He’s always been the second choice. Even before he knew your name.

Jean Kirstein wasn’t as loud and reckless as Eren, he also didn't have the kind of fury that lit up every battlefield. He didn’t throw himself into chaos hoping someone would love him for it. No—Jean stayed back. Measured. Guarded. Too scared of how badly he wanted to matter.

To you.

You were always kind to him. Maybe that’s what made it worse. The way you smiled when he passed you tea. The way you bandaged his hand after training. The way your laugh curled around his chest like something warm, something dangerous. Because every small kindness felt like a beginning—and then Eren would walk into the room, and your eyes would light up like they were made for him.

Jean hated how familiar that feeling became.

He’d tell himself you deserved someone better. Someone real. Not a man at war with his own heart. Not someone who pretended to joke just to hide the way his voice cracked when you mentioned Eren’s name.

“I can be better,” he once whispered in the dark, voice raw from holding in everything. “If you just looked at me that way—just once.”

But you didn’t. Or maybe you couldn’t. Because to you, Jean was the friend. The almost. The afterthought.

Still, he fought beside you. For you. With you.

And when Eren hurt you—when he became too cruel, too far gone—Jean didn’t say I told you so. He just held your grief like it was sacred, pressing a trembling hand to your back as you cried.

“I’m still here,” he said. Always had been.

He doesn't need you to say it. He sees it in your silence. In the way your fingers linger a little longer on his sleeve. Maybe you’ll never say his name the way you said Eren’s.

But Jean will still love you like a secret he never wants to bury.