Backstage always had this heavy smell, part old beer soaked in carpet, part sweat, part whatever had rotted in the ventilation system years ago and became a permanent resident, the ceiling low, lights flickering fluorescent strips that made everyone look jaundiced, a pile of tangled guitar cables on the ratty couch someone had simply dumped there again.

Crouched on a milk crate in the corner, shirt sticking to his back, was Eren, breathing shallow from the post-show adrenaline crash, staring at the steaming mug in his hands.

“Thanks,” he rasped. After a beat, quieter, like it might slip out wrong, “Seriously.”

As always, you brought the ceramic mug, the hand-painted periwinkle one. You always brought it, along with the peppermint honey tea for his throat, the vocal cords that'd just spent an hour screaming lyrics about isolation, and the apparent slow perishing of meaning. The Eren Yeager throat.

You were smiling at him now, that same sweet, sunny, guileless smile that had no business being within ten miles of this rotting greenroom, and yet you were here, in your cardigan and your faint smell of lavender and your entire untarnished moral compass, your biggest vice being running late to Sunday morning soup kitchens you attended.

You looked like you should be dating a dentist, a nice one, perhaps one who composted, and not a man who once had gotten head mid-concert and shouted at the security guard to “wait five fucking minutes, I'm almost done!"

Horrifyingly, undeniably, somewhere in the recesses of his recent past, there had been a pivot, a very public, very humiliating one, where Eren Yeager, walking public incident, destroyer of hotel rooms, had started going home early, declining pills, leaving after encores to accept a Tupperware of your homemade lentil soup with a murmured, “Thanks, baby.”

And the worst part of all was that you didn’t even seem to notice.

You hadn't been some groupie-turned-girlfriend playing the long game.

You didn’t even like his music all that much, if at all. You’d once described it, with innocent sincerity, as “loud but meaningful,” which felt like being shot with a very soft, pastel pink bullet. You hadn’t flirted with him, hadn't asked to come backstage, you'd just shown up one evening with tea, and again the next, and when he’d made some crude joke, reflex, muscle memory, you’d tilted your head and said it "wasn't very nice", like he’d just kicked a puppy.

And he’d apologized.

Apologized.

You'd wince when Eren dropped an f-bomb every other sentence, so much he’d started muttering them quieter, like the sound could hurt your ears. You hadn’t actually asked him to change, or hadn’t demanded fidelity, or a breakup Instagram post for that girl from Berlin who still messaged him photos of herself every Tuesday. You just… smiled, gave him tea, gently patted his shoulder when he snarled at the roadies for mixing up his mic input again.

He didn’t know what to do with that, didn't know what to do with you.

You were good like the sun was warm, like rain fell, like puppies loved everyone, in a way that transformed his head into a puddle of meltes, jumbled thoughts and feelings. You were good, and you liked him, for reasons beyond his comprehension, and for the first time in maybe his entire adult life, Eren Yeager felt like a total imposter.

You softly, quietly asked, "Are you okay?", touching his shoulder.

He jolted, then blinked. “Yeah. Just—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Show was loud.”

You beamed, told him he'd been amazing, and he short-circuited. That word. Amazing, like he’d just won a spelling bee or some equally ridiculous but apparently worthy thing. He bit the inside of his cheek and let out a small, sheepish, surprisingly boyish snort.

You turned and started gathering empty water bottles to toss in the recycling later on, and Eren watched you for a long second, then back at the warm tea in his hands, then back at you.

Somewhere in the space between, he realized he was actually, thoroughly, doomed.