash of dirty street water soaking through your jeans, the way your breath had caught in your throat as you stood under the flickering glow of the streetlamp, watching the offending car speed off into the night. It hadn’t mattered then, just some asshole with no regard for pedestrians. But tonight, as you watched Jean casually get into that same car, the realization had settled in your chest like a weight you weren’t ready to carry.

That asshole was the one who got you soaked and he probably did it on purpose.

Of course, you hadn’t said anything. 

You knew exactly how Sasha and Connie would react, suggesting you do some of the weirdest or borderline criminal things to get back at him. You weren’t in the mood for all that. 

Not tonight.

Sasha is in the passenger seat now, her fingers dancing over your phone screen as she connects to the Bluetooth. Of course, she goes straight to her favorite album at the moment, Cowboy Carter, and presses the song that has been stuck in her head for days. 

|♩♩♩ - Levi Jeans |

By: Beyonce/ Post Malone

She sighs, satisfied, leaning back in her seat as she sets your phone in one of the cupholders. Her hand finds the button to roll down the windows and she presses it, letting the passenger window roll down to let the wind in, our hair rustling.

“Perfect,” she murmurs, grinning as she turns the volume up. The car hums with the sound of Beyoncé’s voice and some video that Connie is listening to in the backseat. “This my song right here”

In the backseat, Connie scoffs, his head tilted against the window. “Man, you been playing this album nonstop. Ain’t you tired of it yet?”

Sasha twists in her seat, throwing him a look. “Ain’t you tired of talkin’? Who gets mad about hearing good music?”

He lets out a dry laugh. “Girl, please. You act like this the best album out right now.”

“It is,” she says, without hesitation. “A cultural reset.” She jabs a finger toward the speaker as if to emphasize her point. “Beyoncé really gave us a whole country album, and you wanna act like that ain’t iconic?”

You can’t help but smile as Connie rolls his eyes, already gearing up for a back-and-forth that’s bound to last the rest of the drive. The familiarity of it all is a balm to your restless thoughts.

“You act like I hate Beyoncé,” Connie says, throwing his hands up. “I like the album, okay? I just don’t wanna hear it every damn time we get in the car.”

“Then walk.” Sasha’s voice is smug, and she’s already queuing up another track, fingers moving with precision.

You shake your head, exhaling a quiet laugh. “Y’all fight like y’all married.”

Connie sits up straight, his face twisting in exaggerated horror. “Ew. Don’t ever say that again.”

Sasha gasps, clutching her chest. “Wow. So I’m ugly?”

“Not my taste I’ll tell you that.”

You catch her reaching for the backseat, probably aiming for his head but Connie’s quicker, curling himself up in the corner like a threatened animal.

“I swear, bro, if you touch me-”

“ I swear if you guys make me crash this car I’m gonna be pissed off.”

Sasha turns back to face the front, muttering something about how Connie doesn’t appreciate good music, but her voice is softer now, her energy less performative. The night outside stretches on, the city lights streaking across your windshield as you navigate toward the theater.

After a moment, Sasha glances at you, her eyes sharp with curiosity. “You been real quiet. What’s up?”

You sigh, your eyes still on the road as you shrug. “Nothin’. Just tired.”

She hums. “Yeah, that food did take us out. I was ready to lay my head on that damn grill and call it a night.”

Connie snickers. “With how oily your skin is, I know you would have cooked real nice.”

“Bet I still woulda tasted better than that dry-ass joke.”

You shake your head as their voices rise again, but this time, you let their playful arguing fade into background noise. Your eyes remain on the road, but your mind drifts, your thoughts circling back to Jean despite yourself.

You should’ve known it was him that night. The way the car had looked expensive but slightly worn, like it had been through too many miles and too many memories. The way it had sped off, reckless but not malicious, like the driver hadn’t even realized what they’d done.

That was  Jean. 

You exhale, slow and measured, already picturing the conversation you’d have to have with him. You weren’t mad, at least, not in the way that mattered. It wasn’t about the water. It was about the principle. The lack of awareness. The fact that he could make you feel so small without even realizing it.

But that was for later.

You pulled into the parking lot after 8 more minutes of driving. The low hum of engines shutting off, doors creaking open, and laughter spilling into the crisp night air. Your feet hit the pavement with purpose as you step out, the cool air biting at your skin in contrast to the lingering warmth from the car. 

Sasha immediately loops an arm through yours, still riding the high of her ongoing Cowboy Carter debate with Connie, who’s muttering something about overhyped albums as he shuts the car door behind him.

Across the lot, Ymir is already moving toward the entrance with the kind of confident stride that says she’s on a mission. She doesn’t even check if the group is keeping up. She just knows they will. And she’s right.

“Y’all coming, or what?” she calls over her shoulder turning around. Historia trails a few steps behind her, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Ymir waits for her before she pulls her cardigan tighter around Historia’s shoulders then continues to walk inside with the blonde by her side.

“Damn, she already in there,” Eren mutters from somewhere to your right, shoving his hands into his pockets as he falls into step beside you.

You huff out a quiet laugh, nodding toward the glass doors ahead. “She does work here. She’s got a job to do.”

“You think she can get all of a discount?”

“Absolutely.”

Everyone reaches the entrance just in time to see her sidle up to the ticket stand, leaning against the counter like she’s been here a thousand times before, which, to be fair, she has. 

The lobby is bathed in neon light, soft reds and blues bouncing off the reflective tile floors, mixing with the scent of buttered popcorn, soda syrup, and the smell of must coming off some random person in the main lobby.

Behind the counter, Ymir’s coworker, Samuel, looks up with a tired but knowing expression. He doesn’t even have to ask what she wants. He already knows.

"Hook us up," Ymir says, tapping the counter with her knuckles. “Worker discount and student discount.”

Samuel sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. "I can only do one."

Ymir narrows her eyes, tilting her head just slightly, her gaze sharp and unreadable. It’s not a threat, not really, but it holds weight.

“Sam,” she says, voice smooth and easy, “don’t make me come over that counter, man.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Samuel sighs, defeated, already punching something into the register. "Eight dollars each."

A satisfied smirk tugs at the corner of Ymir’s lips. "Atta boy."

Historia rolls her eyes beside her but hands over her money without complaint. One by one, the group moves forward, fishing for wallets and handing over cash, the line moving smoothly despite the usual bickering about who owes who from last time. You slide your money across the counter, catching the way Samuel shakes his head like he should’ve seen this coming.

The line moves quickly, and soon, everyone has their tickets in hand, the group naturally splitting off into smaller clusters as they head toward the concession stand or the arcade area near the back. The screens lining the walls cycle through movie posters and trailers, casting flickering shadows across the tiled floor.

Eren slows his pace beside you, stretching his arms above his head before shoving his hands back into his hoodie pockets. “You good, though?.”

Your fingers tighten around your ticket for half a second before you force yourself to relax. You knew he’d notice. Eren wasn’t always the most observant, but when it came to his friends, he picked up on more than he let on.

“Yeah,” you say, offering a small shrug. “Just tired.”

He studies you for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. “Bullshit.”

You huff, rolling your eyes. “Damn, can’t a girl just be tired?”

“Not when she looks like she’s holding back from cussing somebody out.”

Your mouth twitches, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of a real smile. Instead, you shake your head, exhaling slowly. "It's nothing. I'll handle it later."

Eren doesn’t push, but you can feel his curiosity lingering, his gaze heavy on you for a few more beats before he lets it go.

“Alright,” he says finally. “But if you need backup, you know I got you.” You glance at him, amusement flickering across your face. “To fight who?”

He grins. “Anybody.”

You snort, shaking your head. “You just wanna fight somebody.”

“Maybe,” he admits, unbothered. 

“I tend to forget that you are a retired crash out.”

You both share a laugh. You were about to walk to the concession stand when you heard Eren’s voice again making you stop dead in your tracks.

“But for real, you know I got your back, right?”

Something in his tone softens, and for a brief moment, you let yourself lean into the comfort of it. Eren could be loud, reckless, and frustrating, but he was solid. 

A constant.

“Yeah,” you murmur, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “I know.”

He smiles and nudges you back before walking off towards the arcade area, catching up to Connie and Marco at one of the zombie shooter games. 

You watch them for half a second before shifting your focus to the concession stand, weaving through the clusters of people milling about the lobby. The line at the stand moves at a steady pace, and as you step closer, you catch a familiar silhouette ahead of you.

Reiner.

He’s leaned against the counter, ordering something, broad shoulders relaxed under his fitted hoodie. 

And damn , does he look good.

 His blonde hair catches the glow from the menu boards above, and when he turns slightly, his gaze lands on you. A slow grin pulls at his lips, easy and familiar.

“You want anything?” he asks, his voice smooth as usual

You tilt your head, feigning thoughtfulness. “I mean, since you’re offering.”

His chuckle is low, amused. “I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t.”

You watch as he orders without hesitation, getting you a medium popcorn and a cherry slush. Not exactly your go-to, but you’re not about to tell him that. 

The gesture is sweet, and honestly, it’s been a minute, a long minute, since a guy has just bought you something without you asking.

“You didn’t even ask what I wanted,” you tease, leaning against the counter slightly.

Reiner hands over his cash to the bored-looking cashier before turning his full attention to you. “Didn’t need to. I got good taste.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you?”

He smirks. “You’re talking to me, ain’t you?”

You scoff, but the warmth in your chest betrays you. “Boy, shut up.”

When the cashier hands over the popcorn and slush, Reiner doesn’t just pass them to you. He lifts the straw, punctures the plastic lid himself, and holds the cup out with a little flourish. 

“M’lady.”

You roll your eyes but take it anyway, fingers brushing against his in the exchange. “Corny.”

“I try.”

You roll your eyes but don’t bother fighting the slight curl at the edge of your lips. “Appreciate it.”

He turned back to his own drink, effortlessly popping the lid off and taking a sip of his soda, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly as he swallowed.

“You sure you don’t want me to pay you back?” 

You asked, tilting your head as you watched him. It was an innocent enough question, but something about the way he glanced at you. Casual, confident, teasing, the kind that made your stomach do an unexpected little flip.

“Nah.” He shot you a lazy grin, the kind that always seemed to tug just a little higher on one side of his mouth. “Just let me steal a few of those, and we’ll call it even.”

You scoffed, clutching the popcorn bag closer to your chest like you didn’t just eat a big meal at the Korean BBQ restaurant. “You already bought them. Why do you need mine?”

His smirk deepened, something playful flashing in his hazel eyes. 

“Tastes better when it’s not mine.”

A dramatic eye roll was your only response at first, but you couldn’t help the small laugh that slipped through anyway. “That is such a bullshit excuse.” You both chuckled before you started to walk to the movie room together, side by side.

Reiner shrugged, completely unbothered, before his gaze flickered down toward the bright red slushie in your hand. His brows lifted slightly. “And that slush?”

You hesitated for just a second before bringing the straw to your lips, taking a small, experimental sip. The too-sweet, syrupy cherry flavor coated your tongue almost immediately, the artificial tang lingering at the back of your throat. You had to fight not to grimace.

The subtle twitch of his lips told you he definitely caught it, even if he had the decency not to call you out on it just yet. He tilted his head slightly, studying your face with amusement.

“You don’t like it,” he said flatly. 

Not a question. 

A statement.

You swallowed, trying to maintain some form of dignity, and lifted your chin defiantly. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” 

He shot back, clearly enjoying this way too much. His smirk widened just a fraction, eyes gleaming. “Your face told me everything I needed to know.”

“No way.”

He let out a low chuckle, leaning in slightly as if to examine you more closely. His voice dropped just a bit, a teasing whisper. “You did. I saw it.” You narrowed your eyes at him, refusing to back down. 

“Maybe I just wasn’t expecting that much flavor.”

Reiner let out another laugh, shaking his head at you. “So, why not just tell me what flavor you wanted?”

You shrugged, absentmindedly swirling the slushie with your straw, the bright red liquid forming lazy spirals. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you knew what I liked.”

His brows lifted slightly, his grin turning a little sharper. “Damn. So you’re out here testing me now?”

A slow, knowing smile pulled at your lips. “I am.”

Reiner huffed out a laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. “Alright, alright. Next time, I’ll make sure to get your actual favorite.”

Something about the way he said next time made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t expecting. Like it was a given, he was already thinking about another moment like this.

With you.

Before you could dwell on it too much, he nudged your elbow, effortlessly shifting the energy back to something lighthearted.

“Speaking of which,” he drawled, nodding toward the bag you were still holding hostage. “Let me get some of that.”

You sighed dramatically, tilting your head back in exaggerated defeat. “You so greedy.”

“I bought them!”

“Yeah, but technically, they're mine now.”

Still, you relented, holding out the bag just enough for him to reach in and grab a handful. He tossed a piece into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

“Damn,” he muttered after a moment, eyes narrowing in contemplation. “This does taste better when it’s not mine.”

You let out a loud, genuine laugh, lightly nudging his arm. “You’re so full of shit.”

He only grinned wider, bumping his shoulder against yours in response. It was effortless, easy, like this was something you two did all the time. And for a brief second, you let yourself wonder what other things you two could do, something that will just be between you two.

And then—

Shove.

Your laughter died immediately as someone brushed right past you, hard enough that your shoulder jerked slightly. The slush in your hand wobbled, sloshing violently against the lid. You sucked in a sharp breath, barely managing to keep it from spilling over.

Your eyes snapped up just in time to catch a familiar brown jacket, the material shifting slightly with the movement. 

Jean.

He didn’t even glance back, his posture loose and unbothered as he walked ahead, mid-conversation with Armin, who looked very animated about whatever they were discussing. Jean had his hands tucked in his pockets, his head tilted slightly toward Armin as he listened, but there was no sign of acknowledgment, no flicker of recognition for what just happened.

Your brows furrowed slightly, something small and unnameable tightening in your chest.

“What was that about?” Reiner asked, his voice pulling you back. He was frowning slightly, his gaze lingering on Jean’s retreating figure.

You exhaled slowly through your nose, schooling your expression into something neutral before offering a small shrug. “Jean being an ass.”

Jean knows damn well he saw you walking, yet he bumped into you anyway. For whatever reason is beyond you at this point.

He jerked his chin toward the entrance, nudging your arm lightly again.

“C’mon,” he said, voice shifting back to something lighter, easier. “Let’s head on in.”

And just like that, the moment between you and Reiner had shifted, the warmth of the conversation still lingering but now tinged with something unspoken. 

As you and Reiner made your way down the aisle, the rest of your friends were already settled in, sprawled across the entire row like they owned the place. The theater wasn’t packed, but there were still clusters of people scattered around, some chatting, others already invested in the previews flashing across the screen. You caught a glimpse of Armin, his face illuminated by his phone screen as he scrolled through reviews, his brows furrowed in deep concentration.

“Oh, hell no,” Armin muttered, his voice dripping with disapproval.

Mikasa, sitting beside him, barely glanced up. “What now?”

“This movie has a 43% on Rotten Tomatoes.” Armin’s tone was scandalized, like he’d just uncovered a crime. “Forty-three.It makes me want to grab mt stuff and leave now.”

Sasha, sitting beside him, burst out laughing as she shoved a handful of popcorn into her mouth. “Bro, you haven’t even seen it yet. Give it a chance!”

Armin gave her an unimpressed glance before turning his gaze back to his phone “Got no choice but to now. I already bought the damn ticket.”

You finally reached your seats, sliding in next to Reiner. On your other side, Connie was already leaning back with his feet propped up on the empty seat in front of him, unbothered. Jean sat a few seats away, his back still turned, deep in conversation with Marco.

You turned slightly toward Reiner, who was already watching you with that easy, amused expression. The theater’s glow softened the sharp edges of his face, made his hazel eyes look warmer. You tilted your head, feigning curiosity.

“Think the movie is gonna be good?”

Reiner smirked. “Probably not, but at least I got good company.”

Your stomach did a little flip at that, and you rolled your eyes to play it off. “Smooth.”

“Only for you.”

That had heat crawling up your neck, but you masked it with a scoff. “You tryna flirt with me right now?”

Reiner leaned in just slightly, just enough that you caught the faint scent of him, amber, and tonka bean. 

“Is it working?”

You held his gaze for a beat longer than necessary, letting the tension stretch just enough before finally giving him a slow, knowing smile.

“Maybe,” you murmured.

He huffed a quiet laugh, before he leaned back in his seat, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Good to know.”

Before you could respond, Connie leaned over from the other side of you, practically draping himself across your lap. "Damn," he sighed dramatically. "I leave you alone for two seconds, and you’re already entertaining another man?"

Connie drawled, voice smooth as butter. He threw an arm around the back of your seat now, mirroring Reiner’s position on the other side. “Tell me, sweetheart, why you still hanging around this dude when you can have all this?”

You let out a loud laugh, shaking your head. “Connie, please you know I’m all yours.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, dumbass.”

That made Connie smile before he turned to Marco, Marco showing him some stupid video on his phone. Reiner just let out an amused breath before reaching for your popcorn again, grabbing a handful

You gasped, slapping his hand away. “You fiend!”

“ Will y’all shut up ?”

Jean.

You glanced over just in time to see him staring straight ahead, arms crossed, looking annoyed. He didn’t even turn his head when he spoke, but it was obvious the comment was directed at you.

Your grin faltered, but you rolled your eyes, waving a dismissive hand. “Tune us out”

Jean just huffed, adjusting in his seat. Marco murmured something to him, and though you couldn’t hear his response, the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. Eren was next to speak. Adjusting the blanket on Mikasa’s lap as he looked down the row at you all.

“Honestly though, shut up. The movie is starting.”

The theater darkened as the last of the previews faded, a hush falling over the room. The glow of the screen cast shifting shadows across the row, illuminating the faces of your friends in fleeting bursts. Armin exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with an amused smirk, as if already anticipating the disaster this movie might be.

The screen flickered, and the opening scene began, an eerie silence stretching before the ominous creak of a door echoed through the speakers.

You sank deeper into your seat, fingers grazing the edge of your popcorn bag as your eyes adjusted to the shifting light. On your right, Reiner reclined slightly, his arm still stretched along the back of your seat, dangerously close but not quite touching. 

His eyes stayed trained on the screen, but every now and then, in the dim light, you caught the faintest flicker of movement.

Across the row, Sasha had already pulled her knees up to her chest, her focus unwavering. Historia leaned into Ymir, who whispered something against her temple, her breath causing Historia’s lips to quirk into a small smile. Marco sat relaxed, occasionally glancing at Jean, who remained stiff, his fingers curled in his lap, jaw tight.

You exhaled slowly, gaze drifting forward just as the tension in the film thickened. The two missionaries moved cautiously through a dimly lit house, their hesitant voices barely above a whisper. A shadow passed behind them.

Quick, 

Too quick

You settled deeper into your seat, pulling your hoodie’s sleeves over your hands as a chill ran down your spine, not from the cold, but from the creeping dread the film built in its opening moments. The sound design was sharp, each creak of a floorboard or hushed breath amplified in the darkened space.

A flicker of movement caught your eye, but not from the screen.

From a few seats down.

Jean.

You weren’t sure why, but when the shifting light of the movie cast against his face, you could tell he wasn’t fully focused. His gaze flickered, toward you, then away just as quickly, like he hadn’t meant to look in the first place. His jaw was set, his fingers interlocked in his lap, but his posture was rigid like he was holding something in.

You blinked, before turning your head back to the movie at hand. 

As the credits rolled, the dim theater lights slowly brightened, revealing a mix of expressions among your group. Some looked entertained, others less impressed. The seats creaked as everyone stood, stretching after sitting through nearly two hours of eerie silence and jump scares that barely landed. Armin, who had spent the last few minutes of the film glued to his phone, let out a heavy sigh before shoving it into his pocket.

“Movie was ass,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Not even scary. Two stars.”

Mikasa shot him a glare, her fingers still loosely laced with Eren’s as they walked ahead. “Just because you didn’t get it doesn’t mean the movie was bad,” she said, arching a brow.

Armin scoffed, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pocket. “Just because it was ‘questioning people’s faith’ doesn’t make it some deep movie. Don’t get me started on the ending.”

The conversation quickly turned into a back-and-forth between the two, something that happened often enough that the rest of you knew to simply tune them out. Sasha, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during the final act of the movie, suddenly linked her arm around yours, resting her head against your shoulder as she let out a dramatic sigh.

“I don’t want the night to be over,” she whined, voice laced with exhaustion and the kind of yearning that only came after a particularly fun evening.

You chuckled, glancing down at her. “What exactly do you expect us to do at eleven at night?”

“The park,” came Eren’s voice, casual yet amused.

You turned to find him grinning, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, a nostalgic glint in his eyes. “Hell, it could be fun. We used to do it all the time in high school.”

Connie was already halfway to Jean’s car, yelling out a triumphant “Shotgun!” before Jean could even react. The groan that followed was practically expected, and Marco simply patted his shoulder in sympathy as they made their way to the car. With that, everyone began heading toward their respective rides.

Annie, who had originally planned to ride with Reiner, instead lingered near you and Sasha. “I’m coming with you guys,” she stated plainly, hands tucked into the oversized sleeves of her sweater. You nodded, not at all surprised, and with that, the three of you climbed into your car.

“Everybody knows which park, right?” Eren called out, his voice muffled by the car doors shutting.

A chorus of confirmations followed before engines roared to life, headlights cutting through the night as everyone pulled onto the open road. Sasha, now sprawled in the backseat, was already fumbling with the aux cord, her voice carrying over the sound of the wind outside.

“Can I play something? I have the perfect song for the vibe right now.”

You rolled your eyes, already knowing where this was going. “Girl, we got through half of Cowboy Carter on the way up here. Let Annie play her stuff.”

Annie, who had been absentmindedly scrolling through her phone, glanced up at you before unlocking it and navigating to her playlist. Your eyes caught a glimpse of one of her widgets, a picture of the two of you from your first year of college, dressed as Beyoncé and Lady Gaga from the “Telephone” music video. A smirk tugged at your lips at the memory.

|♩♩♩ - Fast Ca r|

By: Tracy Chapman

Annie had her phone resting against her thigh, the screen still glowing, and your eyes flickered toward it. A smirk tugged at your lips. 

"You still have that picture?" 

The words came out with a teasing lilt, the kind that only years of friendship could soften.

Annie followed your gaze, and for a moment, her expression remained unreadable. Then, with a slow roll of her eyes, she exhaled. "It's a good picture," she admitted, as though she hadn't already come to terms with it long ago.

You leaned slightly in her direction, nudging her arm. "You pulled it off."

Annie scoffed, shifting against her seat. "I looked ridiculous."

