#hit different

Historia suddenly jerks upright like a woman possessed, blonde hair all in her face as her bleary eyes lock onto something across the street. "Oh shit! That gay bar is open!" she gasps, voice filled with a kind of awe usually reserved for witnessing a miracle. "Let’s go!" And just like that, she’s off. Ymir's still attached to her side, practically getting dragged in the process like an owner with an eager dog.

"Oh hell no!" Ymir scrambles to grab her tighter, heels digging into the pavement. "Jaeger! Fucking help me!"

Eren lets out a long-suffering groan before swooping in, effortlessly scooping Historia into his arms. "Alright, that’s enough outta you," he mutters, adjusting his hold as she kicks her feet in protest. You’ve carried a drunk Historia before, and you know she turns into a human sandbag the second alcohol hits her system. And yet, Eren moves like she’s weightless. Even with her flailing and attempting a dramatic escape, he barely struggles, his grip unshakable. You linger for a second too long, watching the way his arm flexes underneath his hoodie as she wriggles in protest, the slight tension in his forearms as he tightens his grip to keep her still. Okay, so he’s stronger than he looks. You shake off the thought, refusing to let it take up any real estate in your brain. But you can't help but stare just a little longer.

"Unhand me, you big bozo!" Historia slurs dramatically, attempting to point at the neon-lit bar like she’s making a declaration of war. "This is gay business! I can smell the cosmopolitans calling me!"

"You're cut off, dumbass," Ymir groans, rubbing her temple. Connie can't help but just watch and laugh, not helping one bit. His cackles and Historia's drunken shouting can't help but draw attention to the normal people trying to enjoy their Sunday afternoons. Ymir just shakes her head, always tired of being a babysitter. She just shakes her head with a groan, already regretting not drugging Historia with a Pedialyte slushie before brunch.

"Bro, this is embarrassing for all of us," Connie says as he catches his breath, hands on his knees as he watches Historia still flail like a petulant toddler in Eren's arms.

"You’re not even helping," Ymir gripes, sharply glaring at the boy with the buzzcut. She leads everyone to the car like she's the only sane adult hauling a pack of children, looking back every so often to make sure that Historia's drunken ass hasn't escaped.

"Because this is the best thing I’ve ever seen, duhhh," Connie trails behind, recording a snapchat video for the group chat to laugh at later. He starts recording, narrating in a fake documentary voice. “Here we see the rare and majestic Historia in her natural state: absolutely wasted and irrational. Nature is healing.” The shutter sound clicks, and you know that video is gonna be looped for weeks. Maybe memed. Probably memed. Connie was definitely gonna play it out though.

You’re trying not to laugh, but you’re too busy watching Eren handle the whole situation like it’s just another inconvenient errand. No complaint, no fumbling. No struggle, no fuss. Just calm, sure movements—like hauling a drunk girl around is as familiar to him as tying his shoes. His hands are steady, one arm braced around her thighs, the other across her back, like he’s done this a hundred times. Maybe he has. That thought shouldn’t bother you, but for some reason, it kinda does. Not that you’re going to unpack that right now. And if your brain kind of… short-circuits for a second when he adjusts his grip—one hand flexing slightly as he shifts her weight so effortlessly, hoodie riding up just enough to hint at toned skin beneath—well. No one has to know. It’s a private glitch. You’ll reboot later.

“Fuck me,” Ymir groans, dragging a hand down her face, already exhausted and they haven’t even gotten to the car yet. “She’s gonna be a handful the whole ride back.” She turns her head toward Eren. “Ride with us, Jaeger?”

Your stomach does a weird little flip at the thought, but you push it down. It’s just a car ride. Nothing to overthink. Right? You blame the sudden onset of butterflies on the champagne still lingering in your system. Just champagne bubbles mixing with the greasy breakfast.

Eren, still holding a continuously struggling Historia, finally gives a resigned sigh after some thought and glances at Ymir. "You got the doors unlocked?"

"Yeah, yeah," Ymir waves him off, already fishing into her flannel pocket for the keys. Her tone is flat, but her eyes still twitch toward Historia like she’s waiting for her to explode again.

Eren shifts Historia in his arms again, and this time, his gaze flickers toward you. The movement is subtle, barely noticeable, but you feel it—the way his eyes drag up just enough to catch yours. But just as quick as he looks at you, even if it felt like an eternity, his eyes flit away.

You shove your hands into your pockets, tilting your head at Historia, who is now reduced to limp, defeated grumbles in Eren’s arms. “You done fighting?”

