El rosado no es mi color pero me va @charlotteplsdosth - Tumblr Blog

reiner braun as the cool, mysterious guy you always see at the function ˚.✦

He's everywhere. Now that you remember his face, you see him in every goddamn corner. And it's driving you insane. The first time you spotted him was at a frat party, you were chatting with Jean and Sasha, sharing some beers and laughing when you stared at him.

You and him maintained eye contact enough to make it weird. Dusted blonde hair, tired eyes and a faint stubble. Tall and strong as well, even with a baggy shirt and baggy pants, you knew he was jacked under that. You're eyes followed him across the room, seeing people waving at him before he settled in one of the sofas with Armin and a few other people.

"Who's that with Annie's man?" you pointed at him with your chin before taking another sip of your beer.

"Reiner?" Jean arched his brows, looking at him from his shoulder. Sasha did the same.

The blond could feel all of your eyes on him, making him self conscious all of a sudden, fixing his shirt and running a hand through his hair. You couldn't help thinking how cute that was

"Isn't he on the football team?" Sasha added.

You shrugged. In all your years at this university, you’d never once cared about the football team or any sports team, honestly. Jocks were background noise. Loud, sweaty background noise.

But now?

Now he was foreground. Loudly.

Two days later you’re in the campus coffee shop, half-dead from a late-night study session, waiting for your iced latte when you catch sight of him through the window. He’s outside on the quad, laughing with a couple teammates, helmet tucked under one arm, practice jersey clinging in all the right places. He turns his head just as you do, eyes meet again. This time he doesn’t look away immediately. Neither do you. It stretches until the barista calls your name and snaps you out of it.

You grab your drink and practically flee.

A week after that, you’re in the library during dead week, buried in a corner carrel with your headphones on, trying to cram for econ. You stretch, glance up and there he is. Two tables away. Back to you, hunched over a textbook, one massive hand scrubbing over his face like he’s fighting sleep. He’s wearing glasses. Thin wire ones. Of course he wears reading glasses. Of fucking course.

He shifts, turns slightly, and catches you staring. Again. His mouth quirks like he’s amused. Or maybe he’s just tired. You duck your head so fast your neck protests.

It keeps happening.

The dining hall line, he’s two people ahead, loading his tray like he’s fueling a tank. Your eyes snag on the broad line of his shoulders, the way his hoodie stretches across them. He glances back, like he can feel it, and your stomach flips when his gaze slides right over you. Holds. Then he gives a small nod. You nod back like an idiot and suddenly can’t remember what you came here to eat.

In the gym, he’s there on the weight floor, earbuds in, bench-pressing what looks like your body weight plus another person. Sweat darkens his shirt in a line down his chest. You pretend to be very interested in the treadmill settings while your pulse hammers in your throat. When you sneak another look, he’s sitting up, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt. A flash of toned stomach. He catches your eye in the mirror. Doesn’t smile. Just… looks. Long enough that heat crawls up your neck.

You leave early.

The worst is the random hallway encounters. You’re rushing to class, phone in hand. He’s coming the other way, backpack slung over one shoulder, talking to another friend. Your shoulders barely brush. But enough that static shoots down your arm.

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“No worries,” he says. His eyes flick down to yours, soft but searching. “You good?”

You nod too quickly and keep walking, heart thudding so loud you’re sure he can hear it.

It’s stupid. It’s just eye contact. Lingering looks. Accidental brushes. But every single time it happens, something tightens in your chest.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. He’s just… noticeable. Big, golden, tired-eyed, everywhere.

But deep down you know better.

Because the next time you see him at another party, this one smaller, someone’s off-campus house. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, red cup in hand, talking to Bertholdt and Annie. You walk in for a refill and freeze when his head turns.

This time he doesn’t just look.

He pushes off the counter. Starts walking toward you.

And suddenly the room feels too small, the music too loud, and every single glance you’ve traded over the past few weeks crashes into this one moment like a linebacker blindsiding a quarterback.

Your breath catches.

He stops a couple feet away. Close enough you can smell clean sweat and whatever body wash jocks use that shouldn’t be this distracting.

“Hey,” he says quietly, ike he’s been waiting to say it.

You swallow. “Hey.”

A beat. Two.

He rubs the back of his neck, the same nervous gesture from that first party. “I’m Reiner.”

“I know,” you blurt. Then wince.

His mouth twitches into something almost shy. “Yeah… figured you might.” He glances down, then back up. Those tired hazel eyes lock on yours again, steady this time. “You got a name, or should I just keep calling you ‘the one who keeps staring’ in my head?”

Heat explodes across your face.

He laughs and it does something dangerous to your stomach.

“I’m kidding,” he adds quickly. “Mostly.”

You exhale a shaky laugh despite yourself. You tell him your name.