"No, girl you looked sexy," a voice chimed in from the backseat, dragging out the last syllable for emphasis. Sasha, ever the willing instigator, leaned forward between the front seats, her grin visible even in the dim light. "Everyone thought so."

At the mention of that party, you let out a laugh, and Annie sighed, tilting her head back against the seat. "God, that night…"

Sasha groaned, already sensing where this was heading. "Are we really bringing up my low moments?"

"Yes," you and Annie said in unison, barely missing a beat.

Sasha whined dramatically in protest, flopping back against her seat like an irritated child. Annie, however, seemed unbothered, her fingers tapping idly against the edge of her phone as she let the memory unfurl between the three of you. "Freshman year. That party at Reiner’s place and you were flirting with Nic all night."

Sasha made a strangled noise. "Okay, I was being friendly."

"You were practically sitting all in his lap," you corrected, exchanging a knowing glance with Annie. "And then, after one too many shots…"

Sasha groaned, covering her face with both hands. "Please, no."

"Throw up everywhere."

Sasha let out a mortified wail, her hands still shielding her face. "It was so bad! I don’t even remember it happening. One second, I was fine, and then boom, everything was dizzy."

"He was so nice about it, though," you added, shaking your head at the memory. "He even offered to take care of you the entire night, but I told him that I got it."

Annie turned to face her, expression exasperated yet amused. "You’re going on a date with him next week aren’t you?”

“Yeah, but after you guys brought up the party…” Sasha clicked her tongue. "I’m starting to think that it was a pity ask."

You and Annie exchanged a glance, the kind that spoke volumes without words, before glancing at Sasha again, kicking the back of your seat lightly. "I was joking damn."

Annie smirked. "Just don’t throw up on him this time."

Sasha let out an exaggerated sigh, flopping back against the seat again. "I’ll try.”

As you pulled into the small, dimly lit parking lot, the warm glow of the streetlights illuminated the empty playground, casting long shadows across the pavement. The stillness of the place, interrupted only by the occasional rustling of leaves, gave the night an almost dreamlike quality.

The moment the car came to a stop, Sasha wasted no time hopping out, stretching dramatically like the ten-minute ride had been some long-ass road trip. 

“Man, I swear I was getting stiff in there.”

Annie rolled her eyes but followed suit, adjusting the sleeves of her hoodie as she stepped onto the pavement. You took a second, lingering in the car, watching as the others started pulling up. 

One by one, headlights cut through the darkness, familiar figures stepping out and regrouping.

Jean’s car was the last to arrive, pulling into the spot beside you. The second the door opened, Connie hopped out like a child going into a damn candy store. His eyes immediately locked onto you, a wide grin spreading across his face.

“My baby” he called, striding over like he hadn’t just seen you ten minutes ago and hugging you tight. “Damn, I missed you, girl.”

You rolled your eyes,but hugged him back nontheless. “Connie, you literally saw me before we left.”

“And? Ten minutes is a long time when you in love.” He pressed a hand to his chest like he was in pain. “Had me out here sufferin.” 

Before you could respond, the sound of running footsteps caught your attention. You turned just in time to see Eren and Armin sprinting towards the old merry-go-round, Sasha taking off right after them, her competitive spirit kicking in.

“Connie hurry up!” she shouted, already gaining speed.

Connie’s eyes lit up before turning to you “See you later baby.” 

And just like that, he was gone, chasing after them like a kid on the playground.

Historia, Ymir, and Mikasa lingered by the benches, chatting under the lamplight. Reiner strolled toward the swing set, hands stuffed in his pockets, his pace unhurried. Something about the way he moved made you follow, drawn to the easy sway of the empty seats.

He plopped down onto one, the chains creaking slightly under his weight. You slid into the swing beside him, your fingers curling around the rusted metal chains. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The creak of the swings was rhythmic, a soft protest against the weight they carried.

The air smelled faintly of damp earth and the distant scent of someone’s backyard bonfire. The chill in the breeze wasn’t harsh, but it was enough to remind you that summer had long since faded, replaced by the crisp bite of autumn.

“Didn’t take you for the type to enjoy the swings still,” 

He mused, breaking the silence. His voice was low, the kind that settled warm in your chest and made you acutely aware of how close he was, even with the space between you.

You scoffed, kicking off the ground just enough to set yourself into a slow, rhythmic motion. The night air was cool against your skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth that lingered from inside the house. 

“Didn’t take you for the type to assume things.”

He smirked, the corner of his mouth curling in a way that made it impossible not to notice. “Fair enough,” he conceded, leaning back slightly as he rocked in place. 

You hummed in response, feigning indifference, though the way his gaze lingered made your stomach flip. He had this way about him, easygoing, charming, a quiet confidence that never felt overbearing. It was frustrating, how effortlessly he seemed to get under your skin.

“So,” he continued, nudging the dirt beneath his feet, his voice laced with amusement. “Are we pretending I didn’t see you staring at me during the movie, or?”

Your swing slowed, your fingers tightening around the metal chains as you turned to face him, arching a brow. “You wish I was staring at you.”

His laugh was deep, rich, and far too amused for your liking. He tilted his head back slightly, the dim light catching on his features. Sharp jawline, the glint of something teasing in his eyes. 

“Right. My mistake.”

You rolled your eyes, but the heat creeping up your neck betrayed you. “You just love attention.”

“Mm, you say that, but you’re still here giving it to me.” He turned his head toward you fully now, his gaze intent. 

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. “Because I like the swings. Not because of you.”

“Sure,” he drawled, stretching his arms over his head before letting them fall back onto the chains. “Definitely not because of me.”

You pursed your lips, choosing to look ahead rather than give him the satisfaction of a reaction. The silence stretched between you again, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. 

The occasional creak of the swings, the distant murmur of conversation from inside, and the rhythmic brushing of your shoes against the dirt filled the space.

Then, after a beat, he spoke again. “You were, though.”

You blinked, glancing at him. “What?”

“Staring at me.”

You scoffed, shifting your grip on the chains. “You’re delusional Reiner.”

“And you’re a terrible liar,” he shot back, his smirk widening. “I get it. I’m distracting.”

You let out an incredulous laugh, shaking your head. “Unbelievable.”

“Mm, no, just observant.” He nudged his foot against yours, a light tap, just enough to send a jolt of awareness up your leg. “And maybe a little flattered.”

Your lips parted, ready with a sharp retort, but the way he was looking at you, amused yet oddly sincere, had your words catching in your throat. 

He was teasing, sure, but there was something else there too, something unspoken beneath the surface.

You swallowed, clearing your throat before speaking. “I need something to drink.” You pushed off the swing, standing in one fluid motion, hoping the cool air would do something to ease the warmth creeping up your spine. “Left my bottle in the car.”

His gaze followed you, and you swore you caught the flicker of something unreadable before he masked it with another smirk. “Need an escort?”

You scoffed, already turning on your heel with a smirk. “I’m a big girl. I’ll be just fine”

He chuckled, leaning back in his swing, watching as you walked toward the parking lot. “Suit yourself.”

And yet, as you put distance between you, you could still feel his eyes on you and that made you smile even more.

The further you got from the playground, the quieter it became. The distant sounds of laughter and the occasional squeak of old swings faded into nothing, replaced by the low hum of streetlights flickering overhead. 

The pavement was cool beneath your worn sneakers, the night air thick with the scent of grass, asphalt, and the lingering heat of the day. The moon hung high above, casting a dim glow over the empty street, stretching the shadows of trees into long, twisting shapes that reached toward the sidewalk like grasping fingers.

Your car was parked at the far end of the lot, just past the last working streetlamp. Unlocking the door, you reached into the cup holder and grabbed your half-empty water bottle. The plastic crinkled under your grip as you twisted the cap off and took a long, satisfying sip, feeling the coolness slide down your throat.

 The quiet wrapped around you like a blanket, a rare moment of solitude after a night spent surrounded by people you barely tolerated.

But, of course, peace never lasted long. Not with him around.

A voice cut through the silence like a blade, sharp and insufferably familiar. 

"Your ass is already thirsty after a bit of walking? Damn, didn't realize you were that out of shape."

The irritation flared instantly, crawling up your spine before you'd even turned around. You didn't need to look to know exactly who it was.

Jean Kirstein . 

Of course.

With a slow, measured breath, you lowered the water bottle, capping it with deliberate ease before finally glancing his way. He was leaning against the thick trunk of an old tree, arms loose, one foot propped against the bark. 

The dim glow of his cigarette flickered between his fingers as he took a slow drag, the tip burning bright before he exhaled a long stream of smoke into the cool air. The way he carried himself, so effortlessly casual, so maddeningly relaxed, made your teeth grind together.

You leveled him with an unimpressed look. 

"Your ass is already on your third pack of cigarettes for the night? Didn't realize you were so committed to dying young."

"Better than living long and having to see your ass every day."

Your fingers clenched around the water bottle, the plastic crinkling again, but you forced yourself to relax. 

He was always like this, always throwing cheap shots, always acting like he had the upper hand, like he was so damn above it all. It had been that way for years. He had a knack for getting under your skin in ways no one else could, slipping past defenses you'd built up so carefully, so deliberately.

"You are annoying as hell, you know that right?"

He took another drag, his sharp hazel eyes gleaming with something infuriatingly smug as he blew out the smoke in a slow, practiced stream. 

"Stop responding."

“Stop talking.”

Jean let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head, clearly about to brush you off like he always did, but you weren’t done. Not yet. You decided to bring up what had been nagging at your brain ever since you saw his damn car in the korean bbq restaurant.

“You know,” you started, tilting your head, 

Jean let out an annoyed exhale as he leaned his head back against the tree. Acting like the sound of your voice was so draining. “Oh Jesus,”

“There was a car that was that sped past me after our tutor session. You know, the one that just so happened to hit a puddle and drench me in water. The car looked almost identical to yours.”

Jean barely reacted. He took another slow drag of his cigarette, gaze unreadable as he exhaled the smoke into the night air. Then, with the most nonchalant shrug, he said, 

“Damn.”

Your eyes widened. “So it was you?”

Jean shrugged yet again, tapping the ash from his cigarette. “Could’ve been anyone.”

“Bullshit.” You took a step forward, crossing your arms. “It was a black car. Windows tinted. And you’re, what, the only person in the group with a car that matches that exact description?”

Jean rolled his shoulders like this whole thing was a mild inconvenience. “Look, if you’re expecting some grand apology, you’re wasting your time.” You scoffed, disbelief bubbling into irritation. “Wow. You really don’t give a damn, huh?”

“Not particularly.”

You let out a sharp laugh, shaking your head. “Figures you wouldn’t. You just go around acting like the biggest asshole in the room and hide behind that fake-ass cool guy attitude because God forbid anyone think you care about anything.”

Jean’s smirk faltered. 

“Excuse me?”

You didn’t back down. “You do dumb shit like this, and when people call you out, you just act like it’s nothing. No accountability, no remorse. Just Jean being Jean, right?”

Jean pulled the cigarette from his mouth, exhaling a slow stream of smoke before flicking it to the ground and crushing it under his boot. Then, with a few steps forward, he closed the space between you.

Your stomach tensed instinctively, but you stood your ground, chin tilted up as his presence loomed closer.

His voice was low, rough. “You got a lot to say for someone who doesn’t know a damn thing about me.”

Your jaw clenched, hands curling into fists at your sides. “I know enough.”

Jean huffed a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah? And what exactly do you think you know, huh?”

You met his glare head-on, unflinching. “I know that if you gave a damn about anyone but yourself, you wouldn’t be such a miserable, insufferable bitch.”

“You think I don’t know you?” His tone was almost mocking. 

“I know you act all high and mighty, like you’re better than everyone else just because you can memorize textbooks and ace tests. I know you look down on people like me because I don’t give a damn about playing teacher’s pet.”

He took a step closer, getting into your personal space as his voice got colder.

“I know you’re so desperate to prove yourself that you work yourself into the ground just to feel useful to somebody. ” 

He leaned in just enough that his breath fanned over your skin, eyes dark with malice,

“It doesn’t matter how smart you think you are, how hard you work, or how many people kiss your ass, because at the end of the day, you’re still just some sad little girl who’s terrified of not being enough.”

Something in your chest tightened.

It was quick. Barely even a second.

But Jean saw it.

The flicker in your expression, the way your breath hitched for just a moment before your mask snapped back into place.

And he smirked. A slow, triumphant thing, like he knew exactly where to strike and had hit his mark dead center.

“Say something now.”

Your fingers curled into your palms, nails biting into your skin.

“Wow,” you finally said, voice eerily calm. “That’s a lot of shit coming from a guy whosenothing but wasted potiental.”

Jean’s smirk completely dropped to a full-on frown.

You took a step forward, flipping his own move against him, tilting your chin up. “You think you know me? You don’t know shit , Jean.”

His jaw clenched, and for a split second, you swore he looked like he was actually considering saying something else. Maybe something worse.

Instead, he exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head like you weren’t worth the energy. He turned on his heel, stepping back.

“Fuck you,” 

“Fuck you too.”

Jean didn’t even look back. He just shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, walking off down towards the playground where the others were.

You watched his figure disappear under the warm glow of the streetlights, jaw still tight, heart still pounding.

You took another sip of your water, letting the coolness steady your nerves, before finally heading back toward the others.

The night had finally started winding down. The laughter had softened, the energy in the air turning sluggish and warm, like embers cooling after a fire. One by one, everyone began heading toward their cars, stretching their arms over their heads, yawning as exhaustion finally started to settle in.

"Alright, I’m out. Try not to miss me too much," Ymir drawled, throwing an arm around Historia’s shoulders before nudging her toward Sasha, who was already halfway to their car. Historia rolled her eyes but let herself be pulled along and yelling over her shoulder to you.

“Bye Y/n. Love you!”

“Bye!”

Eren, Mikasa, and Armin gathered by Eren’s car, the doors open as they exchanged last-minute jokes and quiet conversation. Armin was still grinning from whatever dumb thing Eren had just said, shaking his head as Mikasa simply sighed, used to their antics.

You caught Armin’s tired yawn before Mikasa nudged him toward the car. Eren turned back for a moment, throwing you a quick nod. “Drive safe,” he said, voice gruff but genuine.

You smirked. “Try not to piss off any cops on the way home.”

“We’ll see,” 

Eren shot back before climbing into the car. Mikasa gave you a small nod before following, and then they were gone.

Jean and Marco were by their car, Marco leaning against the passenger door while Jean flicked his cigarette onto the pavement, stomping it out lazily with the toe of his boot. He didn’t even glance your way, which suited you just fine. 

You were still pissed, and looking at him again might just push you over the edge.

“Later,” Marco called out with a friendly wave, his usual warmth present even at this hour. You returned the gesture, but your eyes flickered briefly to Jean, who, without another word, got in the driver’s seat and pulled away.

Connie, never one to let a night end without being insufferable, lingered by your side as you stood by your Jeep, hands in your pockets. "Damn, you gotta leave me again" 

"Goodnight, Connie," you spoke with a smirk, already used to his antics.

"I mean, if you’re really eager to get home, I could always keep you company-"

Reiner’s heavy hand landed on Connie’s shoulder, cutting him off. "Alright, lover boy, let’s get moving before you start embarrassing yourself."

Reiner’s eye went to you as he gave you a smile and a wave, his tone dropping. “Bye, Y/n”

You smiled as you gave a wave back.

Connie sighed dramatically, letting himself be dragged off toward Reiner’s car, where Bertholdt was already waiting in the passenger seat, looking half-asleep. "See? Why won't you let me talk to my woman?", earning an eye-roll from you before he was shoved into the backseat.

Bertholdt chuckled quietly as he slid into the car. “Night,” he murmured before closing the door.

The last thing you saw before finally pulling out of the parking lot was everyone else doing the same, headlights flashing in the dark before disappearing down the roads leading back home.

By the time you pulled into the parking lot of your apartment, your body was tense with residual frustration. You shut the car off, gripping the keys a little too tightly before finally stepping out, locking the door behind you, and making your way inside.

Your apartment was dark and quiet, a stark contrast to the noise and chaos of earlier. You flicked on the living room light, kicked off your shoes, and made your way straight to your bedroom. Dropping onto your bed, you pulled your phone out of your pocket, unlocking it to see a message from Eren.

Eren : Yo, we gotta plan something for Armin’s birthday. Thinking maybe a bonfire at Zeke’s place? What do you think?

You exhaled through your nose, your lips twitching slightly at the thought of Armin’s birthday. That was something you could focus on, something that mattered.

You: "Yeah, that sounds good. We should get some stuff for s’mores too."

Eren : "Good thinking. Mikasa said Armin’s been stressing about school lately, so we wanna make it chill. You know how he is."

You: "Yeah, a night to relax would be good for him."

Eren : "Exactly. Also, you good? You seemed kinda off at the park."

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Eren always had a way of noticing things, but you weren’t about to vent to him about Jean of all people.

You: "Just tired. Long day."

Eren: "Alright, just checking. Get some rest, dumbass."

A small smile tugged at your lips despite the lingering frustration.

You: "Goodnight, crazy."

You shook your head, letting out a soft laugh before locking your phone and setting it on your nightstand. Despite the small warmth Eren’s text had given you, the frustration hadn’t faded. The anger still simmered, sitting heavy in your chest.

You laid back on your bed, staring up at the ceiling, Jean’s words echoing once again in your head. You hated that he could get under your skin so easily. Hated that, for even a second, he made you question yourself.

Turning onto your side, you let out a slow, measured breath, willing yourself to sleep. But even as exhaustion pulled at your body, your mind remained restless, tangled in the mess of emotions Jean had left you with.

I know you well enough.

You closed your eyes, fingers curling into the fabric of your blanket.

Fuck him.

[raggycookie]

Jean Kirstein x Reader

Honey Boy: Moments Between Laughter

The drive to the campus library was quick, the familiar route painted in muted shades of gray by the overcast sky. The rhythmic patter of rain against the windshield provided a strange sense of calm, a soothing soundtrack to the otherwise mundane task of studying. As you pulled into the parking lot, you reached for your umbrella. The rain had intensified, a steady drizzle now turning into a downpour.

With the umbrella shielding you from the worst of it, you dashed toward the library, puddles splashing beneath your shoes. The wind, playful and relentless, tugged at your clothes and sent a shiver racing down your spine. As you pushed open the heavy library doors, a gust of cold air rushed in with you, the sudden contrast causing goosebumps to prickle across your skin. You shook off your umbrella, droplets scattering, and stepped inside.

“Just 45 minutes,” 

You muttered under your breath, a small pep talk to keep yourself focused.

The library, a sprawling sanctuary of knowledge, was quiet except for the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the soft rustle of pages turning. The scent of old books mingled with the faint aroma of the air freshener the librarian had plugged into the wall.

You’ve always been someone who loves to study. It’s not just about grades or the sense of accomplishment, it’s the process, the act of immersing yourself in a subject and peeling back its layers. Still, you’ve always made time for your friends when they needed you. If the day was free of obligations, though, you’d happily study until your eyelids grew heavy and the words on the page blurred into incomprehensible shapes.

But today wasn’t one of those days.

Navigating the familiar aisles, you made your way to your usual spot in the back of the library, nestled near the Music and Fine Arts section. The towering shelves around you provided a sense of privacy, a cocoon of sorts. You spotted the big blue bean bag in the corner—your favorite seat—and couldn’t help but smile. It was still there, unoccupied, waiting for you like an old friend.

You set your bags down with a soft thud and sank into the bean bag, its plush surface enveloping you in comfort. Reaching into your backpack, you pulled out your orange History notebook, the edges slightly frayed from frequent use. Next came your pencil, its wood worn down to a smooth finish, the eraser nearly gone. It wasn’t much to look at, but it had been with you through countless study sessions, a silent witness to your dedication.

Finally, you retrieved your earbuds. With practiced ease, you slid them into your ears. A few taps on your phone later, the soft, dreamlike melodies of Eiafuawn filled your ears, shutting out the faint whispers of other students and the occasional footsteps echoing through the library.

Play: Eiafuawn- No more like that

You opened your notebook and flipped to the most recent page of notes, the crisp sound of paper turning breaking the stillness. The handwritten lines stared back at you, a mix of neat bullet points and hastily scribbled margins filled with questions and thoughts. You’d always found history fascinating. Today, though, it felt more like a mountain to climb. Your upcoming test loomed large in your mind, and the sheer volume of material to cover was daunting.

But you thrived on challenges. Taking a deep breath, you leaned forward, pencil poised, and began to write. The words came slowly at first, your thoughts sluggish as you tried to recall details about the French Revolution. Gradually, though, the fog lifted, and your focus sharpened. Key dates, figures, and events began to flow onto the page, the pencil gliding effortlessly across the paper.

Time seemed to blur as you worked. The outside world faded, leaving only the steady rhythm of your pencil and the ethereal music in your ears.

You weren’t always a study machine. Once upon a time, you thought studying was overrated, just another chore among many you’d rather not deal with. Learning didn’t seem like life or death until the day you brought home an F on a math quiz. That red, damning letter wasn’t just a grade; it was a sentence, a trigger for an eruption you weren’t prepared to face.

Date: May 9th, 2012

The house was still that evening, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the old wood floors under your mother’s pacing steps. You stood in the kitchen, feeling impossibly small, bathed in the harsh glow of the dim light hanging above the table. Your mother loomed in front of you, her face taut with frustration. In her hand, she clutched your math quiz, the glaring F circled aggressively in red ink, almost mocking you.

“Are you fucking dumb?” she spat, the venom in her voice making your stomach churn.

Her eyes were sunken, dark shadows settling underneath them like storm clouds, and the ever-present cigarette dangled precariously between her fingers. Smoke curled upward in lazy spirals, and you hated how the smell clung to your clothes, your hair, everything. 

Smoke.

Always the smoke.

She waved the quiz in the air like a flag of your failure, her movements erratic, as though the paper itself offended her.

“How do you not know simple multiplication, huh?”

You tried to shrink away, your little fingers gripping the hem of your oversized shirt. The words wouldn’t come, stuck in your throat like shards of glass. Finally, in a small, trembling voice, you managed, “I just don’t understa—”

She didn’t let you finish.

Before you could even process what was happening, her hand clamped around your arm, rough and unyielding. The cigarette was still between her fingers, dangerously close to your face as she dragged you toward the front door. The fear that bloomed in your chest was overwhelming, but you didn’t dare protest.

The cool night air hit you like a slap when she shoved you outside. It was startling against your warm, tear-streaked cheeks, and for a moment, the quiet of the night was deafening. She stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with the cigarette now dangling from her lips, her silhouette a dark figure against the light from the house.

