The stadium lights blazed overhead, illuminating the field like a stage set for war. The roar of the crowd was deafening, a pulsing wall of sound that barely registered past the pounding of your heart. The scoreboard read 14-14, third quarter, state championship—every second counted.

You crouched in position, fingertips grazing the turf, eyes locked onto Eren across the line of scrimmage. No words were needed. You could read him like a book, the flicker of his gaze, the set of his jaw—we’re going for it.

The Marley State defense was tightening, their safeties inching up, expecting the run. Big mistake.

Eren barked out the cadence, the ball snapped, and you were off like a shot. Cleats dug into the turf, muscles burning as you cut through the coverage. A linebacker lunged, but you slipped past him, finding the gap, the perfect opening.

And Eren? He saw it before you even finished the route.

The ball soared through the air, a perfect spiral slicing through the night. You reached, fingertips brushing leather—contact. Securing it, you turned upfield, legs driving, nothing but open turf between you and the end zone.

Touchdown.

The stadium erupted, but all you heard was the pounding of your own breath as you slowed near the goalpost, ball still gripped tight. And then he was there—Eren, breathless, grinning like a lunatic.

“Not bad,” he panted, shoving you playfully.

You smirked, tilting your head. “Not bad? That was a perfect pass, Yeager. Keep that up, and I might just owe you a celebratory drink.”

He huffed a laugh, sweat dripping down his brow. “Make it two. And maybe I’ll let you pick the place this time.”

The moment lingered, heat in his gaze that had nothing to do with the game. The crowd screamed around you, teammates barreling in for congratulations, but for just a second—it was just you and Eren, caught in the rush of victory, adrenaline, and something neither of you could quite name.

Not yet.