She sighs dramatically, letting her head flop back. "I just wanted to drink cosmos and dance to Doja Cat." You swear you could hear tiny sniffles from her, but you can't see her face, just blonde hair hanging as she dangles from Eren's broad shoulder.

"You can do that shit when we get back home," Ymir tells her, unlocking the car with a beep. "It'll be easier to carry your drunk ass to bed when you eventually pass out."

Eren doesn’t even wait—just yanks open the door with one hand, the other still hooked under Historia’s knees like she’s weightless and deposits her into the backseat. He barely dodges a sloppy slap from her as she whines something about oppression and the straight white man doing what he does best. You chuckle and shake your head as you get in the front seat. You'd be damned to sit next to Eren as he manspreads out. Or even worse, have a drunken Historia rolling around on top of you.

“You’re violating my rights,” she slurs, her hand flopping uselessly against his chest before sliding off. “This is textbook oppression. The straight white man strikes again.”

Eren dodges the limp hit with a sigh that says this isn’t his first rodeo. “You’re not even making sense,” he mutters, mostly to himself, but there’s the tiniest curl of his lip, just a little side smirk of a smile. His patience shouldn’t be attractive. You decide it’s not. It’s definitely not.

“Do you see that bar?” she asks Eren, pointing lazily out the window like she’s discovered the world’s greatest treasure. “Cosmos. Dancing. Gay magic.”

Eren doesn’t even look at her. He just sighs again, the sound low yet amused. “You’re literally impossible.”

“I know,” Historia drunkenly hiccups. “But also—Eren, help. I wanna go there. I need it." Her voice turns soft with a needy desperation, her hands up against the window like a prisoner, leaving splotchy handprints on Ymir's car window as she drags her hand down with an audible squeaky sound.

A soft laugh escapes your lips, the sound is sweet and genuine, light and bubbly. which makes Eren look up. And what he sees makes his heart stutter. Looking at you from the rear-view mirror, he can see you smile. Not your slick smirk or that fake, passive aggressive condescending one you had been giving him for the past two days. This is your actual genuine smile, apples of your cheeks dimpled, pulled wide enough that a hint of teeth shows through. Something in him pauses, like a skipped heartbeat. It’s annoyingly soft. Disarming.

Before he can linger on it—before he can figure out why it hits him the way it does—Ymir abruptly swings open the driver door with all the force of someone exhausted by life and brunch. "Alright, hadda make sure Connie was sober enough to drive his dumb ass back to our place. Ready to roll out?"

"I am," Historia says just a little too loud in Ymir's ear, making her jump. "There's a gallon of Tito's with my name on it in the fridge." If she wasn't gonna get her cosmos and gay bar, she was gonna make vodka sodas at home and at least pretend she was at one, one Charli xcx song at a time.

"Fuck, Stor! Buckle your ass up," Ymir pinches the bridge of her nose before she starts the car. Ymir's beat up altima starts up with a heave. "Gonna end up going over a speed bump and your tiny ass is gonna go flying out the damn window." Fumbling sounds could be heard, Historia helplessly mumbling as the seatbelt keeps slipping from her sloppy grip.

With a tchht of his teeth, Eren takes it into his own hands and leans over to buckle her up. Ymir backs out of the parking lot, her music turned up loud enough so she doesn't have to hear Historia whine every time she doesn't stop at one of the dozens of downtown bars. Your left elbow is rested on the center console as you scroll through your phone, your vibrating notifications pulling you away from your tipsy watching out of the window.

From the angle you're sitting Eren has the perfect view of your phone. And him, being ever so nosy about the mysterious enigma that was you, couldn't help but watch. Because of course he would. Each social media app on your home page seemed to have double or triple-digit numbers in the little red bubbles that resided in the top right corner. Connie really wasn't lying about that roster, huh?

Opening up snapchat, your chat log is bombarded with unopened snaps and messages. Eren's eyes narrow ever so slightly as he watches you swipe through your messages. The longer he watches, the more he can’t seem to shake the feeling of being… a little too invested. He takes note of the little bitmoji avatars. Mostly guys, he realizes. The messages from the guys pile up, his brow twitching with each one. A few snaps, a couple of “What’s up?”s, a few “Miss you”s. You half swipe a few, reading the message but leaving them on delivered, leaving the sender in agonizing limbo. Others you flat out just leave on read without blinking, not even giving them a sliver off attention.

Then you open some from girls, he doesn't know who, but these are the only ones that actually get a response from you. You're actually engaging, actually responding. Laughing quietly to yourself. Sending back stickers and even sending funky ass pictures with weird filters. He tries to hold back a snicker as you use one that gives you a cartoonishly big forehead.