“Go grab a switch,” she ordered, her voice sharp and unforgiving.

Your heart sank.

Not this. Anything but this.

You forced your legs to move, trudging toward the small bush by the side of the house. The branches were bare, save for a few scattered leaves clinging stubbornly to the thin twigs. You reached in, wincing as the sharp edges scratched against your skin, and pulled out a skinny branch. It felt too light in your hands, too flimsy to withstand what was about to come, but you knew better than to hesitate.

The walk back to the door felt like an eternity. Every step was heavy, your legs trembling beneath you. You climbed the rickety steps to the porch and held the switch out to her with both hands. She didn’t say a word, just snatched it from your grasp and pulled you back into the house.

Once inside, she marched you to the kitchen, the fluorescent light above casting harsh shadows across the room. She shoved you into one of the hard wooden chairs at the table and loomed over you, the switch tapping rhythmically against her palm as she stared down at the quiz spread out before you.

“Look here,” she barked, pointing to one of the questions. “What’s the answer to this?”

You leaned forward, squinting at the problem through the tears that blurred your vision. Numbers swam on the page, incomprehensible in your panicked state. You tried to think, to pull the answer from the recesses of your mind, but all you could feel was the suffocating weight of her presence and the overwhelming sting of humiliation.

“I... I don’t know,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

The words had barely left your lips when the first strike came. The switch connected with your back, a sharp, stinging pain that seemed to reverberate through your entire body. You cried out, the sound raw and broken, but she wasn’t finished.

“What’s the answer?” she demanded again, her voice rising.

“I don’t know!” you sobbed, the words spilling out in desperation.

Another strike. Then another.

The pain was relentless, each lash a reminder of your perceived inadequacy. Tears streamed down your face, hot and unstoppable, but you tried to stifle your cries, knowing they would only provoke her further.

“Answer me!” she yelled, but the numbers on the page were meaningless now, drowned out by the agony and fear consuming you.

The strikes didn’t stop until the cigarette between her fingers burned down to the filter. She took one final drag before stubbing it out in the ashtray on the table, the motion casual, as if she hadn’t just torn you apart.

She crumpled the quiz in one hand and tossed it into the trash with a scoff. Her disdain was palpable, hanging heavy in the air as she turned to you, her lips curled in a sneer.

“Go upstairs and go to bed,” she said coldly, her voice devoid of any trace of warmth or concern.

You stood slowly, every movement a struggle as pain radiated from your back with each step. Your throat was tight, choked with unshed sobs, but you didn’t dare make a sound.

As you climbed the creaky stairs to your small bedroom, you heard her mutter behind you, her words soft but no less cutting.

“Lazy-ass girl.”

The words stung more than the switch, embedding themselves deep in your mind, where they would fester for years to come.

Upstairs, your room offered no solace. The peeling butterfly wallpaper, the threadbare rug, the faint sound of the TV from the living room below, it all felt suffocating. You sat on the edge of your bed, your tiny hands gripping the edges of the worn mattress as tears streamed down your face. You couldn’t bring yourself to lie down, knowing the pain in your back would be unbearable.

You wanted to scream, to cry out at the injustice of it all, but you’d learned long ago that your tears held no power here. Crying only made things worse. So you bit your lip until it hurt, forcing yourself to swallow the sobs that threatened to escape.

Your mother’s words echoed in your mind, a cruel mantra that you couldn’t shake.

Lazy. Dumb. Useless.

You looked over at your desk in the corner, where your schoolbooks lay untouched. The sight of them filled you with dread. Tomorrow would bring more questions, more expectations, and more opportunities to fail. And you couldn’t fail again.

As you sat there, staring at the faded wallpaper, you made a silent promise to yourself. You would never let this happen again. You would study until your eyes burned, until the numbers made sense, until there was no room for failure. You would become the perfect student.

The perfect daughter.

Present Day

Forty-five minutes passed in a blur, your focus slipping in and out as you lost yourself in the quiet hum of the library. The steady rhythm of your pencil against the notebook and the faint scratch of lead gliding across the page was the only sound anchoring you. Everything else faded into a soft haze.

With a sigh, you leaned your head back against the beanbag, stretching your legs out as your eyes fluttered shut. The momentary relief of stillness was nice, but the crick forming in your neck? Not so much. You sat up with a groan, rolling your shoulders before shoving your notebook into your bag. Maybe if adulthood wasn’t kicking your ass every other day, your back wouldn’t feel like it belonged to a fifty-year-old.

You stretched your arms over your head before finally getting to your feet, adjusting your bag strap across your chest. The plan was simple leave, meet up with the gang, and have a good time.

And then you saw him.

Jean Kirstein.

Slouched in a chair like his entire existence was just too exhausting to endure. His long legs sprawled out, one arm hanging over the side, and a thick hardcover book completely covering his face.  The sight alone made your jaw clench and your lips form into a straight line.

You knew him all too well.

Jean, the one person who could get under your skin without even trying. The academic thorn in your side. The boy whose mere existence seemed to test every ounce of patience you had. Y’all had been at it for years, locked in a rivalry that neither of you could or would let go of.

And yet, instead of walking straight out the door like any sane person would, you found yourself stepping closer. Why? Who knows. Maybe morbid curiosity. Maybe the universe had it out for you. Either way, your feet carried you to him before your mind could tell you to do otherwise.

Stopping just beside him, you tilted your head slightly, staring down at his sprawled-out form.

"Dumbass looks dead."

You could’ve left it at that. Could’ve turned around, gone about your day and avoided the inevitable irritation that was talking to Jean Kirstein.

But nope.

"Most people don’t sleep in the library, you know."

His response was muffled, the book still covering his face. "And there goes my peace."

You scoffed, arms crossing over your chest as you looked him up and down with your usual expression of distaste. "Like my whispering is the loudest thing in here."

Jean let out an exaggerated groan, keeping the book over his face like it physically pained him to be in your presence. "Why are you even over here?"

You smirked slightly, voice laced with mock indifference. "Thought my wish came true, but sadly you're still alive."

Jean let out a short, sharp tsk before finally dragging the book off his face and sitting up, his shirt riding up slightly as he moved. He didn’t seem to notice, too busy blinking away whatever remnants of sleep he’d been drowning in.

You glanced for a second barely before looking away like you couldn’t care less.

"That’s cute," he said flatly, rubbing a hand down his face before finally leveling you with that familiar, unimpressed stare. "You done?" "Not yet," you hummed, tilting your head slightly. "You going with everyone tonight? You ain't say anything in the group chat."

Jean stretched his arms above his head before shaking his head slightly, like the conversation was already too much effort. "Why do you care?"

You gave him a look. "I don’t. But everyone else wants to see you… sadly."

Jean let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his already-messy hair before leaning back in his chair. "Dunno. Ain’t really in the mood to be social." You frowned slightly, narrowing your eyes at him. "Okay,  And yet, somehow, you always show up."

Jean rolled his eyes, dragging a hand down his face. "Yeah, well, maybe tonight’s different."

There was something off about the way he said it. Not in a dramatic, woe-is-me type of way, but enough for you to catch it. A slight shift in his usual sarcasm, something a little heavier beneath the words.

And you weren’t sure why you noticed.

Or why you even cared.

But before you could really think about it, the words were already leaving your mouth.

"Listen." You shifted your weight to one leg, watching him carefully. "You could sit here all night and be miserable or, you could come eat some good food, argue with Eren about something dumb, and pretend you don’t enjoy hanging out with us."

Jean huffed, staring at you for a moment like he was trying to figure out your angle. "That an invitation?" he asked, raising a brow.

You scoffed. "God, no. Just stating the facts."

He smirked slightly. "Right."

You rolled your eyes, shifting your bag higher onto your shoulder. "Do whatever you want. Just don’t have me explaining to Sasha why you ain’t show up, ‘cause I don't got the patience for that." Jean was quiet for a second, then sighed, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah. I’ll think about it."

You gave him a long, slow once-over before nodding once. 

With that, you turned on your heel and made your way toward the exit. 

The drive to the restaurant wasn’t long, but the cold bite in the air had you gripping the steering wheel tighter, rubbing at your fingers every so often. Streetlights blurred against the windshield, a golden haze against the inky sky, and the hum of your music filled the car, as you inched closer to the restaurant.

You exhaled slowly, shoulders relaxing as you pulled into the parking lot of the Korean BBQ spot. It was already packed, lights glowing bright against the night, laughter spilling from the entrance as people milled about.

And your group was right in front, just as loud and ridiculous as ever.

Sasha was the first one you spotted, bundled up in a thick hoodie, bouncing on her heels like she was vibrating with excitement. Next to her, Connie was talking animatedly to Armin, probably running his mouth about something stupid, while Eren and Mikasa stood close, half-listening.

Reiner was leaning against the railing near the entrance, arms crossed over his chest, that effortless confidence in the way he carried himself. Beside him, Bertholdt stood a little more reserved, hands shoved into his pockets, his usual quiet presence grounding the chaos with Marco showing him some video on his phone. Annie, Ymir, and Historia were off to the side, engaged in some conversation that had Historia rolling her eyes while Ymir grinned.

The second you parked and stepped out, Sasha turned, spotted you, and let out an excited gasp.

"Finally!" 

She yelled, practically bouncing toward you.

Connie was right behind her, wearing that familiar shit-eating grin as he threw his arms wide. "Damn, look at you. Every time I see you, you just get finer and finer.” You chuckled as you guys began to walk towards the entrance again. “Connie, you are funny as hell”

With a wink, Connie nudged your shoulder. “Only for you girl.”

"Thought you didn’t entertain corny dudes?"

You turned your head just in time to meet Reiner’s eyes, his gaze warm with amusement. The way he leaned against the railing, the slight smirk tugging at his lips, it was almost unfair how effortlessly charming he was.

You gave him a slow once-over, the corner of your mouth tugging upward. "I don’t. But I gotta let Connie feel special sometimes." Reiner gives you a chuckle before looking down at you with his hazel eyes, those eyes making you shake a bit.

“Does studying always take that long,” he said, his voice smooth and teasing. You raised a brow, mirroring his energy. “My bad. I didn’t know you was keepin’ track of me.” Reiner let out a soft chuckle, pushing off the railing as he stepped closer. “Maybe I do.”

Sasha walked up and linked her arm around yours. “Damn, should we give y’all a moment?” You waved her off, fighting the small smirk pulling at your lips. “Nah, Reiner just like to hear himself talk.”

Reiner chuckled, shaking his head. “And you like to act like you don’t like it.” Before you could respond, Eren groaned loudly from where he stood. "Can y’all talk after we eat? Damn." With a roll of your eyes, you all walked into the Korean BBQ.

Play- Strategy by Twice

Sizzle & Seoul was the Korean BBQ spot right outside of campus, always packed with students looking to eat good without breaking the bank. The second you all stepped inside, you were hit with the mouthwatering scent of sizzling meat, garlic, and smoky spices that clung to the air. The walls glowed with the neon reflections of K-pop music videos playing on mounted screens, their vibrant colors flashing across the bustling restaurant. The energy in the room buzzed conversations overlapping, the clinking of chopsticks against plates, bursts of laughter from different corners of the space. It was lively, chaotic, but in the best way.

A hostess greeted you guys with a bright smile before leading your group toward one of the bigger tables near the back. The built-in grills were already hot and waiting, the table set with metal chopsticks, tongs, and an assortment of dipping sauces. You slid into your seats, barely settling before the usual antics kicked off. Sasha and Connie immediately started arguing over what to order, their debate getting more animated by the second. Across from you, Historia playfully smacked Ymir’s arm when she tried to sneak a sip of her drink, while Eren and Reiner were already locked into some heated discussion about a game they’d been grinding the past few nights.

You reached for your drink, ice clinking against the glass, when Historia suddenly turned to me. “Oh yeah, did Jean say if he was coming?”

That quieted the table just slightly. Not completely, but enough to make it obvious people were listening for an answer. You took a slow sip before replying. “Yeah. Said he’ll show up later.”

Eren snorted, leaning back in his seat like he already knew better. “Doubt it.” Armin shot him a side-eye and nudged his arm. “You always doubt it, and he always shows up.”

“Yeah, well, maybe tonight’s different.”

You gripped the cup a little tighter, the words coming from Eren’s mouth sounding like the word Jean uttered earlier.

Connie, ever the instigator, smirked as he grabbed a pair of tongs. “Jean ain’t ever pass up free food. Even if he got a problem with everybody at the table.”

Reiner chuckled under his breath, sending me a knowing look. “Even you?”

You scoffed, leaning back in my chair like the answer wasn’t obvious. “Especially me.”

Before the conversation could get any further, the hostess returned, balancing trays stacked with an assortment of meats. She placed down plates of thinly sliced beef brisket, marinated short ribs, seasoned chicken, and thick cuts of pork belly. Along with that came steaming bowls of white rice, glossy glass noodles, spicy kimchi, chewy tteokbokki, and an assortment of sauces. 

Mikasa and Reiner immediately took control of the grill, tongs in hand, as they started laying down strips of meat, the sizzling sound filling the air around you all. The rest of the group wasted no time grabbing chopsticks, scooping rice into bowls, and sneaking bites of the side dishes while waiting for the main course. You were mid-laugh, cracking up at the latest episode of Pop the Balloon with Bertholdt, when Marco suddenly smacked the table.

“Alright, I gotta ask,” he said, scrolling through his phone before glancing up with a grin. “I was playing Dying Light last night, and it got me thinking. Out of everyone at this table, who’s actually surviving a zombie apocalypse?”

That got the whole table’s attention.

The moment Marco finished speaking, voices immediately overlapped as everyone started throwing out their opinions, all while still reaching for the now perfectly cooked meat off the grill. 

Eren, never one to stay quiet during a debate, took a bite of his beef before raising a brow. “Y’all would be dumb as hell to think it’d be anyone other than me, Mikasa, and Reiner.”

Mikasa, completely unbothered, just shrugged as she flipped a piece of pork belly, but the slight smirk on her lips said she agreed. Reiner reached across the table to dap Eren up with a loud smack. “You get it!”

That earned an exaggerated groan from Historia, Annie and especially Armin.

Armin, ever the voice of reason, pushed up his glasses. “Y’all do know that strength alone wouldn’t guarantee survival. Intelligence, resourcefulness, and adaptability are just as important.”

Connie scoffed, gesturing to himself. “Hello? I’m right here.”

You let out a sharp snort before scooping up a spoonful of rice. “Yeah, we see you, pinhead. And your loud ass ain’t making it past day one.”

That sent the table into laughter, with Sasha nearly choking on her drink as she tried to hold it in. Connie leaned back with a done look like you had just personally attacked his honor. “Why you do me like that?”

“Zombies will hear you before they smell you. Sorry.”

“Okay, but what if I—”

“Nope,” Sasha interrupted, still giggling. “You’d be the first one gone. You wouldn’t even see it coming.” Connie turned to Ymir for support, but she just shrugged. “Don’t look over here.”

Mikasa, ever efficient, slid some cooked meat onto a plate and passed it my way. “Alright, if we’re actually being serious who’s really got the best shot at surviving?”

You chewed thoughtfully, thinking it over. “Eren’s too reckless, Reiner would probably get himself killed protecting somebody, and Mikasa- ” You pointed at her with your chopsticks. “Yeah, okay, you’d make it.”

Mikasa nodded approvingly, adding more meat to the grill. “Agreed.”

Armin perked up. “What about me?”

“You’d plan everything out,” You admitted, “but the moment you gotta actually fight one, you might be in trouble.” You gave him a look that said I’m sorry but I had to say it. He frowned but didn’t argue, which said a lot. Historia leaned forward, chin resting in her palm. “So basically, the only ones making it are Mikasa and maybe Jean?”

That earned a chorus of groans.

“Jean!?” 

Connie and Sasha said in unison as they looked around the restaurant, probably looking to see the reason for Historia to even utter those words out of her mouth.

You leaned back in your seat thinking it over before speaking. “She’s not lying. I mean,  Jean’s logical as hell. He wouldn’t be making mistakes.”

Eren scoffed. “Man, he’s just as reckless as me.” That made you point your chopstick at him as the meat hung between them. “No, see, you get reckless just ‘cause. Jean only takes risks when necessary.” Reiner raised a brow, an amused look on his face. 

“Didn’t realize you paid that much attention.”

You shrugged, popping the piece of beef in your mouth. “Somebody gotta keep track of his dramatic ass.”

You were mid-chew, savoring the perfect combination of rice and beef when Mikasa, in her usual calm and matter-of-fact way, popped a piece of meat into her mouth and casually asked, “Speaking of Jean, how was your first tutor session?”

The chopsticks in your hand paused mid-air. The table didn’t just quiet, it damn near froze. Every single person who wasn’t Bertholdt, Sasha, Ymir, or Historia stopped what they were doing as if Mikasa had just revealed the earth was flat. You swore even the music playing in the background dulled for a second.

You slowly turned to face Mikasa, meeting her completely innocent gaze, but the damage was already done. “Miki, are you ser—”

Before you could even finish, Connie slapped his hands against the table, making the drinks rattle. “Did hell finally freeze over?!”

That was all it took. Chaos erupted.

“Jean is tutoring you?” Eren practically shouted, his disbelief cutting through the air. Reiner let out a laugh, shaking his head like he just heard the most ridiculous thing in the world. “Nah, you’re joking.”

Marco nearly choked on his drink, coughing before wheezing out, “I- this is wild.”

Annie, who rarely reacted to anything, actually had her eyes slightly wider than usual, glancing between you and Mikasa like she had to be hearing things wrong. Armin, meanwhile, looked like he’d just seen a ghost, his fork hovering inches from his mouth.

Historia, Sasha, Ymir, and Bertholdt, the only ones who already knew, watched the scene unfold with clear amusement. Sasha casually took a sip from her soju, her shoulders shaking with laughter as she let the others unravel.

“How did this happen?” Connie finally asked, still trying to process. “Did he, like, blackmail you or something?” You rolled your eyes and took a sip from your soju, hoping the alcohol might help you get through the next five minutes. “I asked him, dumbass.”

A beat of silence.

And then pure, unhinged bedlam.

“You what?!” Connie shrieked, sounding personally betrayed. “You willingly put yourself through that?” Marco gaped. “Why? Ain’t no way you needed Jean of all people to tutor you,” Eren said, shaking his head like the thought alone was offensive.

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Y’all act like I just announced I got engaged to him.”

“That would’ve been less shocking,” Connie shot back.

That earned a loud snort from Sasha, who finally spoke up between bites. “Come on, guys, it’s not that crazy.” Eren whipped his head toward her so fast you thought he might give himself whiplash. “Are you fucking mental? It’s Jean.”

Sasha shrugged. “And?”

“And,” Eren emphasized like it should’ve been obvious, “those two try and kill each other every chance they get..” You exhaled sharply, leaning back against your seat. “Y’all are doing the most right now. All I did was ask him to tutor me in Calc because, believe it or not, I needed the help.”

Connie shook his head like he still couldn’t wrap his mind around it. “Nah, because that don’t add up. You’re just as smart as Jean. Smarter, even. Why him?” You glanced down at your drink, rolling the cup between your fingers before answering. “Because as much as I hate to admit it, Jean knows what he’s doing when it comes to this stuff. I figured he’d explain it in a way I’d understand.”

That got an immediate response.

Eren scoffed, crossing his arms. “Bet he was a dick about it.”

“That’s an understatement.”

Reiner smirked, clearly enjoying the torture you went through last night. “How bad was it?”

You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head. “Terrible. All we did was argue. I couldn’t focus, he was getting frustrated, and honestly? I left feeling even dumber than when I started.”

Bertholdt, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke. “So, are you going to keep tutoring with him?”

You hesitated, running your tongue over your teeth before sighing. “Yeah. As much as he gets on my nerves, I still need the help.” Armin studied you closely, like he was putting together a puzzle in his mind. “So, he didn’t make you feel stupid?”

You blinked at the question, caught off guard by how serious he sounded. “I mean surprisingly, not on purpose. He actually did try to explain things, I just wasn’t getting it.”

Mikasa, who had been quiet since unintentionally setting off this whole discussion, tilted her head slightly. “And he didn’t quit?”

You frowned. “No.” You paused mid-sip and pointed a finger toward Mikasa “But he did try too.”

The door swung open suddenly, and Jean strolled in, his usual scowl firmly in place, making him look even more intimidating than he probably intended. He looked around and saw you guys at the back table before walking over.

“Jean!” Armin greeted, his voice overly cheerful. “What took you so long”

“Just had some stuff to do.”

Jean sat down in the seat in front of you as you continued to sip on your soju you didn't see his tall frame casting a shadow over your body right now Sasha chimed in with a grin. "You need to smile more, Jean. Lighten up a little."

Jean’s gaze flicked briefly to the food on the grill, then back to Sasha. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

You watched him from the corner of your eye. Something about Jean’s tone today struck a chord with you. She could sense his frustration, though he was hiding it beneath his usual sharpness. His tone was starting to piss you off a bit.

As usual.

“What’s going on with you?” you asked, your glass raised to your lips. 

Jean’s eyes flicked over to you, a spark of irritation flaring in them. “What, you’re suddenly worried about me?”

“Nope. Just trying to figure out why you're being more of a prick then you usually are” she shot back, raising an eyebrow.

Jean's scowl deepened as he turned toward you, leaning his arms on the table as he gave you a sarcastic smile. “You’re always finding a way to piss me off.”

You crossed your arms, your lips curling into a smile that was more used to piss him off than anything. "Same can be said for you”  Jean scoffed. "You do it like it's a hobby of yours."

“You know me so well.”

Jean raised an eyebrow as he spoke with that same scowl plastered on his face  “Keep it up,” he warned, his voice low and tense.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly. "You’re all talk, Jean. When are you going to learn that I’m not scared of you?" Jean gave a small, tight-lipped smile, the kind that was barely there. "I’m not trying to scare you," he muttered. "I’m just telling you, don’t push it."

"What you gonna do if I don’t?”

"I’ll figure it out.”.

Before she could respond, Mikasa, who had been silent for the past few minutes, cleared her throat. "Come on guys," she asked, her tone slightly exasperated but with a hint of amusement. “Jean, you need to eat before all of the food is gone instead of starting arguments.”

Jean looked over at Mikasa and let out a quiet sigh. "I wasn’t the one who started it"

You shook your head but didn’t respond to his jibe. "You’re the one with the attitude, Jean.” He turned back to face her, his scowl returning full force. “I could have sworn I was taling to Mikasa not you.”

“I didn’t hear you end the conver-”

Jean raised his hand in your face and rolled his eyes as he looked away with a dismissive look. “Conversation is over.”

