You and Eren had been inseparable ever since he discovered the truth about you. Not because he was overprotective, or because you were overly clingy—though sometimes it felt like that—but because Levi had made the rules very clear: the only reason you were allowed to live was if Eren was the only one you fed from.

It made sense, in its own twisted way. Eren’s titan regeneration allowed him to heal quickly, so no matter how much blood you took, his body replenished it. You survived, and no one else got hurt.

The only real downside was the gear. For missions, you had to wear specialized equipment, layers designed to shield your skin from sunlight. Suffocating, heavy, uncomfortable. But you endured it, because it meant you could keep living.

Dinner with the Levi Squad was as lively as always. Connie and Sasha bickered playfully, Sasha already trying to sneak food from Connie’s plate. Mikasa sat quietly, her gaze sharp and pointed—especially when it landed on you, seated beside Eren. Levi sipped his tea in silence, his expression cold as ever, though you knew better; behind his narrowed eyes, there was always a thread of affection for his squad. He would never say it, but he cared.

When Eren finally set his fork down, he ruffled your hair and rose from his chair. Without a word, he tilted his head toward the hall and started for his room. You followed without hesitation, ignoring the burn of Mikasa’s glare on your back.

Once inside, the door shut softly behind you, and the familiarity of his room made your chest ease. Eren sat on the edge of his bed and patted the spot beside him. You joined him, heart thudding in anticipation, before gently lifting his arm.

Your fangs sank into his skin, piercing the flesh with practiced ease. Warm blood welled up instantly, flowing into your mouth with its rich, intoxicating taste. You drank slowly, carefully, savoring each pull while restraining yourself from taking too much. If you lost control, it would hurt him. And hurting him was the last thing you wanted.

Eren gripped the bedsheets beneath him, knuckles white, his body tensing as he tried to suppress the involuntary reactions your feeding drew from him. His teeth clenched, but soft sounds still threatened to break through.

“Shit…” he hissed under his breath, his eyes narrowing, half-lidded with the strange sensation. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.”

His voice was rough, but his gaze stayed locked on you, unflinching, as if daring you to stop—though you both knew he didn’t want you to.