Then a notification pops up at the top. It's a text. 'How was brunch?' Eren's brows furrow, eyes scanning the screen to read the name. And everything in him stills in that moment. Jean. The fuck? Jean texted you? The thought settles in Eren’s chest like a sickly strong emotional cocktail—one part disbelief, two parts irritation. You were actually texting Jean. Did he actually manage to snag your number last night at the party? The thought sits uncomfortably in his stomach now, but he doesn’t dare to admit it. You tap the message to open it, your acrylic nail making a 'tut' sound against the phone as you do so. With his eyes stuck to your screen, he realizes you two had been texting... a lot. Like a lot.

Eren can’t help but notice the way your fingers dance over the screen, typing out responses quickly, as if the conversation is something you’re eager to continue. It makes something twist in his gut, something unfamiliar and green. There’s something about it that grinds at him. His jaw tightens slightly, and he watches you send the message to Jean without hesitation.

'So this is how you operate', he thinks bitterly. The decisiveness in which you engage, and the fact that you don't seem to care who you leave on read, except... for Jean. Jean, who in this moment gets all of your attention, all of your effort. Jean, who somehow managed to snag your number after one night of partying.

Eren’s fingers twitch. His hands, resting in his lap, clench into fists without him realizing. There's this sinking feeling in his chest; something sour he can't quite place. What does Jean have that he doesn’t? He doesn’t know why it’s getting under his skin this badly. He shouldn’t care. He barely even likes you, only tolerates you cause you're Ymir's cousin—at least that’s what he tells himself.

'Brunch was good. Lot of mimosas, a little too many.' Your fingers pause for a moment before you add, 'Ymir had to carry Historia out of the restaurant lol.' You send it with a little laugh. He can see it. He can hear it in the way you’re typing. And he swears he could actually hear you softly giggle under the music.

Eren inhales sharply. His throat tightens. He’s watching this entire exchange like it's some kind of sick fascination. But the thing is, it’s not just curiosity anymore. It’s... jealousy. He doesn’t know why it’s hitting him like this—why he feels this need to know how close you two are. How much he’s really got to compete with.

He watches as you send another message. 'I’ll let you know when I’m free to hang out next. You still owe me that drink.' The message seems innocent enough on the surface, but the way you send it, so casually, so… comfortably and expectant—it digs under his skin. You tap the send button without a second thought, locking your phone and not waiting on Jean's response. It’s as if you don’t even register that Eren’s been watching, studying you. But he’s fully aware of it. His focus is on you, every movement, every keystroke.

A quiet breath escapes Eren, and his grip on the seat tightens, almost painfully. What the hell was he doing? Why did it matter so much? He glances at you, his gaze lingering a little longer than it should, trying to read you—trying to make sense of the way you move, the way you talk, the way you operate. There’s a confidence in how you handle your connections, your interactions with people. He’s starting to get it now. You have the ability to make anyone feel important, to make them feel special, without ever giving anything away. And Jean? He's eating this shit up. Too naive to know that you're stringing him along until you get what you want out of him. Eren doesn't know what, but he knows a girl like you, someone who can charm her way into anyone’s life with ease, always knowing just what to say to keep them hooked, isn't easily satisfied by such a soft, nice guy like Jean.

Eren clenches his jaw, fighting the urge to ask you, to call you out on this subtle game you’re playing. But he doesn’t. Instead, he shifts in his seat, trying to pull himself together before he says something that would only make this worse.

Eren’s gaze stays locked on the back of your head for a moment longer than it should, trying to shake the knot in his stomach—or trying to burn a damn hole to see you drop dead from how jealous he is. He runs his fingers through his hair, feeling that familiar tension creeping up the back of his neck. He had never felt it before, but it was starting to become constant every time he was around you. You started to bring out these icky green feelings that he had never in his life felt before. His jaw is tight, his mind racing through thoughts he doesn’t want to have. Jean… One of his best friends that he knows like the back of his damn hand. Too sweet, too kind. A damn simp if Eren were to really want to get under Jean's skin. But you? You’re a whole different game. And what’s worse is that you know it. You know exactly how to play everyone, keep them dangling. He knows a nice guy like Jean is the perfect fodder for a man eater like you. But that's not what really pisses Eren off, if you could really see what was going on in that pretty little head of his.

The quiet hum of the car seems to stretch forever. He wonders if you’ve noticed the way he’s watching you. Probably not. You’re too wrapped up in your phone, your next message, your next move.

He shifts in his seat again, uncomfortable with the weight of his thoughts. You’re a puzzle he can’t solve, a game he’s not sure he wants to play but can’t stop being drawn into. And Jean? Jean’s just another piece. It pisses him off, and Eren can’t figure out why. It’s not like he cares what you do, who you talk to. Right? Right?