Reiner, ever the peacekeeper, raised both hands in a gesture of mock surrender, his broad shoulders relaxing as he leaned back in his chair. "Alright, alright," he said with a lazy grin, "let’s just get back to having fun before Jean decided to squeeze his way in."

Jean, unfazed, raised an eyebrow as he popped a piece of chicken into his mouth, chewing with deliberate nonchalance. "I can hop into a conversation when the subject is about me," he quipped, his words carrying that effortless arrogance that somehow made his presence impossible to ignore.

That earned a few chuckles from around the table. Even Mikasa let out a small huff of amusement.

The group naturally eased back into their own conversations, the hum of voices mixing with the clatter of silverware against ceramic plates. You, however, turned your attention toward Bertholdt, who was currently too preoccupied shoveling a large spoonful of rice into his mouth to notice your gaze. His quiet nature often made him fade into the background, but tonight, you had something on your mind.

You leaned over slightly and tapped his shoulder, watching as he blinked in surprise before hastily wiping a stray grain of rice from the corner of his lips. His eyes, wide and alert, met yours as he swallowed quickly, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink at being caught mid-bite.

"I heard from Marlo that the production is coming together really well," you said with a warm smile, resting your chin on your hand. "How are you feeling about your first solo?"

Bertholdt’s expression shifted, his lips twitching into a small but genuine smile, though there was a flicker of nervous energy in his deep brown eyes. He had always dreamed of playing a lead role in one of the university’s productions, whether it be a play or a musical. For years, he had settled for background roles, ensemble parts, or understudies, never quite stepping into the spotlight. But now, finally, he was at center stage.

"I’m excited as hell," he admitted, voice a little hushed, as if saying it too loudly would make the reality of it more daunting. "But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. It’s a lot of pressure."

Annie, who had been quietly listening from across the table, glanced up from her drink. "You’ll be fine," she said, her voice steady and matter-of-fact, yet softer than usual. "You know the material better than anyone."

The simplicity of her reassurance made Bertholdt’s face flush a shade darker. You were the only one who seemed to notice how he straightened up slightly, his fingers twitching against his glass as he cleared his throat. He turned his attention back to his plate, a small, flustered smile lingering on his lips. You couldn’t help but grin at the sight.

You couldn’t help but grin at the sight. 

Bertholdt had always been the quiet type, but he never really was that quiet around you guys. Even through his flustered cheeks, you could tell he was excited. And you also knew something else, something only you and Reiner had pieced together over the years. 

Bertholdt had a crush on Annie.

It wasn’t anything obvious; he never openly fawned over her, never stumbled over his words in an exaggerated fashion. But you had seen the way his gaze lingered on her a moment too long during conversations, how his ears would flush a light pink when she offered him even the smallest bit of attention. It was in the subtle things, the way he always seemed to find a seat near her, the quiet attentiveness in his eyes whenever she spoke.

And just as if fate was playing along with your observation, Annie, who had been silently eating beside him, finally spoke up. "You'll do fine. Just don’t overthink it."

It was a simple sentence, but the effect it had on Bertholdt was immediate. His face turned a deep shade of red, his lips parting slightly as if he wanted to respond but couldn't quite find the words. You suppressed a knowing smirk, glancing at Reiner, who had also taken notice, his own expression betraying mild amusement. "Of course, Bertholdt’s gonna eat it up” Connie chimed in, grinning. "We’ll all be there to watch you like we always are."

"Yeah," Sasha added, nodding enthusiastically. "I can’t wait to hear you singing in the forefront instead of the ensemble.” Armin leaned forward, adjusting his glasses. "I already bought my ticket.”

Historia smiled warmly. "Just remember to have fun up there. That’s what matters most."

Bertholdt’s ears were still tinted pink, but he nodded, a grateful smile tugging at his lips. "Thanks, guys."

Reiner clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. "Don’t stress too much. You’ve been working your ass off for this. We all know you’re gonna be good."

The encouragement from his friends seemed to ease some of Bertholdt’s nervous energy, and he let out a small, relieved chuckle. "Alright, alright. You guys are gonna make me emotional before I even get on stage."

Armin glanced at his watch and straightened up. "By the way, 'Heretic' is going to be showing soon, so we should probably get ready to head out."

That earned a smack of the tongue from Jean as he stuffed another piece of meat into his mouth before turning to Armin. "I just got here like fuckin' fifteen minutes ago."

You sipped the rest of your drink and mumbled under your breath, "Should’ve came earlier then." Jean’s head snapped in your direction with a raised eyebrow. "What was that?"

You lifted your chin, locking eyes with him. "You heard me."

Jean scoffed, setting his chopsticks down with a deliberate slowness. " I didn’t know I needed to check in with you before showing up."

You rolled your eyes, already feeling your irritation build. "Nobody said you had to check in, but damn, Jean, you always got something to complain about. Maybe if you managed your time better, you wouldn’t be whining about how late you are."

Jean leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing. "When’s the last time you actually let someone talk without having the last word?" You scoffed, tilting your head. "Oh, I’m sorry, did you want me to sit here and listen to you bitch and moan? 'Cause if that’s what you were hoping for, you picked the wrong one."

The group chuckled as they began gathering their things, used to these back-and-forths between you two. Connie muttered something as he threw an arm around Eren, who was pulling out his phone for the directions to the theatre.

Jean exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "I swear, you live for this."

"Live for what? Holding you accountable?" You smirked. "Yeah, somebody’s gotta do it."

Jean’s jaw tightened, but before he could fire back, Mikasa stepped in with her usual deadpan tone. "You two can argue in the parking lot. Let’s go before we miss the movie."

The argument carried on as you all walked out of the restaurant, voices rising and falling with each step. Jean was throwing out accusations about how you were impossible to talk to, while you countered with how he always had an attitude for no damn reason. The others barely paid it any mind, exchanging knowing glances and muffled laughter as they walked ahead, used to the heated dynamic between you and Jean.

“Asshole.”

“Prick.”

"Oh, I cannot stand you."

"Feelings mutual sweetheart." 

Jean huffed, as he unlocked his car, pulling his keys out. A beep sound coming from his car as Marco went to the passenger side of his car, giving us a wave before stepping in.

You huffed, yanking open your car door. "I hope your stupid fancy car runs out of gas in the middle of the road." Jean chuckled, sliding into the driver's seat. "And I hope your Jeep starts on the first try this time."

You glared at him as you slipped into your car and put the key in with a sharp turn. The engine sputtered for a second, and Jean immediately burst out laughing.

"I’m gonna. Crash. Out." you snapped, slapping the steering wheel as Sasha and Connie cackled beside you. Jean rolled down his window, still grinning like an idiot. "You sure you don’t need a ride? Might be safer than your old-ass Jeep breaking down halfway there."

"Jean, if you don’t roll up that window and drive away, I swear to God—"

Jean raised his hands in mock surrender before pulling off, his laughter echoing as he sped out of the lot. Connie shook his head, chuckling. "You two are something else."

You exhaled sharply, gripping the wheel. "I am going to run that man over one day."

Sasha patted your shoulder. "We believe in you."

As you were about to pull out, you got one good look at Jean's car. That familiar sleek black Maserati makes your eyes widen and then narrow in frustration.

That asshole.

[raggycookie]

Jean Kirstein x Reader

Honey Boy: Measure of Moments

Sasha’s text had your heart racing.

Without a second thought, you grabbed your car keys, running through the pouring rain as it soaked through your clothes, even though you were already soaked, chilling you to the bone. Your shoes squelched with every hurried step, and by the time you slid into the driver’s seat, your sweater clung uncomfortably to your skin.

You barely noticed. Your thoughts were consumed with worry.

The drive to Sasha’s apartment felt agonizingly slow despite the steady hum of the engine and the rhythmic thud of windshield wipers fighting against the rain. Your foot pressed harder on the gas than you should’ve, earning more than a few angry honks from other drivers. Thank God you didn’t get pulled over.

You could barely afford rent, let alone a speeding ticket.

By the time you reached Sasha’s apartment complex, your nerves were frayed. You parked hastily, not bothering with your umbrella, and dashed across the rain-slicked parking lot. The cold droplets pelted your skin, soaking your hair and clothes even further.

Trost's good apartment buildings had their perks. An elevator spared you the misery of stairs, and Sasha’s apartment had a large window in the living room that overlooked the glittering city. The kind of place you’d dream about while trudging up the creaky, paint-peeled steps of your own building, where the hallways always seemed to stretch darker and longer than they should.

But this wasn’t the time to think about that. Not when Sasha might need you.

You punched the elevator button for the seventh floor repeatedly, as if your urgency could will the old machine to move faster. The moment the doors opened, you were running again, your wet boots slapping against the pristine floors, leaving faint puddles in your wake.

Finally, you reached apartment 715. You knocked hard, breathless from both worry and exertion.

“Sasha! Open the door, girl! What’s wro—”

The door swung open, cutting you off mid-sentence.

And there she stood.

Perfectly fine.

Your heart, which had been hammering in your chest, slowed to a confused beat. Your face morphed from frantic concern to blank disbelief as you took her in. Sasha stood there, not a hair out of place, her signature grin plastered across her face like nothing had happened.

“What happened to you?” she asked, tilting her head, amusement flickering in her eyes as she looked at your drenched form.

You squinted at her, your annoyance bubbling up like steam in a kettle. Without a word, you stepped inside, shaking the rain from your jacket before hanging it on the coat rack. Sasha’s grin didn’t waver as she led you into the living room.

Historia, the sweet blonde who radiated calmness, was curled up on the couch, scrolling through her phone. She looked up when you entered, her eyes widening in surprise.

“Oh my goodness, are you okay?” she asked, rising to her feet with genuine concern.

“I’ll live,” you muttered, forcing a tired smile. “But my hair? That’s another story.”

Historia gasped lightly, her hands fluttering as she inspected you like a worried parent. “You’re soaked! Are you sure you’re not cold?”

“Cold? No,” you said, wringing water from the hem of your shirt. “Annoyed? Definitely.”

Historia nodded solemnly, her brows knitting in thought. “Ymir’s working overtime tonight. You know, if you want, you can just stay here.”

Sasha disappeared briefly and returned with a dry hoodie. “Here,” she said, tossing it at you with a playful smirk. “It’s Ymir’s. She won’t mind.”

You slipped it on, sighing at the immediate warmth it provided. Historia handed you a towel for your hair, and after drying off as best you could, you plopped onto the couch, pulling off your damp jeans and leaving yourself in just the oversized hoodie and your underwear.

You turned to Sasha, your eyes narrowing. “Okay, Sasha. Wanna explain that text now?”

Sasha’s grin grew impossibly wider as she perched on the edge of the couch. She practically vibrated with excitement, her words tumbling out like a dam had burst.

“Niccolo asked me out!” she exclaimed, her voice loud and brimming with glee.

You blinked, the words not quite registering for a moment. “Shut up..”

“Niccolo!” Sasha repeated, leaning forward. “He finally asked me out! We’re going on a date this Friday!”

A mix of relief and exasperation washed over you as you sank deeper into the couch, shaking your head with a small laugh.

 “Sasha, you bout scared me to death.”

Sasha waved it off, too giddy to care. “Oh, come on! It’s big news!”

You couldn’t help but smile, her joy contagious despite your drenched state. “Next time, maybe lead with that in your text?”

The three of you laughed, the room filling with warmth and light, Historia spoke up with a smile on her face “So, when is the date?” Sasha smiled widely, her cheeks flushing a bit as she spoke “Its on Friday.” Historia let out a squeal of excitement, her eyes wide with joy.

“Oh my Goish, thats so soon!What are you gonna wear? Where is he taking you?”

Historia always loved to help others but she also loved to be in everyone’s business. Whenever something happened, she had to know about it. It was cute but also a bit annoying at times. But this was worth trying to find out everything about it.

Nicollo and Sasha had been pinning after each other since freshman year but neither one of them was bold enough to ask each other out, or they were both oblivious to each other's feelings. The fact that Nicollo had said something was relieving to you.

You got up from the couch as Historia and Sasha continued to talk about what Sasha should wear. You went into their kitchen. It had a modern touch. Black cabniets that Historia painted, gold knobs, good kitchen wear.

You would love to have a kitchen like this.

You opened the cabinet that held the wine glasses and wine and grabbed 3 for you guys as you began to pour it. Then, you smelled a familiar scent,

Smoke.

The front door creaked open, and Ymir strolled in, the faint glow from the apartment complex hallway behind her casting a shadow across the room. She wore her movie theater uniform, its black fabric slightly wrinkled from a long shift. A cigarette dangled from her lips, the ember burning softly as a tendril of smoke curled into the air. The scent hit you instantly, sharp, acrid, and unwelcome. You stiffened, the smell tugging your thoughts to places you didn’t want to revisit. With a quiet breath, you forced yourself back into the moment, shaking your head as you plastered on a smile and reached for another glass.  

“Ymir,” you greeted, your tone casual as you handed Sasha her drink. “What’s up?”  

Ymir smirked, pulling the cigarette from her mouth and tapping ash onto the doorstep before flicking it outside. She tossed her bag onto the floor with a thud and shut the door behind her, leaning against it. Her sharp gaze swept over the three of you, one brow arching in mild amusement.  

“So, what’s going on here?”  

Sasha gasped, her face lighting up as if Ymir’s arrival was the final piece to a perfect evening. “Ymir! You’re back!” she exclaimed, her voice nearly bouncing off the walls.  

Historia rose from the couch, her soft smile growing as she approached Ymir. Wrapping her arms around Ymir’s waist, she rested her head against her chest, her voice tender. “We’re celebrating something important.”  

Ymir’s smirk softened as she folded her arms around Historia, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. She glanced back at Sasha, then at you, her curiosity piqued. “Oh yeah? And what’s the big occasion?”  

Sasha could barely contain herself, her joy spilling out as she grinned from ear to ear. “Nicollo finally asked me out on a date!” she announced, practically vibrating with excitement.  

Ymir’s brows shot up, and a wide grin spread across her face. “Well, damn. About time. I was starting to think the guy was blind,” she teased.  

Historia tried to step back from Ymir’s embrace, but Ymir only pulled her closer, holding her tight as if daring her to leave. Then, Ymir’s eyes shifted back to you, mischief glinting in her gaze. “So, what’s with the half-dressed look over there?”  

You rolled your eyes, grabbing a wine glass and filling it with deliberate slowness. “Some jerk splashed me with water after my tutor session,” you muttered, your tone flat.  

Sasha froze mid-sip, and Historia blinked in shock. “Tutor session?” Sasha echoed, her voice dripping with disbelief.  

It was a fair reaction. To them, you were the go-to for every academic problem, a walking encyclopedia. The idea of you needing a tutor was as unthinkable as the sun rising in the west.  

You kept your gaze on the glasses, your lips curving into a grimace as you added, “And if that wasn’t bad enough, the tutor had to be Jean of all people.”  

Ymir straightened, a devilish grin spreading across her face. “Ah, trouble in paradise, I see.”  

You shot her a sharp look, scoffing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”  

She shrugged, taking a drag from her cigarette before exhaling a slow plume of smoke. “Oh, come on. Don’t act like you don’t know. Everyone sees it. You and Jean have this whole love-hate thing going on.”  

“Ain’t no love in what me and Jean got going on,” you snapped, handing Ymir a glass of wine before flopping down on the couch with a huff.  

You motioned to Sasha, your tone shifting to something lighter. “Tonight’s about this lovely lady and her true love. Let’s focus on that instead of whatever fantasy you’re dreaming up.”  

Taking a sip of your wine, you turned your attention to Sasha with a small smile. “Where are Mikasa and Annie? They should be here to celebrate too.”  

Sasha perked up. “Mikasa went to bed early tonight cause she has a test in the morning and Annie’s is still at work.”

You nodded as you took a sip of the wine in your hand, its sweet tang lingering on your tongue. “I totally forgot to ask Annie if she could get me a free membership at her workplace.”

Annie had been working at Planet Fitness since freshman year, a fact she never let anyone forget. Ymir snorted from her spot on the couch, where she sat with a casual sprawl, her elbows resting on her knees. She tilted her head and shot you a knowing look, one brow raised in mock amusement.

“Would you, of all people, even have time to go to the gym? You’re always buried in a damn book.”

You narrowed your eyes at her but kept your tone light. “Of course, I would. I don’t always study. I do have a life bro.”

Ymir chuckled, her laugh low and teasing, as she leaned back into the cushions with a lazy grace. She took a sip of her drink and gave you a playful smirk. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.”

Rolling your eyes, you turned your attention to Sasha, who was perched on the arm of the couch, her face glowing with excitement. “So, how do you want to celebrate, lovely?”

Without missing a beat, Sasha grabbed the remote and flicked the TV on, navigating straight to Adult Swim and landing on American Dad. She turned to you with an infectious grin. “A TV show marathon and some takeout sounds good to me.”

Ymir raised her glass, the faint clink of her drink catching the light. “Cheers to that.”

You lifted your glass slightly in agreement. “Cheers to Sasha and her man.”

Historia, who had been quietly lounging on the loveseat, giggled softly as everyone clinked their glasses together in celebration. The sound of laughter and glasses touching filled the room with warmth.

Deciding to take charge of the food situation, you stood up and stretched, the cool air brushing against your skin. “What do y’all want?” you asked over your shoulder as you headed toward the kitchen, your empty wine glass dangling from your fingers.

Historia perked up, her delicate features thoughtful for a moment before answering. “Sesame chicken with fried rice, please.”

Sasha didn’t hesitate. “Lo mein noodles and three eggrolls!” Her voice was filled with the kind of enthusiasm that made you smile.

Ymir, predictably, stuck to her usual. “Orange chicken. You already know.”

“Got it,”  You replied with a quick nod, stepping into the kitchen. The wine glass clinked softly as you set it on the counter. Pulling out your phone, you dialed the familiar number of the Chinese takeout place and placed everyone’s order efficiently. Once done, you set the phone aside and reached for the wine bottle to pour yourself another glass.

As you swirled the dark liquid in your glass, your phone buzzed against the counter. Glancing at the screen, you saw a text from Connie, the notification pulling a faint smile to your lips. 

Connie: Yo, where are you?

You: Who wants to know???

Connie: your man duh

You: yeah, keep tellin yourself that

Connie: girl you know you want me 

Connie: QUIT PLAYING

You: boy are you on something??

Connie: nah i just miss you Connie: where you at??

You: im at Sasha’s damn

Connie: doin what?

You: girl business You: she might text you later about it

Connie: I should have been the first to know about anything

You: guess your not as special as you think bro

Connie: im hella special Connie: she probably just forgot

You: mhm You: Well let me get back to her, you know how much she cares about me

Connie: chile, she care about me to

You: *too

Connie: girl bye

You smiled at the text before closing your phone and walking back into the living room, plopping down next to Sasha as you grabbed a spare blanket and draped it over your legs. The fabric was soft and warm, a comforting contrast to the coolness of the wine glass still in your hand.

Leaning back into the couch, you slowly turned your head toward Ymir, who was lounging with her arm slung across the back of the couch. She met your gaze with a knowing look, her dark eyes narrowing slightly as if anticipating your question. Letting out a dramatic sigh, she tilted her head back before looking at you fully.

“Whachu want?” she drawled, raising an eyebrow.

“Can you brush my hair out, please?” you asked, your tone light but hopeful.

Ymir scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest with exaggerated aggravation. “You know my ass just got off work, right?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning a little closer with a pleading smile. “You’re the best at doing my hair, even if you are a little heavy-handed.”

Sasha snickered, trying to stifle her laugh as she stood up to refill her wine. Historia’s voice called out from the kitchen, “Grab me some more too!”

Ymir’s attention returned to you as she sighed deeply, her eyes flicking back to the TV before relenting. “Go get the brush,” she muttered, waving you off.

You grinned, hopping up from the couch and making your way to their bathroom. Flipping on the lights, you glanced at your reflection in the mirror and let out a small sigh at the sight of your hair. Shrinkage had definitely taken over, the curls tight and compact against your head. Opening a drawer, you retrieved the familiar brush before heading back to the living room.

Settling down on the floor between Ymir’s legs, you handed her the brush. The couch’s cushions pressed against your back as you adjusted yourself, your eyes fixed on the TV where *American Dad* continued playing.

“And don’t brush so hard. You know I got a sensitive scalp,” you teased, glancing up at her.

Ymir smirked, the corners of her lips twitching with amusement. “Girl, I’mma pop you with this brush if you don’t shut up,” she shot back, making you chuckle.

The room fell into a comfortable rhythm as Ymir began brushing through your hair, the familiar pull and tug grounding you. Laughter bubbled from the group as everyone’s attention flickered between the TV and each other. Historia, perched on the loveseat, suddenly pointed at the screen where Roger was pulling one of his typical antics.

“There goes Sasha,” Historia quipped, her voice light but teasing.

Ymir burst into laughter, nearly doubling over as Sasha spun around from the kitchen, her wine glass in hand. “Excuse me? That’s definitely not me!” she protested, her voice rising in mock indignation.

“Oh, it’s you,” Ymir managed between fits of laughter. Historia smirked, her eyes glinting mischievously as she took a sip of her drink.

Sasha’s eyes darted to the screen before she pointed dramatically at Francine. “Well, that’s Historia, then,” she shot back, her tone triumphant.

The room erupted in laughter, Historia began to laugh as well. Historia then spoke up and turned to Sasha with a smile “You act like thats a bad thing. Francine is the best one on the show.”

You pursed your lips at that statement before speaking “I don't know about that. I honestly think Steve is.” 

Ymir then popped you with the brush and looked down at you with a scowl “Just cause he can sing don't make him the best character y/n”

“You didn’t have to hit me though.”

The room erupted into laughter, everyone’s voices overlapping as they tried to defend or escalate the playful banter. You leaned your head back slightly, grinning as the warmth of the moment washed over you. Breaking the laughter, you turned your head slightly to Ymir, your voice cutting through the chatter.

“You really think Sasha’s like Roger, though?” you asked, your tone genuinely curious but laced with amusement.

Ymir paused, the brush stilling for a moment as she considered. “Oh, for sure,” she said, her grin widening. “Big ass forehead, always hungry. That’s Sasha to a T.”

Sasha gasped audibly, holding her hand to her chest in faux offense as Historia burst into another round of laughter.

After about twenty minutes, Sasha was doubled over, laughing hysterically at an episode of Impractical Jokers. Her contagious laughter filled the small apartment, bouncing off the walls like sunshine on a rainy day. You couldn’t help but laugh along with her, the kind of laugh that left you breathless, smacking each other’s arms as though the sheer hilarity of the moment needed a physical outlet. The warmth of the evening made everything feel lighter, more vibrant, like the world had paused for just this shared joy.

