Dat Ni**a

His voice cuts through the air like a gunshot. People stop. Stare. Step back.

Eren’s chest heaves. His fists clench. He spins in a circle, searching—there has to be something, anything—an enemy, a clue, a reason why he’s still breathing.

His eyes lock on a metal pole with a blinking light at the top. A surveillance device? A weapon? He launches toward it. But just before he reaches it—

“Hey! Wait—wait! Stop!” A blur steps between him and the pole. You. “Don’t—don’t do that, you’ll get hurt!” you say, breathless, hands half-raised in defense but not fear. He freezes. You’re not in uniform. You’re not holding a weapon. You’re not from Marley or Eldia or any place he’s ever known. You’re just… there. Concerned. Real.

“What did you just say?” he growls, voice low and dangerous. “I said don’t touch that. It’s electrical.” You point to the pole. “You could’ve shocked yourself. Are you okay?”

He laughs. A short, broken, humorless thing.

“‘Okay?’” His voice cracks. “You think—this—” he gestures wildly at the park, the people, the sky, “—is okay? Where are the Titans? Where’s the war? Where are the walls?!” You blink. “There are… no Titans. Or walls.” He stares at you like you just told him the sky is red.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“This has to be a trick. The Paths. The Founder. Something.” His hands go to his head, fingers digging into his scalp. “I was there—I felt it—I was ending the world…” You step closer slowly, cautiously, like you’re approaching a wounded animal. “What’s your name?” He doesn’t answer. He’s trembling. You lower your voice. “You’re safe. I don’t know where you came from, but… wherever that was, you’re not there anymore.”

“I can’t be safe,” he snarls, and suddenly his eyes flash—green, wild, furious. “People die when I’m safe.” You pause. Let that sink in. Then, softer: “No one’s dying right now.” He falters. The tension in his shoulders shakes.

He looks at your eyes like he’s trying to find proof you’re real.

“I don’t understand,” he whispers.

And just like that, his knees buckle. You lunge forward, catching him as he collapses into the grass, weight trembling against your arms. You don’t know who he is. You don’t know what he’s seen. But for some reason, you can’t let go.

𓆩❤︎𓆪𓆩❤︎𓆪𓆩❤︎𓆪𓆩❤︎𓆪

You should’ve walked away.

Every logical part of you said don’t get involved—but then he looked at you like the world was ending. Like maybe it already had. And maybe… just maybe… you’ve looked that way too.

So here you are, standing on the edge of the sidewalk, one arm around his back, the other hovering nervously by his side. His muscles are coiled tight, like a spring ready to snap.

The blood on his clothes is drying. His eyes won’t stop darting around.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” you say for what must be the fifth time. “You’re bleeding. You’re clearly concussed—or at least dehydrated. Please.”

“No hospitals,” he growls.

You sigh, frustrated but not surprised. “Then where?” He doesn’t answer. Just stares at a passing bus like it’s a monster in disguise.

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Okay… okay, fine. You can come to my place. Just for now. It’s cozy, it’s quiet, and there’s water. You need water.” He flinches at the word quiet, but doesn’t protest. That’s the most you’ve gotten from him.

And that’s enough for you.

𓆩❤︎𓆪𓆩❤︎𓆪𓆩❤︎𓆪𓆩❤︎𓆪

It’s not big. Not flashy. Just a one-bedroom above a bookstore with creaky floors, thrifted furniture, and a flickering ceiling light that needs fixing—but it’s yours.

Eren stands frozen in your entryway like he’s expecting the walls to collapse on him.

You close the door gently, then slide the chain lock into place, more out of habit than anything. You glance over your shoulder at him—barefoot, still breathing hard, and looking like he might bolt.

You toe off your shoes. “You can sit. Or stand. Or pace. Whatever works.”

He doesn’t move.

You disappear into the kitchen and fill a glass with cold tap water. When you offer it to him, he eyes it suspiciously, like you handed him a vial of poison.

“It’s just water,” you say. “I’m not trying to drug you.” He takes it slowly, fingertips brushing yours. Then he gulps the water down in three deep swallows.

You exhale and lean against the counter, arms crossed. “I know this is probably the dumbest thing I’ve ever done,” you say out loud, mostly to yourself. “Letting a stranger into my apartment. A bloody stranger. Who growled at me in public and said some real cryptic end-of-the-world shit.”

