threads of intimacy ?ˋ°?*?? eren jaeger

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YOU'RE HALFWAY THROUGH mentally cataloging what you want for dinner — something greasy, maybe, or whatever doesn't involve standing in the kitchen for hours — when the classroom lights dim and the projector flickers to life.

There's a collective shuffle of backpacks sliding under desks and phone screens going black, and for a moment, the room holds that heavy, pre-announcement silence. The kind that lingers right before something gets assigned.

You blink up at the screen like it might explain something early, but all it shows is the course title in stock Times New Roman. PSYC 227: Human Intimacy and Vulnerability.

You'd only signed up for this class because it fit neatly into your Tuesday-Thursday schedule and fulfilled an upper-level elective credit. Plus, there'd been a line in the syllabus about "applied psychological exploration." Which, at the time, sounded promising. Or at the very least, less dull than the usual lecture-copy-repeat routine.

Now you're not so sure.

At the front of the room, Professor Laine claps her hands once, sharp and deliberate. She's one of those professors who wears denim blazers and silver rings on every other finger, the kind of woman who once told your class that she doesn't believe in PowerPoints unless they challenge narrative convention.

"Alright," she says, voice clipped, eyes scanning the room like she's sizing everyone up. "Let's talk about what this class is actually going to look like."

Someone two rows over lets out a faint groan, the kind they didn't mean to be heard. Laine hears it anyway.

"I assume some of you skimmed the syllabus," she continues. "And by skimmed, I mean scrolled through it once, registered the word 'intimacy,' and decided this class might be fun or weird or an easy A. Maybe even all three. But this isn't theory. This isn't distance. This is you."

That earns a few raised eyebrows. A stifled laugh.

"We're not just talking about intimacy," she says. "We're exploring it. Experiencing it. You'll be working in pairs on a semester-long observational study. Together, you'll engage in activities designed to cultivate psychological closeness — reflective conversations, structured vulnerability exercises, nonverbal connection challenges, physical proximity simulations..."

Someone chokes on their water bottle.

Laine pauses, lips twitching like she knew that reaction was coming.

"No, this isn't couples therapy. And no, I'm not asking you to fall in love. But I am asking you to pay attention — to how we build trust, how we dodge discomfort, how we guard and how we give ourselves away. Intimacy isn't just about romance. It's the mirror we hold up when we're finally willing to be seen."

The silence that follows is heavier now. Curious.

Uneasy.

You adjust the sleeve of your hoodie and lean back slightly in your seat, unsure if you're intrigued or mildly horrified.

Laine clicks her pen and pulls out a clipboard. "Partners have been preassigned. Don't ask to switch."

And there it is — the moment everyone's been waiting for. Or dreading.

Names start falling from her mouth, one after the other. A mix of relief and groans ripple through the room. Two girls high-five. Someone mutters thank God under their breath.

You try to keep your expectations low. Maybe you'll get someone easy to talk to. Someone normal. A laid-back communications major who just wants to coast through the semester with minimal awkward eye contact.

"Jaeger," Laine calls, skimming the page. She looks up. "And... you."

Your name cuts through the air before you have time to brace for it.

For a moment, the room stills. Not dramatically, just enough for you to feel it. A pause that doesn't belong to you, exactly, but still wraps around you like a thread pulling tight.

Your eyes flick toward the back of the room. He's there.

Eren Jaeger.

Hood up. Elbows on the desk. Face unreadable. You've seen him before, not often, and never long enough to really say where you know him from, but there's something unmistakable about the way he holds himself. Quiet, yes, but not in a forgettable way. He carries silence like a shield, like he's chosen it.

When he looks up, it's brief. His eyes catch yours and hold them — not with challenge, not with interest. Just a steady kind of awareness. Like he's used to being looked at but never cared for the attention.

Then he nods. Once.

No smile. No greeting.

And that's it.

The thread goes taut.

You turn back around, heart thudding a little faster than it should, and pretend to refocus on Laine's voice. She's still rattling off partner assignments like she didn't just hand you a semester of forced vulnerability with the most emotionally distant person in the room.

Of course you got him. Of course.

Intimacy and vulnerability.

With him.

You stare at the glowing screen, now displaying a digital checklist titled "Required Pair Assignments: Weeks 1–6." The first one is "Mutual Exposure Task A: 36 Questions to Build Closeness."

You resist the urge to laugh. You don't even know the guy's middle name.

This semester is going to be a disaster.

Or maybe, and you hate yourself a little for thinking it, maybe it won't be.

Maybe it's the beginning of something else entirely.