Historia emerged from the hallway, her damp blonde hair brushing against her shoulders, the faint scent of lavender trailing behind her. She had slipped into her pink silk pajamas, the fabric glinting faintly under the dim living room light. She gracefully sank onto the couch, curling up against Ymir, whose arm instinctively draped around her. Ymir’s dark eyes softened as Historia nestled closer, a quiet moment of intimacy that felt natural in the cozy chaos of the room.

Your hair, now freed from its earlier state, had puffed back to its natural, soft glory, framing your face in a way that made Sasha tease earlier that you looked like a haloed saint. The thought made you chuckle as you wiped tears of laughter from your eyes. You were just about to catch your breath when a knock interrupted the evening’s rhythm.

Sasha leapt up as though propelled by an unseen force. “My food is here!” she announced with a grin, already scurrying to grab her wallet.

At the door, she handed over a generous tip, flashing the delivery driver her signature warm smile. “Have a good night, sir!” she chirped before shutting the door with a happy hum.

Back in the living room, she began unpacking the large paper bag with practiced ease, her movements hurried yet precise, like she had done this a million times before. The tantalizing aroma of fried rice and orange chicken filled the room, wrapping around everyone like an invisible hug. You joined her without a word, the two of you seamlessly falling into a rhythm.

“Historia, here’s yours. Ymir, your fork,” you said as you passed the fork over.

Within moments, everyone was seated with their respective meals, the rustling of takeout containers replaced by the contented sound of forks clinking against plastic and bites being savored. For a moment, the room stilled, the TV playing in the background as the group collectively enjoyed their food.

You thought the evening would settle back into watching TV, letting the comedic antics of the show take center stage. But Sasha had other plans.

She called your name, her voice cutting through the peaceful hum. “Yes, pretty girl?” you answered, half-focused as you shoveled another spoonful of fried rice into your mouth.

Sasha tilted her head, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. “Why exactly does Ms. Einstein need a tutor anyway?”

The question hit you like a misplaced note in an otherwise harmonious tune. The warmth of the evening faltered, just for a second, as reality tugged at the edges of your mind. You’d been so immersed in the comfort of wine, laughter, and your favorite people that you had almost forgotten about the session earlier today. 

Almost.

The mere mention of it sent a weight plunging into your stomach, the sensation spreading through your body like ripples in a lake. The anxiousness was a quiet but persistent reminder of how much you had riding on this, how much you couldn’t afford to fail.

You forced yourself to take another bite, the food suddenly tasting like cardboard against your tongue. Fixing your eyes on the TV, where Sal was mid-punishment, you replied casually, “Calc has been a bit difficult, so I needed some help.”

“And Jean was the only option?” Ymir chimed in, her tone dripping with incredulity as she stole a piece of Historia’s chicken, earning a half-hearted glare.

“Sadly, yes.”

Ymir sucked her teeth, leaning back into the couch. “You better than me. I don’t know if I could handle sitting next to his depressing ass for that long.”

You let out a dry chuckle, the tension in your chest loosening ever so slightly as Sasha jumped in. “He’s not that depressing most of the time,” she said, ever the diplomat.

Ymir snorted. “Nah, but he does try to act all nonchalant like he’s too cool to care. It’s aggravating.”

You smiled faintly, hiding it behind another bite of rice. The conversation meandered on, the easy banter among your friends slowly pulling you back into the present, where warmth and laughter outweighed the anxiety gnawing at your edges.

As the conversation dwindled, the clinking of forks against takeout containers filled the room once more, blending with the laughter from the TV. Sasha’s giggles flared up occasionally as she replayed parts of the show in her head, while Historia whispered something to Ymir, who chuckled softly in response. The room was warm, cozy—a bubble of comfort in a world that often felt too cold.

Ymir, now reclined with her phone in hand, let out a sudden snort of laughter. It was the kind of laugh that demanded attention, and all eyes turned to her.

“What’s so funny?” Sasha asked, her mouth half-full of fried rice.

Ymir smirked, tilting her screen slightly. “Reiner just texted the group chat. He wants to know if we’re all down to catch a movie tomorrow after classes.”

At that, Sasha perked up, and you could see the flicker of interest in Historia’s eyes as well. “What movie?” you asked, your voice still slightly hoarse from your cold.

Ymir scrolled for a moment, her thumb pausing as her grin widened. “He gave us options: Heretic, Smile 2, or We Live in Time.”

Your brow furrowed as you tried to recall the trailers for those films. Before you could voice your thoughts, Ymir spoke again, amusement thick in her voice. “The boys are already going off in the chat.”

She turned her phone so everyone could see the flurry of messages. The screen glowed brightly in the dim room, and the group chat’s familiar title, "The Chaos Crew," sat at the top.

The Chaos Crew  Reiner: Movie tomorrow? Who’s down? Options: Heretic, Smile 2, or We Live in Time.

Connie: bro, Smile 2 is gonna be trash. everybody  know it.

Armin: Idk,  I liked the first one.

Eren: of course you did, you the same one who liked morbius

Armin: it wasn't even that bad

Bertholdt: I’m fine with whatever. But if it’s Heretic, no spoilers, I read the book.

Reiner: Nerd.

Bertholdt: Thanks.

Marco: I’m voting We Live in Time. I’m not in the mood for nightmares.

Connie:Marco stay picking the soft, artsy movies 🙄

Marco: Some of us enjoy depth, Connie.

Eren: Heretic looks sick. That’s my vote.

Connie: same. Me and eren have good taste

Armin: Two for Heretic, one for We Live in Time, and zero for Smile 2.

Bertholdt: Honestly, I could do We Live in Time.

Eren: traitor.

Bertholdt: It has Florence Pugh!

Reiner: Okay, that’s two for We Live in Time, two for Heretic.

Armin: I’ll break the tie. We Live in Time looks good.

Eren: of course you’d side with Marco and Beef jerky.

The texts were rapid-fire, with memes and reaction images slipping in between the messages as the group’s personalities came through loud and clear. Ymir shook her head, laughing softly as she continued reading.

“Looks like it’s leaning toward We Live in Time,” she announced, her tone half-teasing.

“Good,” Historia chimed in. “I don’t think I could handle a horror movie right now. I’d need Ymir to hold my hand the whole time.”

Ymir smirked, wrapping an arm around Historia’s shoulders. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Sasha groaned dramatically. “But Heretic would’ve been so fun!

“Alright, final votes,” Ymir said, leaning back into the couch, her phone still in hand.

Sasha straightened up, a determined gleam in her eye. “I’m sticking with Heretic. No question.”

You nodded, agreeing. “Same here. It looks pretty good from what I've seen in the trailer.”

Ymir smirked and glanced at Historia, who had been scrolling through her phone but paused at the attention. “What about you, princess?” Historia shrugged, her voice soft but decisive. “We Live in Time.”

“Then that’s what I’m picking,” Ymir said with a sly grin, earning a playful glare from Historia.

Historia nudged her with her elbow. “You’re supposed to pick what you want, not just copy me.” “What I want is to make you happy,” Ymir teased, throwing an arm around her.

Sasha rolled her eyes but smiled. “Gross,” she muttered, grabbing an eggroll from the bag as she leaned into the couch. Ymir quickly texted the group chat with the final tally, her fingers flying across the screen.

The Chaos Crew Ymir: Votes are in. Me and Historia are We Live in Time. Sasha and y/n are Heretic.

Eren: let’s goooooooooo.

Bertholdt: So it’s tied again.

Eren: Mikasa is gonna pick Heretic already know.

Marco: That’s cheating.

Armin: fr

Bertholdt: Annie hasn’t voted.

As if summoned by Bertholdt’s message, another notification popped up in the chat.

Annie: We Live in Time.

Eren: traitor x2

Armin: Looks like it’s decided, then.

Bertholdt: I’m good with that.

Connie: yo where’s Jean. he hasn’t even looked at the chat.

Marco: He is in his room right now

Connie: nah, he’s probably trying to figure out how to reply without sounding interested.

Eren: Lmao.

Connie: JEAN. ANSWER.

Connie: C’mon, man.

Connie: Don’t ghost us.

Connie: WAKE TF UP

Eren: connie bout to crashout

Ymir let out a sharp laugh, showing the screen to Sasha. “Connie’s really out here spamming Jean like he owes him money.” Sasha snorted. “It’s always like this. He acts like they’re married or something.”

“You know Jean won’t answer until he feels like it,” you said, a hint of amusement in your voice as you sipped your wine.

Historia chimed in, her tone gentle but teasing. “He probably just doesn’t care about the movie.”

Then again, knowing him, he might skip the whole outing altogether, content to brood on his own.

The group drifted back into casual conversation, the sounds of laughter and the TV filling the room once again. Connie’s texts continued to flood the group chat, but they soon became part of the background noise, a reminder of the chaotic camaraderie that tied you all together.

The morning light seeped softly through the thin curtains of Sasha, Ymir, and Historia’s shared apartment, casting a gentle golden glow across the space. The quiet hum of the city waking up provided a subtle soundtrack to the stillness. You stretched on the couch, the blanket tangled around your legs, and blinked slowly, taking in the serenity of the moment.

The faint scent of last night’s takeout still lingered in the air, mingling with the soft floral undertone of Historia’s perfume and the earthy musk of Sasha’s favorite sandalwood incense. You slipped off the couch quietly, mindful of not disturbing the silence, and padded barefoot toward Sasha’s bedroom.

The door creaked slightly as you pushed it open, revealing Sasha sprawled out on her bed. Her phone rested loosely in her hand, the screen dark, and her arm draped lazily over her eyes, shielding them from the light that dared to peek through the window. Her face, had some drool spilling down her chin.

You walked to her closet, careful not to disturb her. Inside, her collection of clothes hung in a chaotic order, oversized shirts, hoodies, and jeans crammed together in a way that only Sasha could find comforting. Your fingers brushed against the fabrics until you found a brown tee and an equally warm-toned hoodie. They smelled faintly of Sasha, a mix of fresh laundry and the faint scent of her Winter Candy Apple body spray from Bath and Body Works.

For bottoms, you grabbed a pair of her oversized jeans, the kind that would hang loose on you, creating that effortlessly baggy look. This outfit screamed Sasha—unbothered yet somehow stylish.

You went to the bathroom, closing the door gently behind you. The bathroom, like the rest of the apartment, held its own charm, scattered skincare bottles along the sink, a damp towel hung haphazardly over the shower rod, and a small potted plant Historia had placed on the windowsill.

The mirror reflected back your sleep-rumpled form as you began to change. The brown tee slipped over your head, soft against your skin, followed by the hoodie that instantly cocooned you in its warmth. The jeans sat low on your hips, the oversized fit making you feel comfortably drowned in fabric. You adjusted them slightly, rolling up the hems just enough to keep them from dragging.

The bathroom was quiet, save for the occasional drip of water from the faucet and the faint hum of the apartment's heater. After getting dressed, you opened the small drawer by the sink, where they kept spare items. A neatly packaged toothbrush caught your eye, unused, likely one of those emergency spares Sasha always bought in bulk. You unwrapped it, applied a generous amount of minty toothpaste, and brushed your teeth, the crisp freshness waking you up fully.

Your gaze drifted to Ymir’s small collection of hair products on the counter. Among them was her trusted gel, its lid slightly ajar as if inviting you to borrow some. Grabbing a dollop, you worked it through your thick curls, gathering your hair into a high puff. The gel smoothed your edges, and you took a moment to admire your reflection in the mirror. 

Satisfied, you left the bathroom and returned to the living room to grab your shoes and bag. The quiet comfort of their apartment lingered around you, a warm reminder of the safe haven it always was. Slipping on your shoes and hoisting your bag onto your shoulder.

You opened the door carefully, stepping into the hallway without a sound. The apartment door clicked shut behind you, and you were greeted by the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. The carpeted hallway stretched before you, muffling your footsteps as you made your way to the elevator.

The elevator ride was a brief moment of solitude. The soft ding announced your arrival at the lobby, where the morning light poured in through the glass doors, casting warm patterns on the tiled floor. You crossed the lobby with purpose, the faint chatter of the doorman and a tenant serving as background noise.

Outside, the crisp November morning air greeted you, mingling with the faint smell of asphalt dampened by last night’s rain. The parking lot stretched out ahead, a sea of vehicles glistening with dew. You made your way to your jeep, its familiar shape standing out among the rows of cars.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, you took a moment to settle in. The interior smelled faintly of the pineapple car spray that you had sprayed the day before. You started the engine, the gentle rumble filling the quiet morning.

The drive to campus was a tranquil escape, the streets bathed in the soft hues of early morning light. The soft, sound of Love, Tumi spilled through the speakers, filling the Jeep with an atmospheric warmth.  

The windshield wipers gave an occasional swipe, clearing the remnants of mist from last night’s rain. The world outside blurred slightly, the buildings and trees melting together in an abstract watercolor painting.  

You tapped your fingers lightly against the steering wheel, humming along to the music. Your mind began to map out the day ahead. First, Chemistry Lab, the most mentally taxing part of your day, but manageable. Afterward, some quiet time in the library to chip away at your History class workload. The thought of spending hours surrounded by the musty scent of books and the occasional shuffle of students made you feel strangely at peace. And finally, the evening with your friends at the movies. 

As the jeep approached campus, the towering parking deck came into view, its structure a stark contrast to the softer lines of the surrounding greenery. You turned into the entrance, the tires crunching lightly over wet pavement as you ascended the spiraling ramps to find a spot.  

The deck was still quiet, only a few other cars scattered across the levels. You eventually found a space tucked between two pillars on the third floor. Turning off the engine, the sudden absence of music left the jeep eerily silent.  

Grabbing your bag, you stepped out into the cool air of the parking deck. The faint echo of your footsteps accompanied you as you walked to the elevator tucked in the corner. Pressing the button, you leaned against the wall, letting the straps of your bag dig lightly into your shoulders.  

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and you stepped inside, pressing the button for the fifth floor. The ride up was smooth, the faint hum of the mechanism blending with the gentle rustle of papers in your bag as you mentally rehearsed the equations and experiments likely awaiting you.  

When the doors slid open, you were met with the familiar sight of the Chemistry wing. The polished linoleum floors reflected the overhead lights, and the faint scent of lab chemicals lingered in the air. Other students moved purposefully down the hall, some with notebooks clutched to their chests, others laughing softly in small groups.  

You finally made it to your Chem clas. The faint smell of cleaner still lingered in the air, a reminder of how early it was. You were 45 minutes ahead of schedule, a habit born from wanting to claim your seat and gather your thoughts before the bustle of the day took over.

But, as usual, someone had beaten you there.

Jean.

He was seated at the very front of the class, angled slightly in his chair with one long leg stretched out and the other tucked beneath the desk. His head was bowed, the glow of his phone illuminating the sharp angles of his face. He wore a jean jacket that framed his broad shoulders, a black turtleneck peeking out from underneath. Lightweight jeans and black boots completed the look, effortless, understated, yet somehow irritatingly stylish.

A tinny voice blared from his phone, breaking the fragile silence. It wasn’t music but some video, loud, obnoxious, and unapologetic in its intrusion. He seemed utterly unbothered, his thumb lazily scrolling as if the classroom were his private domain.

You sighed, slipping into a seat near the back, as far away from him as you could manage. The desk felt cool beneath your arms as you set your bag down and took out your phone. Scrolling through your feed, you tried to focus, but the video grated against your nerves, its volume bouncing off the empty walls.

Without looking up, you broke the silence, your voice calm but laced with irritation. "Do you mind turning your loud phone down?"

Jean barely moved. His thumb paused mid-scroll, but his gaze remained fixed on the screen. When he finally spoke, his tone was bored, as though your request had interrupted something of monumental importance. "I do mind."

His words hung in the air like a challenge, and you finally glanced up from your phone, your eyes narrowing at the back of his head. His casual defiance made your fingers itch to throw something at him, anything to wipe that nonchalant expression off his face.

Instead, you muttered under your breath, your voice low but pointed. "Prick."  

Jean didn’t bother looking up from his phone, his thumb idly scrolling. “What was that?” he asked, his tone deliberately disinterested, as though he hadn’t clearly heard you.  

You glanced up briefly, your eyes still glued to your screen as you replied. “I said, prick. What, you don't speak English?”

A faint chuckle escaped him, soft but audible enough to irritate you. “What, you don't know how to tune stuff out?”

Your lips pressed into a thin line, but you didn’t look up. The glow of your phone reflected in your eyes as you fired back, “Hard to tune things out when you blasting it throughout the damn classroom.”

Jean shifted slightly in his seat, leaning back as though settling in for a long, drawn-out game. “If it bothers you that much, maybe you should invest in noise-canceling headphones. Problem solved.”  

You let out a sharp exhale, your fingers gripping your phone a little tighter. “Or maybe you could just act like a decent human being for once and turn it down.”  

Jean waved a dismissive hand, his eyes still firmly on his phone. “Look, I can't keep putting up with your bitching and your nagging”  You scoffed as you cut him off and raised an eyebrow as you spoke up, eyes still on the phone “I know dang well, you ain't referencing Dream Girls right now?”

You could practically hear his eyes rolling from here, the video on his phone still playing as he spoke, “I said what I said.” You went back to scrolling, mumbling under your breath

 “Okay, Beyonce.”

For a moment, the room was filled only with the noise from his phone. 

“New look?” he asked, still not lifting his eyes from his screen. His tone was so casual it almost seemed like he wasn’t paying attention.

“Borrowed,” you replied curtly, not elaborating.  

He hummed in acknowledgment as if your response was exactly what he expected. “I can tell.”   Jean muttered, his tone as dismissive as ever, like he’d already sized you up and deemed you not worth the effort.

Your lips parted to retort, the words sharp and ready on your tongue, but before you could speak, Jean interrupted with a loud, exaggerated yawn. The sound echoed through the nearly empty classroom, as though he were bored by the mere act of existing in the same space as you.

You froze for a moment, your jaw tightening as irritation flared in your chest. He leaned back in his seat, one arm draped lazily over the desk, his phone still glowing in his hand. His posture screamed smug satisfaction, and that was enough to push you over the edge.

“You’ve mastered the art of being an ass with minimal effort.”

Jean smirked but didn’t look up, his thumb lazily scrolling. “At least you learned something from out tutor session last night.”

You scoffed, pulling your earbuds out of your bag with a flourish. “You know what? I’m shockingly gonna listen to your advice. I’m tuning you out,” you said, your voice sing-song as you untangled the cords.

Jean lifted his head slightly at that, his eyes glinting with that sane bored look as he finally looked your way. “Seriou-”

“I’m tuning you out,” you repeated, cutting him off with a finger pointed firmly in his direction, your other hand busy jamming the earphones into place.

Jean’s mouth opened again, but you were faster. “Can’t hear you,” you said, your voice rising just enough to drown him out, “but I do smell a whole lot of bullshit coming from your direction.”

His laugh was immediate, short and sharp, the kind that made your blood boil and your fingers itch. “That’s funny, considering—”

“Still can’t hear you!” you cut in, pointing to your earphones as you leaned back in your seat. “Nice try, though. Valiant effort.”

Jean shook his head, leaning forward this time, his phone abandoned on the desk as he clasped his hands together. “You know damn well you hear me bro.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you tapped at your phone as though searching for the perfect playlist to drown him out entirely. His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before he leaned back in his seat with a low chuckle.

“Whatever,” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear through the faint hum of your earbuds.

The classroom was steadily filling up, a low hum of voices and the shuffle of chairs replacing the quiet tension that had defined the earlier moments. You kept your gaze forward, pretending not to notice Jean leaning back casually in his chair, earbuds now firmly in place. He had them the whole time.

That asshole.

Your irritation dissipated slightly as Marlo entered the room, his confident stride matched with the easy smile that always seemed to follow him. His black hair was styled neatly, and his bag hung loosely over one shoulder. He caught sight of you and his grin widened as he headed your way, dropping into the seat beside you with the kind of energy that instantly lightened the mood.

“Hey,” Marlo greeted, pulling out a notebook. “How’s it going? You look like you’re ready to murder someone.”

You exhaled a short laugh, gesturing subtly toward Jean without looking in his direction. “Same person as always. Think he owns this place or something”

Marlo leaned back slightly to get a better look, his eyebrows lifting in recognition before he smirked. “Yeah, he gives off that vibe, doesn’t he?”

“Understatement of the year,” you replied dryly, flipping open your green chemistry textbook. “Anyway, how’ve you been? Still surviving getting ready for yall’s winter performance?”

Marlo groaned theatrically, a hand pressed to his chest. “Barely. Bertholdt and I have been pulling insane hours trying to build the set for the show. Don’t get me wrong, I love it, but I’m pretty sure my sleep schedule is jacked up at this point.”

You smiled, genuinely interested. “What’s the show?”

“Hadestown,” Marlo said, his enthusiasm peeking through despite his earlier complaint. “Lots of neon lights and cool outfits. I personally would like if we did the off broadway version, but our director insits that we do the “better version” Marlo rolles his eyes as he reaches into his bag to pull out his laptop.

“I've heard some of the songs, nice musical” you admitted, leaning a little closer. “Are you doing the set design?”

Marlo nodded, looking pleased. “Yep. It’s been fun. I’m doing the lighting design too. Were even getting a live band this time.” He turned to you with a smile “I’m excited for tech week so I can see Berthold as Orpheus”

You couldn’t help but smile at the way Marlo’s face lit up when he talked about theatre. His passion was infectious, and it made you forget, even for a moment, the annoyances of the day.

“You know I’m gonna be there to see it,” you said sincerely. “I’m excited to see Berthold as the lead for once. When he got the part, he practically knocked the air out of me with joy.”

“I bet,”  Marlo said, his usual smile on his face. “He has been praying for days like this.”

You laughed, shaking your head. Marlo’s laughter joined yours. Marlo had a way of making you feel like the only person in the room when you were talking to him, and it was a welcome distraction.

“Anyway,” Marlo said, glancing at his watch, “we’ve got, what, two minutes before class starts? Want to quiz me on the reading? I definitely forgot to finish it.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind it. Flipping to the assigned chapter, you began skimming the pages. “You're lucky I'm nice.”

“Love you,” Marlo added, his grin teasing.

“Boy, hush” you retorted, settling back in your seat and flipping through your Chemistry notes.  Marlo tossed you a sideways glance, already rifling through his notebook for an explanation on the difference between acids and bases. “So, last week, we did some calculations on moles, right?”

You nodded, skimming the page where you had jotted down your formulas. “Yeah, moles. And molarity. Don’t forget about the standard solution.”

