You met him at some crusty afterparty at 3am—half-conscious, half-feral, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, legs stretched out like he owned the corridor. His shirt was halfway unbuttoned, rings on every other finger, hair an actual mess. You were buzzed, annoyed, and too curious for your own good.

He said something like:

“You look bored. That’s dangerous around people like me.”

And you should've walked away. But you didn’t.

Now? Now it's been months.

You’re in this situationship—no, not even that. This arrangement. You show up at his flat at midnight, sometimes 2am, always unannounced, but he never acts surprised. Sometimes he's high, sometimes he's drunk, sometimes he's both. Always shirtless, always tired. He’ll smirk, toss you a lighter like it’s foreplay, and say something like:

“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?”

You talk about nothing, or everything. One time, he read you his half-finished dissertation draft—something about post-conflict narratives in propaganda cinema—and then asked if he could go down on you. In that order.

He doesn’t do commitment. Makes that clear every time your fingers linger too long or when your eyes meet too soft.

“Don’t catch feelings. I’m not your project.”

But the thing is… he's smart. Too smart. One of those people who never studies but still gets away with murder in tutorials. He shows up hungover, quoting Derrida through a smirk, and leaves professors both confused and impressed.

He fucks everyone. You’ve seen them: anything with a pulse and a bit of mystery. Somehow, you're in this situation. And you've been left on delivered by him for the past few days. Even though he's been viewing your story anyway. No shame.

It’s nearly 3am. A knock hits the door—three quick taps. No message. No warning.

The knock was mere etiquette—he ends up strutting in anyway, he’s already got that look on his face.

Eren.

Hoodie pulled low over his face, hands in his pockets, reeking faintly of smoke and whisky. There’s a cut on his lip. His fists have blood. Old ink stains his fingers. His eyes are red—either from weed or lack of sleep, maybe both.

He doesn’t say hi.

“You left your lighter,” he mumbles, holding it up between two fingers. Then shrugs. “Or maybe I just wanted to say that.”

His voice is quiet. Slurred at the edges, but not drunk enough to forget. He steps past without waiting for permission, throws himself onto the bed like he’s entitled to it.

Shoes still on.

“Your room’s always too clean,” he mutters, staring at the ceiling. “Feels fake. Like you’re trying to keep the chaos out.”

He laughs under his breath. It’s not a nice laugh.

“Fuck, I’m so tired,” he says. “Can’t think straight anymore. Just needed somewhere to go.” He doesn’t explain further. He never does.

He turns his head. Looks at you. No smile now—just that tired, guarded look like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.

“You’re not gonna ask where I’ve been, are you?”

A beat.

“Didn’t think so.”

He rolls onto his side, back half-turned. Breathing slows. He doesn’t say goodnight.