Eren stiffens, but you hold up a hand.

“I’m not saying I regret it. I’m saying I know it sounds crazy.” He watches you silently. On edge. Waiting for the catch. “I just… saw something in your face,” you admit. “It’s not pity. I’m not even scared of you for some reason. It’s Just… that look. Like you were somewhere you couldn’t get out of. And I’ve been there.”

You push off the counter and move to grab a clean towel from a small laundry basket in the hallway storage closet. “I told myself if you tried anything sketchy, I’d scream, break a lamp over your head, or run to my neighbor’s. She’s a retired cop.”

Eren blinks, almost like that is the part he doesn’t understand. You smirk a little. “See? I’m not totally defenseless.”

He finally lowers himself onto the couch, like his bones are heavier than they should be. You approach slowly, holding out the towel.

“You’re bleeding. Still.”

He hesitates before reaching out and taking it. Doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t need to.

You sit across from him, still tense, but less afraid now. “Do you have a name?” you ask gently. A pause. Then, quiet and rough: “Eren.”

You nod. “I’m [Y/n].” You offer your hand, unsure why. He stares at it for a long second, like the gesture is foreign. Then, slowly, he reaches out and grips it—calloused, steady, warm.

And somehow, that’s the moment something minuscule shifts.

𓆩❤︎𓆪𓆩❤︎𓆪𓆩❤︎𓆪𓆩❤︎𓆪

She offers her hand.

Steady. Calm. No force behind it. No catch.

Eren knows what it means. A greeting. A connection. A small, human ritual. But he doesn't understand why she's offering it to him.

He's a stranger.

He's bloody. Ragged. Barefoot and barely holding it together. And yet here she is-offering her name. Her space. A towel. A place to sit. Water.

And now this.

He stares at her hand, and a dozen thoughts crawl through his mind. What does she want from me?

Is this a test? A trick? A kindness with a hidden cost? Because in his world, no one gives without reason. There's always a price. Loyalty. Obedience. Blood. Something.

Even with Armin. Even with Mikasa.

But she hasn't asked for anything. She hasn't even expected anything. Just handed him a glass of water and said he could sit down. Like it was nothing. Like he's nothing to be afraid of. His fingers wrap around hers slowly-just long enough for the contact to register.

Warm.

Alive.

Real.

He lets go first. Quickly. Before it can settle too deep. And yet—Something does shift. A shift he can't explain. Not in the room. Not in her. In him. And that's what unsettles him the most.

𓆩❤︎𓆪𓆩❤︎𓆪Later That Night 𓆩❤︎𓆪𓆩❤︎𓆪

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. And sleep doesn’t come. Eren moves through the dark hallway like a shadow, steps light on the creaky floor. He stops outside her bedroom door.

It’s closed. Locked.

He doesn’t try to open it. Doesn’t knock.

He just stands there. One hand flexing at his side. His jaw tight. His eyes fixed on nothing. He shifts his weight. Stares at the space beneath the door. Listens for her breathing.

It’s there—steady. Calm.

He doesn’t know why that makes his chest feel tight. He turns away and pads quietly into the kitchen, one hand dragging through his hair.

The lights are off. He doesn’t turn them on.

Just stands there, one hand braced against the counter, the other resting on the edge of the sink. His reflection stares back at him faintly from the dark window above the faucet—barely visible. Just a shadow.

He breathes in deep. Out slow. But it doesn’t help. His skin still feels too tight.

𓆩❤︎𓆪𓆩❤︎𓆪𓆩❤︎𓆪𓆩❤︎𓆪

You wake up suddenly.

No sound. No light. Just that feeling.

Like something isn’t sitting right with the night. You sit up slowly, rubbing your eyes, and glance at the clock.

2:47 a.m.

Of course.

You pull your blanket around your shoulders and step carefully into the hall, not flipping on the light. Your apartment is quiet—but not empty. The faint sound of the fridge hums through the dark.

You follow it.

The kitchen is cloaked in shadows, lit only by the glow of the city outside—blue moonlight spilling across countertops and cabinets.

And there he is.

Standing near the sink, one hand braced against the counter, the other hanging limp at his side. He’s not moving. Just… there, like a statue set down in the wrong century.

His back is to you, shoulders tense, the soft fabric of your borrowed shirt wrinkled from where he’s been tugging at the hem.