“Right,” Marlo replied, his voice more assured now that you had reminded him. He shot you a quick thumbs up before launching into his explanation. “So we have a 0.1 molar solution of NaOH, and then we add it to the unknown concentration of HCl until it neutralizes…”

Your mind started to wander a little, the repetition of the material making it easy to tune out. That was when the door swung open with its usual dramatic flair. Hange, your eccentric and energetic Chemistry professor, burst into the room, practically bouncing with excitement. Hange’s usual unkempt hair was even messier than normal, wild curls sticking up as if they had a life of their own. Their bright, wide eyes scanned the room before landing on the board, where they immediately wrote the word “TITRATION” in large, bold letters.

“Alright, class! Let’s get this show on the road! Who can tell me what titration is?”

You didn’t hesitate. Your hand shot up without thinking, the answer already at the tip of your tongue. 

“Titration is a technique used to determine the concentration of a solution by slowly adding a reagent of known concentration until the reaction reaches its endpoint, usually indicated by a color change.” 

The words flowed out smoothly, your voice steady. Your heart fluttered only slightly as you sat back, relieved that you’d nailed the explanation.

Hange beamed, looking thoroughly impressed as they scribbled something on the whiteboard. Without missing a beat, Jean’s hand shot up infront of  you, his tall figure cutting through the sea of students with ease. His brown eyes flickered toward you as he raised an eyebrow, almost as if daring you to outdo him.

"Well, titration isn’t just about finding concentrations," Jean said, his voice as sharp as ever. "It’s also about calculating the molar mass of unknown compounds when you have enough data. You can use it to determine the purity of a sample too, which is super useful in labs."

His voice lingered in the air as his eyes met yours, like a challenge than a comment. The unspoken message was clear: Top that.

You gave him a sarcastic smile, your lips curling upward in a way that hinted at just how unimpressed you were, rolling your eyes dramatically, the motion almost a reflex at this point.

Hange, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension, nodded in approval. "Nice, Jean! You two keep me young"

You leaned back in your chair, tapping your pen lightly on the desk.  Hange clapped their hands once again, pulling everyone’s attention back to them with a spark of excitement in their eyes. 

"Alright, alright, let’s get moving! Everyone needs to grab their lab coats, goggles, and gloves, and ensure you have all your gear. We’re starting a class project today that’ll carry us through the end of the semester. You’ll be working on a titration experiment, and I want thorough, accurate data, so make sure you’ve got your notebooks and pens ready. This is the real deal!"

You could already feel the familiar shift in energy as the class buzzed with anticipation. You weren't exactly thrilled about the project, titration was solid, but spending weeks on one experiment didn’t excite you as much as it did some of your classmates. Still, you were neutral about it. You knew the routine: get the gear, take the notes, run the experiment. This was just another challenge to face.

You stood up from your seat, sliding your notebook into your bag, your mind already working through the steps in your head. You knew exactly what you needed to do to prepare everything for the experiment. You were always prepared, even if the class project felt more like a drawn-out test of patience than anything else.

As you made your way toward the lab coat station, you noticed Jean moving out of the corner of your eye. Without a second glance, he stood behind you, towering over your frame as he grabbed a coat and walked back to his station.

You paused, watching him grab his lab coat with the same ease he seemed to carry everywhere. His movements were sharp, confident, as if the task at hand was beneath him, even though you both knew how meticulous the titration procedure was. He turned on his heel, heading back toward his station with his lab coat already on.

You rolled your eyes again, though it wasn’t as much out of annoyance this time. Jean’s arrogance was always a given in moments like this, but you didn’t let it get to you. You grabbed your own lab coat, slipping it over your head and adjusting it with practiced efficiency. 

You moved through the lab, your steps purposeful as you walked toward the shelves to grab the necessary beakers. The clinking of glassware, the soft shuffle of feet across the floor, and the hum of Hange organizing the supplies filled the room with a sense of controlled chaos. Your mind was sharp, the experiment already playing out in your head as you mentally mapped out the procedure. You needed the right volumes of your reagents, and you needed them to be precise—nothing less would do.

As you passed Jean’s station, you couldn’t help but notice that he was already gathering his own supplies, though his setup was hasty. His beakers were in disarray, and his solution of unknown concentration was sitting just a bit too far from the edge of the workbench. A faint look of frustration crossed your face, and you couldn’t resist the urge to comment, even though you knew it might rub him the wrong way.

"That’s wrong," you said casually, eyes narrowing as you observed his setup. "You should really have your beaker closer to the edge so you can work more efficiently. And you’re going to want to check that solution’s concentration before you start pouring it out."

Jean didn’t even look up at first. He was too busy fidgeting with his equipment, a slight scowl tugging at his lips as he tried to adjust his burette. When he finally did glance at you, his expression was the same as always—cool, unbothered, but with a trace of something that looked almost like annoyance, or maybe challenge. He didn’t respond right away, but you could feel the tension rising between you, like a quiet storm building on the horizon.

"Thanks, but I’ve got it," he muttered under his breath, not even bothering to elaborate. It was his usual dismissal, and you could see in the way he turned back to his work that he wasn’t interested in hearing any more advice from you.

You didn’t push it, though, knowing better than to engage in a back-and-forth over something so trivial. Instead, you focused on getting your own supplies in order. The next few minutes passed by without incident as you set up your beakers, carefully filling them with the solutions you’d need for the titration.

As you continued carefully measuring out your solutions, Marlo leaned casually against the edge of the workbench, clearly not as invested in the experiment as you were. He adjusted his goggles, his blond hair sticking out messily underneath, before nudging you lightly with his elbow.

"So," he began, his voice low enough that Hange wouldn’t overhear, but then again, not like Hange would care anyway "have you checked out this show called Black Mirror on Netflix?"

You glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. "Marlo, everyone and their mama has watched Black Mirror by now. Where have you been?"

He chuckled, holding up his hands defensively. "I know i’m late, but I just started it, and wow, some of those episodes? Wild." He shook his head, as if still processing. "I watched that one with the social credit scores, y’know the one where everyone rates each other all the time? Freaked me out."

You snorted softly, capping one of your beakers. "Yeah, Nosedive. That one was pretty weird but I wouldn’t be suprised if it starts to happen for real.

Marlo nodded, a more serious look crossing his face. "Y’know I love conspiracy theories so dont even get me started."

You paused, setting down your pipette, and turned to face him fully. "I’m dead serious," you said, gesturing toward yourself. "Just imagine some crap like that happening in real life."

Marlo frowned, his expression softening. "Yeah, I can’t imagine what that’s like. It’s gotta feel exhausting, having to be so aware of how people see you all the time."

Before you could respond, a familiar voice cut through the air.

"That’s wrong," Jean said from behind you, his tone casual but laced with the same irritating confidence you’d come to expect from him.

You froze mid-laugh, the lightness of your conversation with Marlo instantly replaced by an all-too-familiar tension. Turning around slowly, you found Jean standing there, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His brown eyes flicked down to your setup and then back to your face.

"What are you even talking about?" you asked, crossing your own arms in response, your voice steady but edged with annoyance.

Jean nodded toward your setup, leaning slightly against the edge of the table as if he owned the space. "Your pipette isn’t clamped at the right angle. If you keep going like that, your titration’s gonna be way off."

You glanced down at your station and saw exactly what he was talking about. Sure enough, the angle of the pipette was slightly skewed. But you weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of admitting he was right.

"It’s fine," you said dismissively, adjusting the clamp with a sharp twist of your wrist. "Happy now?"

"You’re welcome, by the way," he said, his voice annoyingly smug.

"For?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

"For saving you from botching your experiment," he replied smoothly, pushing off the table and heading back toward his own station.

"Please," you muttered under your breath, rolling your eyes as you turned back to your work. "So," Marlo said, looking at you over the rim of his safety goggles, "if you were stuck in a Black Mirror episode, which one do you think would be the worst for you?"

You paused, genuinely considering the question. "Probably White Bear," you said after a moment. "The whole idea of being trapped in a nightmare you don’t understand, with everyone watching but not helping? That’s my worst fear right there."

Marlo nodded. "Yeah, that one’s rough. For me, it’s The Entire History of You. I don’t want anyone replaying my memories, not even me."

Your smile dropped for a moment at Marlo’s comment before you hummed in acknowledgment. "Hm. Yeah that would be terrible."

As you were talking, you noticed movement out of the corner of your eye. Jean was walking past your station, clearly making a point to glance at your setup. He slowed for just a moment, long enough to make a comment.

"You’re still off. That burette needs to be tightened, or it’s gonna drip all over the place."

You clenched your teeth, turning back to your setup and adjusting the burette with a little more force than necessary. Jean’s constant commentary was grating on your nerves, and you were starting to regret ever engaging with him in the first place.

"Thanks for the unsolicited advice," you said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in your tone. Jean smirked again, clearly enjoying how easy it was to get under your skin. "Anytime."

Jean began to walk back to his station with that same nonchalat look on his face. Marlo leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially. "He wants you so bad"

You shot him a look. "Marlo,dont play with me."

"What? I’m just saying," he said with a grin. "The way he’s hovering? It’s either that, or he’s obsessed with being better than you. Either way, it’s funny."

You sighed, shaking your head. “You play to much.”

As the class wound down, Hange clapped their hands loudly, signaling the end of the session. "All right, everyone! Great first day of titration work. Don’t forget to clean up your stations before you leave, and keep those notes handy, we’re building on this next time!"

The room buzzed with the sounds of clinking glassware, scribbling pens, and the occasional burst of chatter. You carefully rinsed out your beakers, the steady stream of water providing a soothing rhythm amidst the chaos. Around you, classmates began to pack up their materials, returning lab equipment to its proper place and tucking notebooks into backpacks.

"See you around, genius," Marlo said with a grin as he slung his bag over his shoulder.

"Bye, Marlo," you said with a small smile, waving as he disappeared out the door.

He waved as he headed toward the door, leaving you alone at your station. You finished packing up your things, methodically tucking your notebook, pens, and goggles into your bag. Around you, the room was emptying quickly, the sounds of conversation and footsteps fading as students filed out. Glancing around, you noticed that Jean’s station was already clean and deserted.  You slung your bag over your shoulder and made your way toward the door, the fluorescent lights casting a sterile glow over the empty lab. Outside, the hallway hummed with life, students chatting and the faint echo of footsteps bouncing off the tiled floors.

Just as you hoisted your bag onto your shoulder, your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out and immediately smiled when you saw the name lighting up your screen: Reiner.

Reiner: Hey, you still good for the movies later?

You: Yep. Need me to bring snacks or anything?

Reiner: Nah, but you might want to save room. We’re all going for Korean BBQ before the movie.

You:You really know how to make me move faster.

Reiner: Caught me. First round of soju’s on me.

You: Deal. But I’m stopping by the library first, so I might be a little late.

Reiner: Library? Studying right after a class?

You: Just trying to make sure I know the material for my history class

Reiner: Don’t stress. You’re probably the smartest person I know.

You: Flattery will get you everywhere.

Reiner: Noted. Now hurry up with the studying so you can join us. I’ll save you a seat.

You: Appreciate it, Reiner. See you later

You couldn’t help but smile as you looked down at your phone, Reiner's texts still fresh in your mind.As you walked down the hallway, weaving through a few students in a hurry to make it to their next class, the lightness in your chest didn’t fade. His words kept replaying in your mind, making it hard to suppress the smile that refused to leave your lips.

You approached the elevator bank, where a handful of other students were also waiting. Some were talking in hushed tones, others scrolling through their phones, but all of them seemed to be as eager to get on the elevator as you were. You stood back, leaning against the cold wall as you waited for the metal doors to open. The soft hum of campus chatter filled the air around you, but your focus remained on the buzzing in your stomach and the pleasant anticipation of the evening ahead.

A few moments later, the elevator doors finally slid open, and a group of students spilled out. The familiar scent of stale air and faint cleaning supplies hit your senses as you stepped forward, joining the small group waiting to get on. You pressed the button for the parking garage and leaned back, the soft chime of the elevator’s ascent mingling with your thoughts.

The elevator made its way through several floors before finally reaching the bottom. With a soft jolt, the doors opened, and you stepped out into the quiet expanse of the parking garage. The sound of your footsteps echoed off the concrete as you walked toward your Jeep, parked near the back.

Your keys jingled in your hand, and you unlocked the door, tossing your bag onto the passenger seat before sliding into the driver’s seat. The familiar scent of your car surrounded you. You plugged your phone into the aux cable, the connection smooth and effortless, and as the first beats of Ravyn Lenae’s soulful voice filled the air, you couldn’t help but close your eyes for a moment.

The song set the tone, a smooth, rhythmic flow that matched your mood. You turned the volume up just a little, the music now swirling around you as you shifted the Jeep into gear and started to pull out of the parking garage. The low hum of the engine mixed with the soft music as you navigate the sharp turns of the garage, the exit finally coming into view as you prepared to head to the library to study for yet another class you knew you were gonna ace.

[raggycookie]

A JEAN KIRSTEIN X READER

Honey Boy: Limits of Patience

Date: March 11, 2009

Time: 11:35 am

You finally finished it.

[♫ Play- Sky Ferreira - Sad Dream ♫ ]

Three stick figures held hands on the page, their smiles exaggerated, curving so far upward that they broke through the outlines of their faces. Each figure was drawn with care, or as much care as small hands and crayons could muster. You had carefully chosen different colors for each figure, filling in their heads and tiny bodies until the waxy hues shone.  

The paper itself was far from pristine, its edges uneven from where you’d torn it from the back of an old textbook you’d found under your bed. But to you, it was beautiful. 

Perfect, even. 

The best thing you’d ever made.  

Barbie’s The Nutcracker played softly in the background, its whimsical music spilling from the tiny Disney Princess TV perched on your dresser. You hummed along, your crayons darting across the paper as if racing to keep up with the melody. The scent of crayon wax mixed with the faint, comforting smell of the carpet beneath you as you work, your little legs sprawled out behind you.  

When the picture was finally done, you leaned back to admire it. The three figures—one for you, one for Mama, and one for Daddy, looked so happy, just perfect. To your young eyes, it was a masterpiece, something worth sharing with the world.

 Or, at the very least, with your mother.  

With a grin that mirrored the stick figures’ exaggerated smiles, you sprang to your feet, clutching the paper tightly in your hands. Your heart beat faster with excitement as you dashed out of your room and down the narrow staircase of your small house.  

The kitchen was dim, as it always seemed to be, lit only by a single bulb hanging above the round table. The light was weak, yellowed, and didn’t quite reach the corners of the room, leaving shadows to linger. The air was thick with the familiar, acrid scent that always consumed the home you lived in,

Smoke.  

Your mother was at the table, just as you’d expected. She always sat there, her presence both a constant and a mystery. Her posture was slouched, her shoulders drawn inward as if to make herself smaller. Her damp curls clung to her head, water dripping occasionally onto the thread bare robe she wore.  She must have just gotten out the shower, the water clinging to her wet curls.

That robe, dingy, off-white, with frayed edges, was practically an extension of her. She wrapped herself in it like armor, though from what, you couldn’t say. Her left hand rested on the table, the fingers long and delicate, except for the cigarette wedged between two of them. The faint ember at its tip glowed with every slow inhale she took.  

Her eyes, those deep brown eyes that you’d inherited—were fixed on something far away, something invisible to you. She stared off into the distance, her gaze as distant as the moon.  

You paused in the doorway, your bare feet hovering just above the cool tile. For a moment, you considered turning back. There was something intimidating about her stillness, the way she seemed so consumed by thoughts she never shared. But the picture in your hands felt too important to keep to yourself.  

With a deep breath, you stepped into the room.  

“Mama, look what I made you!”  

Her head tilted slightly in your direction, but her eyes didn’t follow. Instead, she took another slow drag from her cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the dim kitchen air. “What is it?” she asked, her tone flat, as though the answer didn’t really matter.  

Her voice didn’t surprise you. You were used to that indifferent edge, so much so that you’d convinced yourself it was just how she spoke to everyone. 

‘ Maybe she was happy but didn’t know how to show it. ’

That’s what you told yourself on days when her detachment felt too heavy to carry.  

Still clutching the drawing, you walked toward the table, your small steps cautious on the creaky floor. She didn’t look at you as you approached, her gaze still fixed on something distant. You hesitated for a moment, then carefully set the paper down in front of her.  

“That’s me,” you said, your tiny finger pointing to the smallest stick figure on the page. “That’s you.” You pointed to the middle figure, the tallest of the three. “And that’s Daddy.”  

Your voice was bright, brimming with pride.  

You looked up at her, waiting. Your hair, neatly pulled into two buns your father had done for you that morning before he headed to work, bobbed slightly as you shifted on your feet. The soft fabric of your purple Hannah Montana pajamas brushed against your skin as you scratched absentmindedly at the sleeve.  

For a moment, she didn’t respond. Her cigarette hovered near her lips, the smoke curling upward in lazy spirals. Then, finally, her eyes dropped to the paper.  

Your heart soared. She was looking at it, really looking at it. The weight of her gaze felt like validation, like proof that what you’d made mattered.  

Her lips parted slightly, and you leaned forward, anticipation bubbling inside you. Would she smile? Say something kind?  

“Hm.”  

The sound was barely audible, more of an exhale than a word. She tapped her cigarette against the ashtray, the tiny fragments falling soundlessly.  

“Put it on the fridge,” she said, waving a hand dismissively as she turned her attention back to the invisible distance.  

That was all.  

Thats all you got.

No smile. No hug. Not even a word of acknowledgment.  

But you didn’t let it bother you, not outwardly, at least. You’d learned to take whatever scraps of attention she offered, no matter how small.  

Your face brightened as if she’d given you the highest praise, and you rushed to the fridge. The black surface was dotted with a few mismatched magnets, and you carefully selected one shaped like a smiling sun. With meticulous care, you placed the drawing in the center of the fridge, smoothing it out with your small hands.  

Stepping back, you admired your work.  

To you, it was perfect.  

You turned back toward your mother, hoping she might look at it again, might see it hanging proudly in its new place. But her eyes had already drifted back to whatever she was looking at outside the window, her fingers lifting the cigarette to her lips once more.  

You lingered for a moment, the kitchen silent except for the faint hum of the fridge, the occasional crackle of burning tobacco and the morning bird outside. Part of you wanted to say something more, to draw her attention back to the picture and explain it in greater detail. 

But you didn’t.  

Instead, you smiled one last time at the stick figures on the page. To your young eyes, their joy was real, their linked hands a promise of togetherness that you desperately wanted to believe in.  

The kitchen light flickered once, casting fleeting shadows across the room. You took it as your cue to leave, padding quietly back up the stairs to your room.  

There, the soft strains of The Nutcracker still played, the music wrapping around you like a warm blanket. You climbed onto your bed, pulling the covers up to your chin as you stared at the TV in front of you.

Barbie twirled on the screen, her fairies flitting around her like they didn’t have a single worry in the world. They danced so effortlessly, so beautifully, like nothing could hold them down.  

You sat there watching, completely mesmerized. You could almost feel it, the way their movements seemed to lift them off the ground, like they were weightless. For a moment, you imagined yourself in their place, spinning and gliding across a stage, free from everything that ever felt heavy.  

You wanted to dance like that so badly.  

To feel that kind of freedom.  

To let go. 

Beep Beep Beep

Date: November 2nd, 2024

Time: 10:41 am.

You wake up slowly, the soft light of the morning creeping in through your curtains, and for a second, you wish you could roll over and go back to sleep. The silk bonnet on your head feels a little askew, but you don’t bother adjusting it just yet. Instead, you groan quietly, dragging your brown hands down your face in an attempt to shake off the fog of sleep.

"Lord, help me. Today is gonna be a long day," you mutter, your voice hoarse from sleep.

The words slip out automatically, the same way they always do when you know the day ahead is going to be tough. You feel the weight of it pressing down on you, the tutoring session with Jean today. 

You've been dreading it. 

Math was something that you had always struggled with but in the end, you would always pass. Your GPA says so, but once you made it to your third year of college and you had to take a Calculus class,

All of that was thrown out the window.

You don't know if its the way Mr.Akerman teaches it, or if you have simply lost your touch, but you just cant grasp the concept of Calculus for the life of you and it was freaking nauseating. Sadly, Jean was your only hope of passing.

You roll over, reaching toward your nightstand, the worn photo frame with a picture of your dad sitting at the corner of the table. Your fingers brush the edges of your phone, and you pull it closer, feeling the cool glass under your fingertips. The screen lights up, and you see the group chat buzzing. The first thing you notice is the stream of memes and TikToks Connie and Sasha have been sending, their messages accompanied by strings of laughing emojis and all-caps excitement. Typical.

You scroll through it for a moment, your lips curling into the faintest smile despite yourself. They were never going to let you sleep through this.

Sasha had sent a TikTok that was sure to make you roll your eyes, the kind that was probably funny, but you were too tired to appreciate it yet. Then came Connie’s text.

Connie🤡: "Y’all see this?" 

Another meme attached. It was all absurdly early in the morning, but you couldn't deny it was a good way to get your brain going. You looked at the screen and just blinked with your lips slightly parted for a bit as you let out a sigh.

Ymir, of course, was already annoyed by the noise. You could practically hear her scowl through the phone. 

Ymir🤎: "Can y'all shut up? Some of us are trying to sleep."

You chuckle softly under your breath and type a quick reply: 

You: "Thanks for waking me up, I guess."

Connie’s response is almost immediate: 

Connie🤡: "You’re welcome, boo

Sasha quickly follows with

Sissy🥔🍖🩷: Rise and shine~

You exhale sharply, blowing air through your nose. 

You: "Y’all are aggravating af."

You love your friends.

They're practically your family now at this point. They are just such a lively bunch in the morning, it makes you want to rip your hair out.

But, at least they woke you up at a decent time today with all their texts. You finally set the phone back down on your nightstand, your stomach starting to turn with anxiety over the day ahead. The tutoring session. Jean. You couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that was already creeping in. You've known this guy since middle school. Damn near your whole childhood and you had a gut feeling that this tutoring session was going to be like walking through Hell and back.

Nagging, Arguing, Yelling.

Let's hope you don't rip his head off his body by the end of it.

But you push the thoughts aside for now. There’s no use worrying about it before you even get there.

You get out of bed with a sigh, your legs feeling stiff as you stand and stretch and let out a sound.

“Mmmmm okay, I’m up. I’m up” You make your way to the bathroom, the coolness of the hallway air sending a little jolt of energy through you. The bathroom light flickers on as you step inside, and you take a second to look at yourself in the mirror. Your hair, was tucked inside your silk black bonnet that matched your silk black Pjs that you wore to bed that night. Tiny curls were popping out but you pushed them back in as you walked towards the shower.

