The two of you have lived together for years now. Two bedrooms, one couch, and an apartment that smells like bergamot, lavender, and his cologne. The space is filled with traces of your personalities – his gym gear in random places, his headset sometimes on the kitchen counter, and his boxers on the sofa far more frequently than they should be. It’s a space the two of you have long learned to call home. A chaotic but loyal space. Mikasa and Armin share a space directly opposite yours, always popping in back and forth as they please, and vice versa.

You’re not together – not officially – despite what most people think. The way in which the two of you bicker, tease, and move around each other like muscle memory is enough to give the impression. The way his eyes light up whenever your name is mentioned in conversation, the way he gets defensive when someone tries to imply they know you better than him. Of course, people would think you’re dating.

He's your best friend. He holds your hair back when you’re sick, picks you up whenever you fall asleep on the sofa to carry you over to your bed, and randomly picks fights with you when he’s bored. You’ve shared silence, arguments, hangovers, grocery runs, Netflix binges, and Sunday mornings on the balcony together, a cigarette always dangling from his lips as he looks at you with a knowing glint in his eye. Everyone knows he keeps a Polaroid of the two of you tucked in his wallet – he’s had it since he can remember.

When you finally open the front door and step inside, you notice Eren’s already in the kitchen. He’s shirtless, his sliders on, hair tied back as he usually does. He’s got one AirPod in his ear, and he’s stirring food in the pan. His eyes flicker to the door, noticing you, before returning back to the food he’s making.

“Yo,” he says, eyes flicking to you again. “I actually got my ass up and decided to make dinner today. You don’t get a choice whether you wanna eat it or not. I busted my ass making this, so you’re eating it.”