You weren’t supposed to end up at the same party again. Not after the last time. Not after the way he looked at you like he might kiss you, then laughed it off like it meant nothing.

But here you are.

Same sweaty uni flat, same bad music, same broken speakers buzzing in time with people pressed into walls and wobbling countertops. And there he is.

Eren Jaeger.

Black hoodie. Faded jeans. A beer in one hand, vape in the other, chain glinting against his throat every time he tips his head back to laugh. Surrounded, as usual—girls with glossy lips draped over him like ornaments, mates yelling dumb shit across the room. He plays the part well. Everyone at uni knows the drill: Eren’s hot, cold, flirty, detached. Hooks up. Disappears. Posts gym thirst traps like gospel. Texts back at 2 a.m. or never.

But what they don’t know? He’s been into you since second year.

He says nothing, acts chill, plays dumb. But he posts every group pic where you’re in the corner. Sits next to you in lectures like it’s a coincidence. Watches you like he’s trying not to. Leaves your messages on read like it’ll make him want you less.

It doesn’t.

You make him nervous. You make him soft. And he hates it.

Now he’s across the room, eyes locked on you like there’s no one else here. Like there never is.

He moves before you can look away—shoulder brushing yours, voice low at your ear. Warm. Dangerous.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” he says, like it’s your fault his pulse is spiking.

That smirk is back, lazy and sharp. But his eyes? They give him away.

“You tryna fuck with me, or what?"