You set a towel down on the sink and grab your phone and open up your Spotify app to turn on some music to make yourself wake up even more.

[♫Play- Balloon by Tyler the Creator ♫ ]

You start by running water in the shower, watching the steam rise as you prepare for the inevitable process of waking up. You reach for your Dove Cocoa Butter and Suave Mango Shower Gel. The scent fills the bathroom immediately, soft and comforting, a small indulgence that you look forward to every day. The warm water hits your skin, and you let yourself relax for a moment, eyes closed as the heat soothes your muscles as you sing along to the song.

“How's shoppin'? I'm a pig, I love coppin” You’ve got a lot on your plate today, but this moment, this tiny indulgence, is yours. For now, you let it be enough.

After a while, you turn off the water, feeling your skin tighten as you step out of the shower and grab the towel that sat on the sink folded and warm. The cold air of the bathroom is a stark contrast to the warmth you just left behind, but it’s refreshing in a way. You dry off and wrap the towel around your body and make sure it stays on tight, then reach for your African Black Soap. The thick lather feels comforting as you wash your face with it, the coolness of the soap soothing your tired skin. You take your time with it, letting the familiar motions ground you in something familiar, something calming.

Once your face is clean, you move on to toner, dabbing it onto a cotton pad and sweeping it over your skin, feeling the cool liquid bring some clarity to your senses. You follow up with a moisturizer, massaging it gently into your skin, the cream soaking in as you prepare yourself for the day ahead.

You grab your toothbrush and begin to work the toothpaste over your teeth and on your tongue. Always brush your tongue, cause we dont want bad breath out here.

Turning back to the mirror, you survey your reflection. The face staring back at you is one you know well, but today, she seems a little more tired than usual. Still, you push forward. There’s no time to dwell on self-doubt, not when you have to face the day.

You move on to your hair. Your curls tangled just a bit, but thats nothing a good brushing can't fix. You grab your wide-tooth comb, carefully working through the tangles as best you can. The process is slow and deliberate, but you take your time. You don’t rush it. You dont want to tug to hard. You oil your hair next, the familiar scent of jojoba oil and morrocan oil  filling the air as you massage it into your scalp. You can feel the moisture starting to lock into your hair, the weight of it becoming more manageable.

After that, you grab a moisturizer and apply it generously, ensuring your hair stays hydrated. You pull it up into a bun, securing it quickly with an elastic band. Two curls escape the bun, framing your face like they always do. It’s simple, but it works.

You step back and glance at yourself in the mirror one last time. The reflection staring back at you seems a little more ready, a little more capable. There’s still that lingering nervousness about the tutoring session, but for now, you’re not going to let it consume you.

You reach for the clothes you’ve laid out the high-waisted jeans, a white turtleneck, and a red cardigan  that feels both comfortable and appropriate for the day. You slip into them and take a look at yourself in the mirror at yourself.

Looks Nice.

You smiled faintley before you heard your phone buzz on the bed behind you. The time was now 12:01. You didnt have to be at the library till 5 so you had a good amount of time to yourself, your thoughts went back to your phone as it buzzed again and you saw you had two texts messages from Eren.

Crazy Maniac🪽: “Hop on Valorant”

Crazy Maniac🪽 : “These folks are pissin me off”

You couldn’t help but laugh at the message on your phone. It was just so Eren. That guy was always on some game. Seriously, did he even go to his classes? It felt like every time you turned around, he was glued to his computer or phone, completely immersed in whatever he was doing. It was borderline crazy, but also kind of impressive how he managed to juggle it all.  

Eren always had this easygoing, laid-back vibe, like nothing could really bother him. He could laugh at anything, roll with the punches, and keep the whole group grounded. But if anyone crossed a line, especially when it came to his friends, that chill exterior disappeared in an instant. You’d seen it happen plenty of times. He wouldn’t hesitate to stand up for someone, even if it meant getting into trouble himself.  

You remember back in middle school when Armin was getting picked on by some older kids. Armin was too timid to say anything, but Eren wasn’t. He marched right up to them, fists clenched, and told them to back off. When they didn’t take him seriously, he made them. You didn’t know what was more shocking, the way Eren stood his ground even when the bullies beat the absolute crap out of him or the fact that the bullies never messed with Armin after that because they thought Eren was demented. He got detention for “causing a disturbance” that day, but he didn’t care. “They won’t mess with Armin again,” he said afterward, with a grin that made it clear he’d do it all over again if he had to.  

Then there was that time during P.E. when Sasha accidentally knocked over some senior’s drink, and the guy started yelling at her. She looked so flustered, apologizing over and over, but the senior wouldn’t let it go. Before you could even step in, Eren was already there, standing between them like a shield. “She said she’s sorry. Move on.” His tone was calm but firm, and the senior backed down with an eye-roll. Eren didn’t even stick around to gloat; he just turned back to Sasha, made sure she was okay and walked off like it was no big deal.  

He’s always been like that, relaxed, funny, and fiercely loyal. His friend group has always been tight-knit, and you’re just glad to be part of it. Through all the years, Eren’s never changed. He’s still the same guy who’ll go to bat for the people he cares about, no matter the odds, and make you laugh along the way.

You were just glad to be a part of this little family.

You quickly typed back a response.

You: “Aight. Give me a minute. I need to make breakfast first.”

You tossed your phone on your bed and walked out of your bedroom and towards the kitchen of your little apartment. You step into your kitchen, the golden light of the setting sun streaming through the wide window, casting a warm glow across the small but cozy space. The view outside is just what you expected. The city, people walking, a couple having an argument on the sidewalk, and a man walking his dog that just left a fresh pile of crap on the sidewalk, but the view of the sunrise was breathtaking. A sight that almost makes the rent worth it. 

Almost. 

This apartment set you back $1,500 a month, ridiculously expensive for a college student, but the moment you walked in and saw this kitchen, you knew you had to make it work.

The kitchen is modest in size but feels open and inviting. White cabinets with brass knobs line the walls, and the deep farmhouse sink beneath the window is practically begging to be filled with fresh produce. A few ceramic bowls and mugs sit on the counter, next to a wicker basket holding eggs. Above, wooden shelves are neatly stacked with jars of spices, grains, and a scattering of little potted plants, your attempts at bringing some life into the space.

You reach for a cutting board from the rack hanging on the wall. The faint scent of coffee from last night History study session you had at the kitchen table lingers in the air, mixing with the freshness of the morning breeze slipping in through the open window. You hum to yourself, slicing a ripe banana and tossing it into the blender along with some frozen strawberries. The whir of the blades is satisfying, a steady rhythm that fills the room as you think about how much effort it took to save up for this place.

The stovetop clicks as you light the burner, setting a small pan down with a soft clink. A bit of butter sizzles as it hits the heat, and you crack two eggs into the pan, watching the whites spread out like the early rays of sunlight. The smell of the eggs frying is mouthwatering, since all you had last night was a cup of coffee.

Two cups of coffee.

As the eggs sizzled softly in the pan, filling the kitchen with their warm, familiar aroma, you found your gaze drifting toward the open space by the counter. The sunlight streaming through the window danced across the hardwood floor, and for a fleeting moment, it reminded you of something you hadn’t thought about in years.

Ballet.

You’d never had lessons, your dad couldn’t afford them when you were little. But that didn’t stop you. You’d watched every Barbie movie that featured a twirl, a leap, or a pointe shoe, your wide eyes glued to the screen as if memorizing each graceful move could bring them to life in your tiny living room. Then there was that old, grainy VHS tape your dad dug out from the back of his closet. It had no label, just a faint scribble of "Ballet" in his handwriting. You played it on repeat, letting the muted classical music and blurry images of dancers transport you to a world you could only dream of.

The impulse hit you suddenly, and with a little shrug, you stepped away from the stove. “Why not?” you murmured to yourself, sliding into first position or what you thought looked like first position, not that you’d ever been sure. With a deep breath, you pushed off into a spin, your socked feet skimming the floor.

You made it about halfway around before your balance wavered. Your arms flailed slightly, and you stumbled, catching yourself against the counter with a soft thud.“Okay, just one more,” you muttered, focusing harder this time. But as your foot left the floor, your rotation faltered again, and you stumbled, nearly knocking over the basket of eggs on the counter.

You caught yourself with a hand on the sink, a dry laugh escaping your lips. “Yeah... this is why some dreams stay dreams,” you said, your tone bored, but there was a flicker of something else in your voice, 

bitterness, maybe.

You shook your head and returned to the stove, flipping the eggs as if the thought had already left your mind. The eggs were done now, their golden yolks glistening in the light. You plated them alongside your smoothie and told yourself to focus on the present. But as you walked into your room and sat at your desk to eat, the thought lingered at the edge of your mind: some dreams might stay dreams, but they never really go away, do they?

As you sat down and continued to eat your breakfast you scrolled on your phone and looked at Instagram. You saw that Mikasa had posted on her instagram about the baseball game that Eren’s brother Zeke was coaching. Ofcourse you got an invite but you had to study for History class and couldn’t go last night.

It was a cute picture of her and Eren with the caption.

Stealing bases and stealing hearts! good job, Coach Zeke! ⚾❤️ #TeamSpirit"

It was cute. Eren and Mikasa were such a cute couple. You remember the painful times growing up when they both pretended like they didn’t like eachother. Those two were written in the stars.

Soulmates.

Back in Highschool at the prom, Eren’s cliche behind was the one to confess and they were both blushing their asses off but they didn’t leave eachothers side that entire night. Ofcourse, I ended up owing Connie, Ymir, Bertholdt, and Armin mone. We had placed bets on who would confess first and I was out of $40 dollars that night.

That was 6 years ago now and they have been insebrable ever since. A buzz from your phone interrupted your thoughts as Eren texted you another text.

Crazy Maniac🪽: “What is your big back ass cookin thats makin you take so long to hop on???

I rolled my eyes before setting down my empty plate on the desk beside me. I grabbed my headset and put it on as I booted up Valorant on the monitor. I saw Eren was active so I clicked on his profile and joined him.

“Damn your bossy.”

“You still didn’t answer my question big back.”

You rolled your eyes as you watched him press unranked and start up a match. You pressed ready as we waited for a game to start. “I only made a smoothie and some eggs. Did you even eat this morning?” Your statement was met with the smack of his lip, and you couldn't help but smirk as the game started.

“And your ass had the audacity to talk about me.”

“Shut up bro.”

The map Bind showed up and then came character selection.

Meanwhile, Eren, in his signature style of passive-aggressive gameplay, took his sweet time locking in Omen, as if teleporting around in smokes was some grand strategy that only he understood. You raised an eyebrow as you clicked “Lock” on Raze.

"Where’s Connie, Marco, or Armin?" you asked, casually, leaning back in your desk chair as you waited for the other three random people you guys are playing with to choose their characters.

"Connie’s still sleeping, Marco had an early class today, and Armin’s at work. Any more questions, smartass?"

You snorted. He was in that kind of mood. The one where his sarcasm was just shy of an Olympic sport.

"Yeah, did your musty butt get up and take a shower today or did you just get out of bed and walked over to your desk" you teased, cracking your knuckles as the match began to load.

"Dont worry bout it. Why are you insta locking on Raze like your actually gonna aim your Ult and get a kill.” 

You could practically hear his eye roll over the mic. Of course, he would think that. Eren was the type of person who, if he couldn’t play a match like a chess grandmaster, he’d claim it wasn’t worth playing at all.

"Excuse me?" you said, feigning offense. "Omen’s entire job is to hide in the shadows and scare the other team. Don’t come for me when you’re playing peek-a-boo with smokes all game."

There was a brief silence, just long enough for you to get comfortable, before Eren replied in the most deadpan voice possible. "Yeah, because that’s called strategy all right. You? You just satchel into their spawn and hope for the best. Real calculated."

"Its called strategy alright?," you said in a mocking tone, leaning back in your chair dramatically. 

He grunted, but you could tell that it was all in good fun

You smirked, not giving him an inch. "Hey, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Maybe next round, you can teleport into their spawn and get a kill for once."

Eren snorted. "Bet.”

Your plan worked, just like you thought it might. You expected it to go well, but there was always some doubt. Now, the win was yours. Five hard-fought rounds of thirteen were behind you, every one of them tense and demanding. It was strange to think that you’d become so invested in this game.

Eren had pulled you into it.

It was one of those nights where you’d gone over to Eren’s place to study for an upcoming quiz. Your notes were spread across the table while Eren was at his desk, playing his game. Mikasa lay on the bed, scrolling through her phone, and Reiner stood behind Eren, shouting directions that only seemed to confuse him.

Predictably, Eren’s character got taken out. He slapped the desk in frustration. You needed a break from studying anyway, so you asked if you could give it a try. Eren stepped aside, and you took his seat. The next few minutes were a blur as you started taking out enemies left and right. You were good—better than you thought you’d be.

Eren was impressed. So impressed that, a few days later, he showed up with a surprise: a PC he’d bought just for you. It was an incredible gift, especially since you couldn’t afford something like that yourself. 

‘You don’t have to pay me back’, he told you.

But you’re not the type to let things like that slide. 

One day, you’d find a way to repay him.

Now you were here, in another intense match. The score was twelve to eleven, and your team was in the lead. Just one more round to win. Eren’s character headed toward C site while you planted the spike on B. The tension in the air was almost tangible.

“Two are coming B. Reyna’s hit for 80,” Eren said over the mic.

“Okay,” you replied.

You perched on a box near the spike, staying out of sight. Your teammate managed to take down Yoru but got eliminated by Reyna. You stayed still, waiting for her to make a move. When she started defusing the spike, you seized the moment. One clean headshot, and it was over. Your team had won.

The chat filled with the usual “gg,” and the game returned to the lobby. Eren exhaled into his mic.

“Wanna go another round?”

You checked the time on your phone: 4:21. With a groan, you answered while packing up your things. “Can’t. I have a tutor session.” There was a brief silence before Eren’s laugh came through. “Are you the tutor?”

“Sadly, no.”

His laughter got louder, and you rolled your eyes. “Your smartass actually needs help?”

“Bye, Eren.”

You closed the game and stood up, grabbing your bag. Your boots were on in a few moments, and you picked up your keys from the hook by the door. The rain was coming down steadily as you walked across the parking lot, umbrella in hand. Once in your Black Jeep, you started the engine and drove through the wet streets to the campus library, ready for the next task on your list.

Time: 4:54pm

The Trost University Library loomed like a relic from another time, its towering stone walls streaked with rain that glistened under the dim glow of the streetlights. Large arched windows lined the building, their warm, amber light cutting through the dull gray of the rainy evening. The courtyard outside was slick with puddles, the soft patter of rain mingling with the distant sound of cars passing. 

As she pushed open the heavy wooden doors, the warmth of the library enveloped her, a stark contrast to the chill outside. Inside, the space was cavernous yet intimate, with high ceilings that made the dim light seem softer, almost secretive. Rows of towering shelves filled with old, weathered books lined the walls, their presence commanding yet familiar. The faint scent of paper and wood polish lingered in the air. 

The golden lamps perched on each desk cast a muted glow that spilled across the polished tabletops, pooling in soft circles of light. Shadows gathered in the corners of the room, giving it a quiet, secluded feel. The rain continued to tap against the large windows, its rhythmic sound blending with the faint rustle of pages and the occasional muffled cough. 

Your boots clicked softly against the floor as you moved further into the library, scanning the room. Near the far back, you spotted him in one of the more isolated sections. Jean sat at a desk, hunched slightly over a book. His broad shoulders were clad in a dark green hoodie, the fabric slouched comfortably over a crisp white tee. The loose fit of his black denim jeans contrasted sharply with the sharp glint of his chain and rings, which caught the soft light each time he turned a page. His hair looked slightly tousled, as though he'd run his fingers through it absentmindedly, and his focus was unwavering as he read.

You sighed, already bracing yourself for what was to come. Jean the man you have bumped heads with since middle school, was the last person you wanted to spend hours with. Yet, here you were, begrudgingly walking over to him for your first calculus lesson. The thought of working with him still felt strange, even after all these years. He was the boy who could argue with you for hours about math proofs and essays, whose competitive streak rivaled your own. And now, he was her tutor.

You believe he saw you out of his peripheral vision because he had shifted, wiped his face, and put something away in his bag.

When you reached the table, Jean glanced up, his brown eyes meeting hers briefly before he closed his book and leaned back in his chair. His face was as stoic as ever and his tone stayed bored and uninterested.

“You're early,” he raised an eyebrow as he turned away from you and reached into his bookbag to grab his notebook and pencils.

“I told you I’m never late.”

You slid into the seat across from Jean, the soft creak of the wooden chair echoing faintly in the cavernous library. Your red notebook, worn at the edges but still sturdy, landed on the polished mahogany desk with a quiet thud, accompanied by your favorite pencil—an old thing with a few bite marks and years of loyalty etched into its surface.

Jean, seated rigidly, adjusted his chair, the legs scraping faintly against the stone floor as he pulled closer to the desk. His own notebook sat open in front of him, neat and orderly, his pencil already between his fingers. The golden glow of the desk lamp above cast sharp shadows on his face, highlighting his furrowed brow. He tilted his head slightly, pointing at a page in his notebook as his eyes lifted to meet yours.

“We’re gonna start with limits,” he said, his tone clipped but not loud enough to draw attention from the scattered students around the library. “What do you know about them?”

You shifted forward, resting your elbows on the desk. The cool surface pressed against your arms as you exhaled deeply, shrugging. “Not much,” you admitted, your voice quiet but tinged with defiance.

Jean’s jaw tightened as he closed his eyes briefly, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he was forcing himself to stay calm. When he exhaled, it was through his nose, slow and measured, but you could tell he was annoyed.

He interlocked his fingers and leaned slightly forward, his gaze sharp as it locked onto yours. His voice dropped lower, firm and incredulous. “How do you not know the basics of limits?”

You straightened, the irritation in his tone sparking your own. “Maybe because no one’s ever explained it to me the right way?” you replied, matching his sharpness but still careful to keep your voice down.

“Not everyone gets this stuff immediately, Jean.”

Jean didn’t respond right away, his expression was sharp as he brought his hand up to his face and scratched at his stubble. Letting out a sigh, he sat back in his chair, his pencil tapping lightly against the page, the only sign of his simmering irritation. His brown eyes met yours with that same calm yet annoyed intensity, like he was trying to decide if he even wanted to waste his energy replying.

Finally, he tilted his head slightly, his voice dropping to that same clipped tone. “You want to figure this out or just argue with me? 'Cause I’ve got better things to do.”

His voice was flat and his eyes bored into yours with quiet frustration. For a moment, you considered firing back, but then the weight of reality hit you. Jean could easily pack up his things, walk out of the library, and leave you drowning in your confusion. As much as his attitude annoyed you, he was your only real hope of passing calculus.

You let out a reluctant sigh, leaning back slightly in your chair. “Fine,” you mumbled, forcing yourself to relax. “I’m listening.”

Jean gave a small, sharp nod and adjusted his chair closer to the desk, his pencil poised over his notebook. 

“Good,”

 He said simply wasting no time diving into the material.

“Limits are about approaching a value, not necessarily reaching it,” he began, sketching out a graph with smooth, precise lines. His hand moved with a confidence that only added to your irritation. “Think of it like this, when x gets closer to a certain point, what’s happening to the y-value?”

You frowned, your pencil hovering uselessly over your own notebook. 

“Okay… but how do you know what the value it is if it doesn’t actually reach it?”

Jean pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling through his teeth. “That’s the whole point,” he said, his voice strained but low, mindful of the library’s quiet. “It’s not about the exact point, it’s about what it’s approaching. You’re looking at the trend, not the destination.”

You blinked at him, your frustration for not being able to get the concept bubbling up again. “That doesn’t make sense,” you said, shaking your head. “If it’s not the exact point, why even care about it?”

Jean dropped his hand from his face and stared at you, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Because that’s how the math works,” he said, his tone clipped. “It’s not that complicated.”

“Well, it is to me,” you shot back, gripping your pencil tighter. “When I learn, I want to learn stuff that makes sense, you get what I’m saying?”

He sighed again, leaning forward to point at his graph. “Look,” he said, his tone calmer but still firm. “Take this curve. As x gets closer to three, what’s happening to the y-value?”

You stared at the graph, your mind swimming as you tried to piece it together. “Uh… it’s going up?” you guessed, though you weren’t sure.

Jean’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Right. Now, if x is approaching three from the other side, what’s happening?”

You hesitated, looking at the graph again. “It’s… still going up?”

“Exactly,” he said, his voice softening just a fraction. “So the limit as x approaches three is whatever y-value it’s heading toward.” You frowned, still not fully grasping it. “But what if it doesn’t stop at that point? What if it just keeps going?”

Jean’s fingers flexed around his pencil, and for a second, you thought he might snap it in half. “Then we look at the trend,” he repeated, his tone edging back toward frustration. “It’s not about what happens at the exact point, it’s about the direction it’s heading. That’s all a limit is.”

You stared at the graph, your pencil tapping nervously against the notebook. It still didn’t click, and the weight of your confusion pressed down on you like a storm cloud. “I still don’t get it,” you admitted quietly, feeling a rare pang of defeat and something else,

Shame?

Embarrassment?

You didn’t know for sure.

Jean let out a heavy breath, dropping his pencil onto the desk. For a moment, he just stared at you, his eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to figure out how to rephrase it. Finally, he leaned forward, his voice low but firm. “Alright,” he said, pointing to the graph again. “Let’s go over it one more time. Step by step. Just… try to focus.”

You nodded reluctantly, leaning closer as he began explaining again. As much as you hated his tone, you couldn’t deny that he was trying, even if his patience was hanging by a thread.

Jean tapped his pencil against the table, his stoic expression fixed as he looked down at your latest attempt. “This isn’t right,” he said bluntly, circling the incorrect portion of your answer.  

You sighed, rubbing your temple. “I thought I followed the steps.”  

“You missed this part here,” he said, pointing to a skipped simplification. “It throws the whole thing off.”  

“Of course it does,” you muttered under your breath, slumping back in your chair.  

Jean leaned forward, his sharp gaze locking with yours. “Are you even trying?”  

Your eyes narrowed at him. “Yes, Jean. I’m trying.’  

He exhaled, sitting back and crossing his arms. “It’s not about getting it easily. It’s about paying attention. Limits are all about precision.”  

“Yeah, I see that” you replied, the sarcasm dripping from your tone.  

Jean rubbed at his chin, his annoyance clear. Still, he didn’t give up. Instead, he slid his chair closer to yours, his voice lowering. “Look, just focus. Let’s go through another one.”  