He watches you again, his green eyes flitting between you and your phone—between his desire to snap at you, to call you out on the fact that you're playing with people like it’s a game, and the part of him that can’t help but admire how damn good you are at it. It'd be like the pot calling the kettle black, but Eren was a damn hypocrite. He couldn't stand that he actually respected the game you had.

Finally, his resolve cracks. His voice is quiet, a little rougher and choked up than he intended, as he breaks the silence.

“So, when’s this drink happening?” The words feel like a challenge, even though he didn’t mean them to. He feels a strange tightness in his chest, like he just poked the hornet’s nest and he’s about to get stung.

You look up at him then, a glint of something playful in your eyes. So, he’s finally speaking up, it seems to say. You lean back slowly, ever so smug, eyes twinkling, but there's a nonchalant coolness in your smile that sends another jolt through him.

"Were you reading my messages, Jaeger?" Your voice is a sickly-sweet patronizing pitch, and Eren hates that his stomach does a flip to it. Like a damn puppy wagging its tale when it's excited. Your words. The tone. It’s like flipping a match straight into Eren’s already gasoline-soaked nerves.

He doesn’t answer immediately—of course he doesn’t. Just stares at you with that staggered expression, jaw tight and calloused fingers curled against his knees like he’s holding himself back from doing… something. Anything. Maybe everything.

Your question just hangs in the air, obnoxiously casual, like you didn’t just clock him red-handed. Like you weren’t completely aware of the way you can irritate his entire soul with a fake nice smile and giggle. You watch his mouth press into that stubborn line, and for a split second, you can tell he’s debating whether to lie or double down. And you can’t lie—it’s kinda hot seeing him scramble internally, even if he’s doing a damn good job at not showing it.

Eren finally exhales a laugh, dry and humorless as he rolls his eyes. “You didn’t exactly make it subtle,” he mutters, glancing back out the car window, the irritation evident in his face, evident in the scowl he can't even bite back anymore. “It was practically a live show.”

You raise an angled brow, feigning innocence. “You mad I didn’t cast you in the lead?” Your voice lowers in register, raspy and sultry as your eyes go lidded a bit, now smugger, like you're feeding off of his negative reaction.

That finally gets a reaction—his head snaps back toward you, those sharp juniper eyes narrowing. He’s annoyed. And not in that flirty, I’m-pretending-to-be-jealous way. No, this is deeper. Tighter. Like it hit a nerve he didn’t even know was exposed until you jabbed at it.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he snaps, though the bite doesn’t land the way he wants it to. Too reactive. Too defensive. His own voice betrays him, makes him sound a little wounded and hurt like a kicked puppy.

And you? You smirk. Not out of cruelty—well, maybe a little—but mostly because you’ve got him now. Hook, line, and pretty little sinker. Eren Jaeger, who never lets shit get under his skin, is spiraling over a text thread with Jean Kirstein.

You tilt your head, voice syrupy-sweet and ever so condescending. “Aw, don’t worry, Eren. I’m sure Jean would share the spotlight. You could even hold the boom mic.” Teeth gems glinting as you grin at him.

That earns you a scoff, one that sounds way too much like a growl under his breath. “You think you’re funny, huh?”

You lean in, lips curved in a slow, wolfish smile, eyes locked with his. “No. I know I’m funny. But thanks for confirming I’m also memorable.” The silence after that is heavier. Not awkward—just loaded. Like the air between you could spark if either of you breathed the wrong way. Like shit would explode if one more thing was said.

Eren breaks it again, but this time his voice is lower, steadier. “Just don’t fuck with him.” It was almost inaudible, and you were definitely sure you were the only one in the car to hear that, with Ymir too focused on driving and Historia taking a drunken cat nap with her head resting against the window.

You pause at that. The smirk fades. A flicker of something unreadable flashes across your face before you look out the windshield again. His tone was different this time. Not teasing. Not bitter. It was serious. You roll the words around in your mind before finally responding. "Who said I was fucking with him?"

And maybe that was a lie. Or maybe it wasn’t. But either way, it shuts him up. You don’t say anything else, and neither does he. The tension sits between you like an uninvited passenger, strapped into the middle seat and very much not minding its business. The music plays on. The road keeps rolling.

And Eren? He stays silent. Because deep down, he knows he wasn’t really saying that about Jean.

He was warning himself.

.・゜✧﹒☁﹒✧゜・．.・゜✧﹒☁﹒✧゜・．.・゜✧﹒☁﹒✧゜・．.・