*?? EREN JAEGER X READER
When you're paired with Eren Jaeger for a semester-long psych project on vulnerability, you expect awkward silences, not slow-burning tension and quiet moments that say more than words ever could. He's distant but not cruel...
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BY THE TIME WEDNESDAY ROLLED AROUND, the fog of the early week had lifted, giving way to a strangely golden afternoon. The kind that made campus feel like it belonged in a college brochure: sun catching on the red brick walkways, students lounging on the quad with iced coffees and half-open laptops, the buzz of mid-semester fatigue softened by the lull of warm air and an almost theatrical breeze. You moved through it all in a loose sweater and jeans, your bag heavier than it needed to be, weighed down by things you hadn't even touched since Monday.
After your final class, you met up with Sasha and Connie outside the food court. Connie had tossed his hoodie over one shoulder, shirt sticking a little to his back, a soccer scrimmage having run longer than expected. Sasha was mid-sentence when she spotted you, waving with one hand and holding a plastic cup of bubble tea in the other.
"Finally," she grinned, tossing her hair back as she stepped toward you. "Tell me why I just sat through a twenty-minute presentation on influencer-brand synergy by a guy who's never posted a single photo without Valencia filter."
"Tell me why you keep taking classes where that's even a sentence," you said, half-laughing as Connie pushed the door open for all of you.
"Because it's Communications, baby," she sang, walking backward through the doorway. "We sell the illusion of substance."
You settled into a booth in the back corner, your usual spot, the one Sasha had claimed since sophomore year because it was "just far enough from the smell of the grill line to eat in peace." Connie slid in beside you, still catching his breath from practice, his damp curls sticking slightly to his forehead.
"Jean's grabbing food," he said, grabbing a napkin to dab the sweat off his neck. "I told him to come sit with us."
You blinked. "Jean Kirstein?"
Connie smirked. "Yeah, he's cool. You've met him, right?"
"Once or twice," you said, trying to remember. His name had floated around, mostly in stories from Sasha or Connie. He was the kind of guy who came up in group chats, party recaps, and passing mentions.
"Tall guy, messy hair, looks like he belongs in a men's cologne ad?" Sasha added, taking a sip of her drink. "He's not bad."
"I didn't say he was," you replied.
"Didn't say you didn't," she said, raising an eyebrow.
Before you could respond, Jean appeared beside the booth with a tray balanced in one hand and a lazy, half-smile playing on his face. He had the kind of casual confidence that didn't feel like performance, just ease. His hair was slightly tousled, button-down sleeves rolled to his forearms, his tray stacked with a burger, fries, and two little cups of mustard.
"Connie, tell me again why I agreed to get food with you when you don't even eat," Jean said, sliding into the seat across from you.
"I hydrate," Connie said, holding up his water bottle like it was a badge of honor.