You bit back a retort and leaned forward, following along as he walked you through a new problem. His explanations were thorough, though his tone still carried that edge of frustration.  

Time: 7:30pm

By the end of the session, you glanced down at your notebook, disheartened by the tally. Out of the 21 practice questions, you had only managed to solve three correctly during the session.  

Jean noticed your expression and sighed. “It’s a start,” he said, though his tone lacked enthusiasm.  

“A terrible start,” you muttered, flipping your pencil between your fingers.  

Jean started to pack up his belongings, putting his notebook away and into his black bookbag as he spoke in his usual bored tone. “Well, I wasn’t expecting you to get it on the first day.”

You shot Jean a sharp glare, the words bubbling up before you could stop them. You wanted to snap, to remind him that the only thing keeping you neck-and-neck at the top of your academic standings was this damn calculus class. Both of you had perfect GPAs, and this subject felt like a cruel joke designed to test your limits, literally and figuratively.  

But before you could respond, Jean stood, his movements swift and deliberate. He pushed his chair back into place without sparing you so much as a glance. His earbuds were already in, his hands adjusting the hood of his dark green sweatshirt as he walked toward the library entrance.  

“Tuesday, next week. Same time,” he said curtly, his voice barely carrying over the quiet hum of the library.  

You sat there, stewing, watching him disappear through the heavy double doors into the rainy night. The glow of the parking lot lamps outlined his silhouette briefly before the dark swallowed him. With a scowl, you began shoving your belongings into your bag, muttering choice words under your breath about his impossibly infuriating attitude.  

Zipping your bag shut with a sharp tug, you threw it over your shoulder and stepped outside. The rain greeted you immediately, icy droplets splattering against your face and dampening your clothes. You paused under the library’s awning, staring at the sheets of rain. “Jesus...” you muttered, bracing yourself.  

The downpour was relentless as you trudged into it, each step soaking your shoes further. Reaching into your bag, you fumbled around, searching for your umbrella. Just as your fingers brushed against the handle, a car zipped past, its tires slicing through a puddle.  

Cold water sprayed over you like a tidal wave. You froze, gasping as the chill seeped into your skin. Looking down at your drenched clothes, you then shot a glare at the sleek black Maserati GranTurismo speeding away, its taillights glowing red in the distance.  

“Are you fucking serious?!” you yelled, your voice lost in the roar of rain.  

The car turned a corner and vanished, leaving you standing there, soaked and fuming. You groaned, knowing full well your hair would shrink up from the rain, a thought that annoyed you even more.  

Finally pulling out your umbrella, you stared at it with a bitter laugh. “What’s the point now?” you muttered, shoving it back into your bag.  

As you trudged toward your Jeep, your phone buzzed in your pocket. Tugging it out, you glanced at the screen, expecting a random notification, but instead, Sasha’s name glowed brightly.  

The message below her name made your heart stop and your eyes widen. 

Sissy🥔🍖🩷: Help me please.

[raggycookie]

A JEAN KIRSTEIN X READER

Honey Boy: Deal with the Devil

Date: October 31

Time: 1:45 pm

You failed

Yet another failing grade in Calculus class

A 67% to be exact

This was your breaking point. You had always been a brilliant student, some would even call you a genius. Your GPA gleamed at a perfect 4.0, but now it felt like that number was slipping away, just as your mental health had begun to do. If you didn't raise that Calculus grade, both would crumble like sandcastles at high tide.

The bell rang, signaling the end of class, but your thoughts were far from the usual dismissal. Your eyes remained locked on the test in your hands, where the cold, cruel "F" stared back at you like a challenge. You didn't even notice the other students packing up around you.

"Ain't no way..."

You whispered to yourself, squeezing the paper tighter in your hand.

A gentle tap on your shoulder pulled you from your thoughts, and you turned to face Colt. He stood there, watching you stare at the paper, knowing that something inside you was unraveling.

"You good? You haven't moved since he handed those out?"

He already knew the answer, but the question hung in the air, a fragile thread he needed to pull.

You shook your head, dark curls swaying with the motion. With a sigh, you met his eyes, your voice thick with frustration.

"Nah, I'm very agitated right now."

You shoved the paper into your bookbag with a rough motion, the edges crumpling as it settled between your green Chemistry and purple Communications notebooks. Zipping the bag shut, you continued speaking, your words edged with exhaustion.

"I honestly don't know what I'm gonna do at this point."

Your bookbag slid over your brown knitted sweater, the sleeve catching in your curls before you freed it and began making your way down the lecture hall steps.

Colt walked beside you, shrugging. His voice was casual but laced with his brand of unfiltered honesty.

"I know this might seem crazy, but you know normal people, in situations like this... they get a tutor."

You shot him a look, your lips curling into a mock smile.

"Okay, Mr. 45."

His eyes rolled back in exasperation, but he kept his pace, voice steady.

"All I'm saying is that you should get someone to help you."

"Name 'em."

You crossed your arms and waited, a challenge in your gaze. Colt gave a half-hearted shrug before offering the name you never wanted to hear.

"Try asking Jean."

Your stomach dropped. If you were in one of those old cartoons, your head would've burst into flames right then and there.

Jean Kirstein.

The headache.

The genius with an ego the size of the moon. You'd been forced to deal with him for twelve years. His endless name-calling, his sly remarks, his side eyes that made your blood boil. But what truly gawed at you wasn't 't 't just his arrogance, it was his mind.

He was just as smart as you, maybe a bit smarter considering your Calc grade right now. It was suffocating.

The two of you had always danced in a rivalry, the need to be better than each other was the fuel that fed your disdain for him. Despite both sitting at the top of the class, neither of you could stand the thought of being outshone. The idea of ​​asking him for help felt like surrender.

And that was something you couldn't do.

With a scoff, you dismissed the thought with a wave of your hand.

"I'd rather stick my head in an ant hill. I think I'm good."

You and Colt continued down the hall toward the bustling crowds of students, but he couldn't help himself. A escaped laughed him, muffled by his pale hand as he shielded himself from the gusts of cold air.

"Well, if you're so set on failing, then sure, keep doing what you're doing. But we both know he's the smartest person in the class."

Colt checked his phone and then tossed his thumb over his shoulder, heading toward the elevators.

"I gotta go. Promised my brother I'd pick him up from soccer practice." He waved with one hand as he backed away. "Good luck, Y/n."

He disappeared into the crowd, and with him, any trace of your smile. You continued walking, your feet moving on autopilot until you found the vending machine. You pulled a dollar from your bag and slid it in, the hum of the machine pulling you from your spiraling thoughts.

A Coke Zero. Just what you needed.

The machine churned, dropping the can into the pickup slot. You knelt to grab it, the black skirt brushing your leggings as you crouched, ignoring the small inconvenience. You twisted open the can, your mind already drifting to the next task at hand. You needed to get home, change, and head to work by 2:15.

As you made your way to the elevator, you found yourself standing beside a figure in a blue hoodie, a vintage black jacket, and baggy light-wash jeans. The faint sound of music leaked from their headphones, but you already knew who it was without needing to glance.

Jean Kirstein.

You couldn't help but look away, staring at your phone as your curls fell into your face, trying to bury your discomfort in your Tiktok for you page.

"You're terrible at pretending like you didn't see someone."

His voice was smooth, never looking at you, just gazing at the elevator doors with that infuriating calmness.

"Who said I was acting like I didn't see you?"

"You forget who you're talking to sometimes."

And damn it, he was right. It was always like this-his ability to see right through your facade, no matter how hard you tried to keep it together. You rolled your eyes and shifted your gaze toward the doors.

Colt's words rang in your mind like an annoying echo.

Ask Jean for help.

Like hell you would.

You couldn't care less if his GPA was identical to yours, or if he was the top dog in Calculus. The thought of spending hours in the same room as him. Him, lecturing you, and telling you what to do, was more unbearable than failing the class altogether.

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. You, Jean, and a couple of others shuffled inside, the lift descending slowly. One by one, the students filtered out, until it was just you and Jean, standing in opposite corners, silent , the only sound the soft hum of his music.

Finally, when the elevator reached the lobby, Jean stepped out first, his blue hood pulled up against the rain. You hesitated for a moment before following him.

The rain poured down, and you fished your clear umbrella from your bag, shielding yourself from the downpour. You hurried toward your black 2021 Jeep Wrangler Sport S, throwing your bookbag into the backseat as you closed the driver's door behind you. You glanced at the clock. No time to waste, work was calling, and you couldn't afford to be late.

You punched the button on your console, the music blaring to life, and your Jeep rolled forward, the rain blurring the world outside. All you could think about was getting to your apartment, changing into your work clothes, and pushing through the day.

Or at least trying

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.

.

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Time: 2:10 pm

[♫♫ 𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚢 "𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚊𝚢" 𝚋𝚢 𝚂𝚊𝚍𝚎 ♫♫]

The sound of your Jeep Wrangler's engine sputtered as you parked into your designated spot, the rain pattering against the windshield in sync with the rhythm of your thoughts. You glanced at the clock—2:12 PM. You were cutting it close for your shift at Wall Rose Coffeehouse, but that was nothing new. You grabbed your coat and umbrella, stepped out of the car, and braced yourself against the cold wind. The parking lot was slick, puddles forming beneath your black work shoes as you crossed the lot toward the café's entrance.

The bell over the door jingled when you pushed it open, and you were immediately hit with the comforting smells of coffee grounds, warm pastries, and the faint trace of Mahogany Teakwood burning in the background. You shook off the rain from your umbrella and closed it with a swift motion, hanging it up by the door as you stepped behind the counter.

Bertholdt, your longtime friend who practically felt like family, was busy arranging pastries in the display case. He looked up when you entered, offering a smile and a subtle head tilt.

"Hey, Bert. Is Miche in today?" you asked, grabbing your red apron from the rack.

"Nah, I don't think he's comin' in today," Bertholdt replied, turning back to his work.

"Thank God," you muttered, relieved.

You tied your apron behind your back and leaned against the counter, glancing around the shop. It was a slow afternoon, and you had about a minute before you were technically on the clock. Miche, your laid-back boss, had a reputation for being chill with everything still, it was nice to know you didn't have to deal with him today.

Bertholdt looked up from his work and noticed you weren't moving as quickly as usual. "You're never this late. What's up?" he asked, his tone casual but observant.

You couldn't help but chuckle. He knows me too well . "I don't know what you're talking about," you deflected, but Bertholdt wasn't convinced. He knew when something was on your mind.

"Girl, don't play with me," he shot back, giving you a knowing look.

Rolling your eyes, you leaned back in your chair and crossed your legs, trying to hide how unsettled you felt. Talking about your problems wasn't your thing-it made you feel vulnerable. And the last thing you wanted was for someone to pity you.

You let out a sigh and shifted in your seat. "Just stressed about classwork," you said, trying to brush it off.

Bertholdt paused, clearly not buying it, but he didn't press. Instead, he stood up and grabbed two large cups from the counter, moving over to the coffee machine to make your usual cinnamon bun iced coffee. "You want your usual?" " " he asked as if you could say no.

"Yeah, thanks," you replied, watching him work. You knew he was letting you keep your guard up, which you appreciated.

As Bertholdt made the drinks, you let your thoughts drift. You're fine. It's just a test . But it was more than that. The thought of failing, of not living up to everything you had worked for, was too much to bear .

"Here you go," Bertholdt said, handing you your coffee. He knew something was off, but he kept the conversation light. As he made his drink, you could hear the faint sound of rain hitting the windows. The usual banter began to flow again. Conspiracy theories. Aliens. Volcano sharks. The things that kept your mind distracted, if only for a little while.

But then the familiar ding of the tablet broke your flow. A Doordash order.

You stood up, your mind still preoccupied, but you read the order aloud with a little grin. "Cinnamon bun iced coffee and two cookies. Name's Junebug."

You smiled faintly,

"That's cute,"

You quickly assembled the order, gathering the coffee and cookies, when you heard Bertholdt let out a loud, frustrated sigh. You turned around to see him leaning against the wall, hand over his face. His phone was tucked into his pocket, but the stress was obvious.

"What's wrong with you?" you asked, your tone a little sharper than usual.

Bertholdt groaned, raking a hand through his hair. "My professor emailed me about my grade. Anthropology is tough as hell."

You paused, the anxiety of your classes creeping in. It was one of those moments when you realized everyone was on edge. You wondered if teachers were starting to send out those dreaded emails to their failing students, was yours coming next? Would you get an email about your grade too?

"Damn, Bert. You need to fix that crap, man."

Bertholdt shot you a mock glare. "Okay, Ms. 4.0 GPA," he teased.

You chuckled, but the reality of grades hit a little too close to home. You had your anxieties, though you weren't about to admit it out loud. What if your professors started emailing you about grades, too? It was a constant weight on your shoulders, always pushing you to be perfect. But maybe you wouldn't be this time.

The sound of the door chiming interrupted your thoughts as a rugged man stepped inside. His coat was soaked, sticking to his body from the downpour outside. He approached the counter without saying a word, his expression neutral as he handed you his phone.

You stared at it for a moment. The Doordash app. The name Junebug .

You hated it when people did this.

But you didn't let it show. You gave your usual customer-service smile, took the phone, and confirmed the order before grabbing the box. The man didn't say anything, not even a thank you. He just typed something on his phone and left, the bell over the door ringing as he disappeared back into the night.

You looked over at Bertholdt, your shared exasperation clear. "Tch, Maaaaaannnn," you both said in unison, laughter bubbling up as you shook your heads.

Time: 9:28pm

The rain fell softly, creating a gentle symphony against your umbrella as you and Bertholdt stood outside the shop, the air thick with the scent of damp pavement. Your coats were wrapped tightly around you, shielding you from the chill, while the rhythm of raindrops drumming against the fabric filled the quiet space between words. Bertholdt twisted the key in the lock, checking it once more before turning to you with his usual easy smile, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of the parking lot.

"You saw Eren's text, right?"

His tone was casual, but you could tell the weight of the question hung in the air.

You sighed, lips pressed together in a mix of frustration and inevitability. "Yeah, about the Friendsgiving next month. Don't remind me."

Eren's Friendsgiving had become a staple for the group, an event that seemed to grow larger and more chaotic every year. Despite the madness, you couldn't help but feel a sense of warmth at the thought of it. You were all part of the same tight-knit circle, woven together by Eren's uncanny ability to make people feel like family.

"I'm always stuck doing the main dishes, besides Sasha and Mikasa, since none of y'all can cook."

Bertholdt gave a low laugh as he unlocked his car, pushing open the door and leaning against the frame. "Well, you do make the best mac and cheese, and you never make the turkey dry. We kinda need you around for that."

You snorted, shaking your head as you leaned against your car. "I knew y'all were just using me."

Bertholdt rolled his eyes, a smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You know damn well we care about you."

You both shared a laugh before he waved goodbye and pulled out of the lot, his red Nissan Altima slipping away into the rainy night. You lingered for a moment, watching the taillights disappear into the mist before sliding into your car, starting it with a soft hum.

Driving down the wet streets of Trost University, you passed students in costumes, some original, others cliché. Harley Quinns, Lola Bunnies, and an army of scream-masked men are basic, but endearing in their simplicity.

Be original

you thought to yourself with a quiet smirk. If you weren't so drained from work and classes, maybe you'd have thrown on a costume and joined them by going to a party or something, But tonight, you were content to head home , the steady rhythm of the rain against your windshield guiding you toward your quiet apartment, far from the chaos of the holiday.

[♫♫ 𝘗𝘭𝘢𝘺: "𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘛𝘰𝘰 𝘚𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘗𝘢𝘴𝘴" 𝘣𝘺 𝘐𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘢 𝘈𝘳𝘪𝘦 ♫♫]

The drive was a brief one, just twenty minutes, but it felt longer as the rain pelted against the windshield, its steady rhythm mixing with the soft haze of city lights that blurred through the downpour. By the time you pulled up to your apartment, the rain had started to pour just a bit more. You stepped out of the car with a quickness and headed towards the apartment building.

You stepped inside your apartment, the scent of the rain mingling with the fresh, familiar aroma of your plug-in air freshener as you pushed the door open.

The kitchen bathed in soft, golden light, a gentle contrast to the dreariness outside. The space enveloped you, its tranquility wrapping around you like a hug. You set your bags down on the black couch in the living room, your mind already racing ahead , before heading to close the curtains, blocking out the world for a moment. With a sigh, you stretched your arms to the ceiling and let your afro loose from its tight bun, the weight of the day slowly sliding off your shoulders. You sank into the couch, allowing the cushion's softness to cradle you, the tension in your body slowly unwinding.

The first thing you did was reach for your laptop, the glowing screen flickering to life as you opened your student email, dreading what you might find. Sure enough, two new messages greeted you.

One from a spam account,

Another from Mr. Akerman.

Your stomach dropped.

You clicked open the email from your professor, your eyes skimming over the harsh words of failure.

His message was simple: you were slipping, and he recommended you find a tutor before things got any worse.

A heavy sigh escaped you, and you slouched deeper into the couch, running a hand through your hair. You'd known this was coming, the email, the warning, it had been a nagging thought in the back of your mind, a whisper you tried to ignore. But now that it was in writing, it felt like the weight of the world was pressing down on you.

You shut the laptop with a quick snap, the frustration and anxiety mounting. You needed a tutor. Fast.

The words from Colt surfaced, unbidden, and you pushed them aside immediately. No way in hell.

You dragged yourself off the couch, your body heavy with exhaustion, and walked to the bathroom. The warmth of the shower greeted you like an old friend, the steam rising as you lathered your skin with your coconut-scented Dove soap. The hot water relax your muscles, but your mind was anything but at ease. Thoughts swirled around, tangled and jumbled, tutor, failing, grades and you forced them away, focusing on the comfort of the moment.

You finished the shower, drying off with a towel before slipping into your black robe and moving into your skincare routine. The cleanser felt cool against your face, a contrast to the heat of the water, and you massaged it in, washing away the sweat and the day's tension. Toner, moisturizer, then brushing your teeth-each step a ritual that calmed you just enough. The final touch was the silk bonnet, sliding over your head like a shield for the night. You turned off the bathroom light as you left, stepping into your room where the soft sound of rain against your window filled the space.

The dim light of your room made everything feel intimate, quiet, and safe. The only illumination came from your warm lamp standing beside the full-length mirror, casting a soft glow. You moved over to your dresser, pulling out a large t- shirt, shorts, and socks. Slipping under the covers, the weight of the duvet wrapped around you like a cocoon, you opened your laptop again, the soft glow of the screen illuminating your face.

You typed in the URL for the tutoring center, hoping against hope that someone might be available.

"Full. Of course it is."

You scratched at your bonnet in frustration, shutting the laptop down once more, the soft click of it closing the door to another disappointment. The room grew darker as you turned off the lamp, the stillness settling in like an old friend. You lay there for a while, listening to the rain hit your window, feeling the weight of your thoughts and the unspoken truth that the tutoring center was already full.

Listen to Colt

Dear God...

Listen to Colt

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath before telling yourself.

I gotta make a deal with the devil

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Date: November 1st

Time: 12:50 am

The lecture hall had emptied almost entirely, save for the faint echoes of footsteps fading into the hallway and the occasional shuffle of papers. You stayed rooted to your seat, jaw tight as you watched Jean Kirschtein at the front of the room. He moved with maddening precision, stacking his books, aligning his notes, and highlighting in obnoxiously neat strokes, like the entire world could wait for him.

It took a moment for you to muster the courage or maybe just enough frustration to stand. The strap of your bag dug into your shoulder as you adjusted it, your pride screaming at you not to do this. But Calculus wasn't giving you a choice, and you weren't about to let one class jeopardize your spotless GPA.

Finally, you descended the steps, each one heavier than the last.

"Jean," you called, stopping a few feet from him and crossing your arms.

He didn't look up at first, just gave a casual, "What?" without breaking stride in his organizational ritual. When he did glance at you, his brown eyes carried a flicker of annoyance but mostly disinterest.

"I need your help," you said, voice sharper than you intended.

"With?" he asked flatly, already refocusing on his notes.

"Calculus," you ground out, as though the word tasted bitter.

Jean snorted, a low, unimpressed sound. "No."

Your eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?"

"I said no," he repeated, shrugging like it was obvious, his tone maddeningly indifferent as he slid a notebook into his bag.

"Jean," you hissed, stepping closer. "Don't play with me right now."

"I'm not," he replied, finally turning to face you. He leaned against the desk, his posture lazy but his gaze steady, like he was daring you to argue. "I just don't feel like it."

Your fists clenched. "You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't serious."

"And I wouldn't say no if I wasn't serious," he shot back, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint, almost taunting chuckle.

"Why are you being difficult?" you demanded. "You know I'm not out here failing classes."

Jean tilted his head, his expression unreadable but somehow still condescending. "Then figure it out like you do everything else."

The audacity. You glared at him, heat rising in your chest. "You're really gonna act like this? Over some notes and a couple of hours?"

"Yes," he said simply, lifting his bag over one shoulder.

"Oh, you're such a-" You bit back the word, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment to compose yourself. "Jean. I need your help. Just this once."

His gaze lingered on you, steady and unrelenting, his brown eyes flicking over your face like he was searching for something. It wasn't just annoyance in his stare, it was something heavier, something that felt like a challenge. The way he held your gaze made your chest tighten, like he was peeling back every excuse you'd built to protect your pride.

"Why me?" he asked, his voice softer but still edged. "Why not someone else?"

"Because they're not you,"

You snapped, the words slipping out before you could stop them. You saw the flicker of surprise in his eyes before he masked it. You quickly fix your words so he won't get the wrong idea.

"Your the smartest guy in Calc and because I don't have time to waste on people who can't teach."

His jaw tensed, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Then, he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Fine," he muttered, his voice begrudging.

"Library. Tomorrow. Five."

Relief washed over you, but you didn't let it show. "Thank you."

"But," he added, pointing at you with a warning look, "you're doing it my way."

"Do I even have a choice," you said quickly, though your tone carried a hint of defiance.

"And don't be late," he called over his shoulder as he started walking away.

"I'm never late!" you yelled after him.

"Uh huh," he muttered, the sarcasm dripping from his voice.

You stood there for a moment, watching him disappear into the hallway, your fists still clenched at your sides. Muttering under your breath, you turned to leave.

"God, help me."

[raggycookie]

First Time on Tumblr

Hello, I don't know how to really work this but I'm raggy._.cookie on TikTok and I'm posting my Jean Kirstein x Reader on here. It's on ao3 and Wattpad but some people want it on here too so once I learn how to work this app, I'll post all the chapters!!