You speak gently. “Couldn’t sleep?”

He flinches—not from fear, but from being pulled too suddenly back into the present. His head turns just slightly, enough to catch your silhouette. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

You step inside, feet bare on cool tile, blanket trailing behind you. You don’t press him. Don’t switch on the light. You just stand with him in the dark. “I’ve never had silence like this before,” he says after a pause, voice low and frayed at the edges.

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” He gestures vaguely toward the apartment. The walls. The stillness. “This.” He turns more fully now, but not enough to face you. Just enough for the moonlight to catch in his eyes.

“It’s too quiet. It makes me think.”

You nod, arms folding around yourself. “Thinking can be loud.” He breathes out through his nose, like he didn’t expect you to get it. You let the silence hang, soft and heavy.

Then: “You want tea?”

He hesitates. Like the question doesn’t quite compute.

“Something warm,” you offer. “Helps when the thoughts won’t shut up.”

He doesn’t answer. But when you move to the cabinet and quietly begin boiling water, he doesn’t stop you.

And when you hand him the mug—steam curling up between your fingers, light catching faintly on ceramic—he takes it.

Carefully.

You both linger in the dark kitchen for a while, the world outside muffled and far away, lit only by the soft spill of moonlight through the window.

Eventually, you move toward the table, your bare feet soft against the tile. You pull out one of the wooden chairs and sit, cradling your mug in both hands.

“Sit,” you say gently, motioning to the chair across from you. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t question it. Just moves.

You’re a little surprised by that—not because you expected resistance, but because Eren doesn’t seem like the kind of person who does things just because someone asks.

But you don’t voice it.

You just watch him sit, his movements stiff and tired, like his body’s still running on survival alone.

Then you glance down at your mug—warmth coiling through your fingers like a poor substitute for peace and take a slow breath.

He hasn’t touched his tea.

Just stares at it, like maybe if he glares hard enough, it’ll spill secrets instead of steam.

The silence stretches.

He’s been here almost twenty-four hours now. Given him clothes. A place to rest. But he’s still a stranger. And you don’t do strangers.

You shift slightly in your chair. “I know you said your name is Eren,” you start carefully. “And I get that you’re… not from around here.” He doesn’t look up. “But I need to know more than that.”

Nothing.

Your voice sharpens. Not angry—just firm. “If you’re going to stay here, I need to know who I’m sharing my space with.”

That gets him.

His eyes flick up, guarded, green, a little wild around the edges. “I told you what I can.”

You tilt your head. “That’s not the same as telling the truth.”

He exhales through his nose. “You wouldn’t believe the truth.”

You raise a brow. “Try me.”

His jaw tenses. He looks down at the tea again, fingers curling tighter around the mug.

“You want a name? You have it. Eren. You want details?” His voice tightens. “I don’t have them. Not right now.”

You narrow your eyes. “So what—you just No idea how you got to that park in the middle of day?”

“Yes.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

He’s not lying. You can feel it. But that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I don’t expect anything from you.”

The words are sharp—colder than the room.

You sit back, mug forgotten. “I’m not asking for your life story, Eren. But if you’re going to keep sleeping on my couch and drinking my tea, I need something.”

He stands abruptly.

Too fast.

The chair legs scrape against the floor, and for a second, it’s not the stranger who calls himself Eren in your kitchen anymore—it’s something wounded, something that doesn’t fit in soft places.

“I don’t know how I got here,” he says, voice low but shaking. “I don’t know why. Or who pulled me out. Or if I’m going to wake up and find out none of this was real.”

You blink.

His chest is rising faster now. Hands clenched. Tea forgotten. The steam spirals between you like breath caught in a throat.

“I’m trying not to fall apart,” he adds. “So if it’s too much—if I’m too much—you can say it. I’ll leave.”

You watch him.

Quiet. Steady.

Your pulse is racing, but your voice is calm when it comes. “I didn’t ask you to leave, Eren.” That seems to knock the wind out of him a little. “I’m asking you to let me in. Just enough to know I’m not letting something dangerous live in my house.”

His eyes flicker—somewhere between offended and ashamed.

You stand, slowly, and take his cup. Still full. Still warm. “Sleep on it,” you say “Tomorrow… maybe you tell me something real.”

You rinse the mug and don’t look back. Behind you, the air is thick with unsaid things.

But he doesn’t leave.