*?? 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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THE FIRST THING you notice is that you can breathe.
Not perfectly, not like you've never been sick at all, but enough that your throat doesn't feel like it's lined with gravel and your eyelids aren't made of cement. You blink a few times against the soft morning light bleeding through the window slats, and for once, it doesn't feel like the world is punishing you for being awake.
Your body still aches in the vague, afterburn way that follows a long fever, not sharp enough to keep you in bed, but enough to remind you you've been cracked open and stitched back together with sleep and sweat. Still, it's better. Manageable. Human.
The blankets fall away as you sit up slowly, joints stiff but functioning. The room smells faintly of citrus, eucalyptus, and something floury — Sasha's doing, probably. You stretch until your shoulders pop, then stumble out of bed and into the soft, lived-in rhythm of the dorm.
Sasha's already up, dressed, and moving.
And not just the usual hurricane-in-slippers version of moving. She's focused. Intent. Hair twisted into a practical bun at the base of her neck, hoodie sleeves pushed up, headphones on but only around her neck like a half-forgotten accessory. She doesn't even glance at her phone when it buzzes on the counter. That alone is suspicious.
You shuffle toward the kitchenette, rubbing sleep from your eyes. "Okay, who are you and what have you done with Sasha?"
She startles slightly, then waves you off with a spoon. "Don't start. You're supposed to be resting."
"I am resting. I'm vertical, but I'm emotionally reclined."
She doesn't laugh, not fully, anyway. Just this breathy exhale that might be amusement or nerves. Her eyes are on the pot in front of her. Something thick and creamy, maybe some kind of sauce or custard. You can't quite tell from this angle.
"Is there a test today I forgot about?" you ask, edging closer. "A culinary death match? Did Connie challenge you to a snack-off again?"
"No test," she replies, far too quickly. "Just... experimenting."
You lift a brow. "Experimenting?"
"Yup."
"You've measured that nutmeg three times."
"It's a very precise spice."
You lean against the fridge, crossing your arms, watching her stir with surgical intensity. It's weird, not bad, just... unusual. Sasha's usually all gut instinct and chaos when she cooks. Pinches instead of teaspoons. Eyeballing everything like the ingredients owe her rent. But this is calculated. Serious.
The fridge hums behind you, and you go to grab your usual yogurt, only to pause when your eye catches something different.
A small plastic container. Labeled neatly in black Sharpie: "Showcase Submission – DO NOT EAT."
