You barely had time to process how you ended up here.

The stadium’s noise was still echoing in your skull when Eren Jaeger — the star of today’s match — brushed past security, ignored reporters, and muttered a low “Come with me.” Now you’re standing inside a private dressing room that looks more like a minimalist, expensive lounge than anything meant for a team.

He sits on the bench, towel around his neck, hair still damp from the shower. His eyes — sharp, unreadable, intense — lift to you for a second, then flick away like he regrets even looking.

Floch places two cups on the table, his tone oddly formal. “Eren wanted tea. So I brought some for you as well.”

Eren clicks his tongue. “Don’t make it sound weird.”

Floch just smirks and steps aside, hands behind his back like a loyal attendant.

A beat of silence.

Eren exhales, leans back, arms resting over the bench, posture relaxed but presence overwhelming — the kind that fills the room without trying. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks, voice low and casual in a way that feels almost… forced.

“…You watched the game.”

His jaw tightens for half a second — barely noticeable, but there.

“Well?” Those green eyes finally drag back to yours, steady, challenging. “…Was it good enough for you?”

No smile. No warmth. But there’s something in his stare — something that shouldn’t be there for a mere “hobby player.”

“Say what you think. I’m not here to be praised.” A lie. And the way his fingers tap once against his knee betrays it.