He repeats it like he’s tasting it. Likes the flavor. “Wanna get some air? Kitchen’s getting loud.”

You should say no. You barely know him. You’ve spent weeks avoiding actually talking.

But your feet are already moving.

“Yeah,” you say. “Let’s go.”

He leads the way out the back door, holding it open for you like it’s nothing. The night air hits cool against your flushed skin. He doesn’t stop until you’re both leaning against the porch railing, far enough from the thump of bass that you can actually hear each other breathe.

He’s quiet for a second. Then:

“I’ve been seeing you everywhere too, you know.”

You glance sideways. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He looks out at the dark yard, voice dropping. “Thought maybe I was losing it. Kept hoping you’d say something first.”

You laugh despite of yourself. "I was hoping you'd say something first."

He just stares at you for a moment before both of you are bursting out laughing, even throwing your heads back for how dumb the situation is.

"Oh my god!" he says, still between laughter. He runs both of his hands through his face and hair, you can peek at his abs for that.

"This is probably one of the most awkward situations I've ever been," you comment, letting the laugh die.

Now you're back at staring at each other, but it's different. Your eyes are glowing, his cheeks are faintly red from laughing and you are... maybe too comfortably close to each other. He smiles quietly at you, you smile back, tilting your head to the left.

"Ask me something," he says, breaking the silence.

"Hm?" you arch your brows.

"Anything! I want you to know me," he adds, pressing his lips together.

You huff a laugh, squinting your eyes at him. What are you even gonna ask him? Everything sounds awkward and weird.

"Do you actually like football?" you tested, pouting your lips slightly because you didn't know how he was gonna react.

Reiner blinks at you once. Twice.

His whole expression freezes, like you just asked him if the sky is green or if he secretly collects porcelain dolls. The easy, warm smile he’d been wearing slips right off his face, replaced by something stunned and unguarded. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

You watch the exact second realization hits him that this wasn’t the question he’d braced for.

He’d clearly been expecting the usual script: You got a girlfriend? Seeing someone? Anyone special keeping that big frame warm at night? The kind of thing people always lob at guys like him.

Not this.

His throat works. He looks away fast, out into the dark yard again, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck so hard you’re surprised he doesn’t leave a mark. The porch light catches the flush creeping up his ears.

“Uh…” His voice comes out nervous in a way you’ve never heard from him. “I…”

He lets out a short, shaky laugh that has zero humor in it.

“Shit. You really went for the throat, huh?”

You stay quiet. Just watching. Giving him room.

He exhales hard through his nose, shoulders dropping like he’s deflating. The hand on his neck slides forward until he’s scrubbing over his face again, fingers dragging slow.

“Honestly?” he finally says, almost like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Nah. Not really.”

The admission hangs there between you, raw and surprising even to him, judging by the way his brows pinch.

“I mean… I’m good at it,” he continues. “Been playing since I was six. Everyone’s always telling me how lucky I am, how it’s my ticket, how I was made for this.” He shrugs one shoulder, but it looks heavy. “And maybe I was. Once.”

He glances at you sidelong, like he’s checking if you’re judging him yet.

You aren’t. You just nod once.

Reiner swallows again. “I don’t know. Somewhere along the line it stopped feeling like mine. It’s just… pressure. It’s not fun anymore, it’s a job. A really fucking violent, high-stakes job that I’m terrified of failing at.” He lets out another humorless huff. “And the worst part? I’m still really good at pretending I love it. Act like I live for Friday nights under the lights. But when I’m alone? After the adrenaline crashes? I just feel… tired. All the time.”

He finally looks at you fully again. Hazel eyes searching yours, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.

“I’ve never said that out loud before,” he admits, almost whispering. “Not to anyone. Not even Bertholdt. Definitely not my dad.”

The silence stretches.

You tilt your head, voice gentle. “Then why keep doing it?”

He laughs again—small, cracked. “Because I don’t know what else I’d be. Football’s been my whole identity since I was a kid. If I walk away… who the hell am I?”

You don’t have an answer for that. Not yet.

Instead you just shift closer on the railing until your shoulder brushes his. He doesn’t pull away.

After a long beat he turns his head toward you again. His eyes are still wide, still a little stunned, but the knot in his chest just loosened the tiniest bit.

“You’re dangerous, you know that?” he murmurs, half-smiling despite himself.

You raise a brow. “Me?”

“Yeah.” He nods once. “Most people ask if I’m single. You asked who I actually am.”

Your stomach does a warm flip. He lets out a breath, like he’s been holding it for years. Then, quieter:

“Ask me something else.”

You smile.

“Okay,” you say. “What do you like? When it’s just you.”

His eyes soften. The tension in his shoulders eases another fraction.

He opens his mouth to answer.