What we finna read?: Eren Yeager was supposed to end the world. Instead, he wakes up in one that doesn't need saving. No Titans. No walls. No war. Just strangers with kind eyes, quiet apartments, and a girl who looks at him like he's more than the destruction he's caused.
Warnings: none that I know of
The grass is too green. The sky is too blue. The people are too calm.
Eren staggers to his feet like a wild animal, barefoot, bloodstained, panting. His body still buzzes with the echo of the Founderās power, but itās slipping. Fading. Gone.
He whips his head around. Skyscrapers stretch into the sky like unbroken Wall Maria. Trees sway with the breeze, not the stomp of Titans. A group of teenagers laugh near a fountain. A jogger runs past with something in her ears. No oneās screaming. No oneās dying. This isnāt real. This canāt be real.
āWHERE AM I?!ā
His voice cuts through the air like a gunshot. People stop. Stare. Step back.
Erenās chest heaves. His fists clench. He spins in a circle, searchingāthere has to be something, anythingāan enemy, a clue, a reason why heās 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 itā
āHey! Waitāwait! Stop!ā A blur steps between him and the pole. You. āDonātādonāt do that, youāll get hurt!ā you say, breathless, hands half-raised in defense but not fear. He freezes. Youāre not in uniform. Youāre not holding a weapon. Youāre not from Marley or Eldia or any place heās ever known. Youāre justā¦ there. Concerned. Real.
āWhat did you just say?ā he growls, voice low and dangerous. āI said donāt touch that. Itās electrical.ā You point to the pole. āYou couldāve shocked yourself. Are you okay?ā
He laughs. A short, broken, humorless thing.
āāOkay?āā His voice cracks. āYou thinkāthisāā he gestures wildly at the park, the people, the sky, āāis okay? Where are the Titans? Whereās the war? Where are the walls?!ā You blink. āThere areā¦ no Titans. Or walls.ā He stares at you like you just told him the sky is red.
āYouāre lying.ā
āIām not.ā
āThis has to be a trick. The Paths. The Founder. Something.ā His hands go to his head, fingers digging into his scalp. āI was thereāI felt itāI was ending the worldā¦ā You step closer slowly, cautiously, like youāre approaching a wounded animal. āWhatās your name?ā He doesnāt answer. Heās trembling. You lower your voice. āYouāre safe. I donāt know where you came from, butā¦ wherever that was, youāre not there anymore.ā
āI canāt be safe,ā he snarls, and suddenly his eyes flashāgreen, wild, furious. āPeople die when Iām safe.ā You pause. Let that sink in. Then, softer: āNo oneās dying right now.ā He falters. The tension in his shoulders shakes.
He looks at your eyes like heās trying to find proof youāre real.
āI donāt understand,ā 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 donāt know who he is. You donāt know what heās seen. But for some reason, you canāt let go.
Every logical part of you said donāt get involvedābut then he looked at you like the world was ending. Like maybe it already had. And maybeā¦ just maybeā¦ youāve 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 wonāt stop darting around.
āWe need to get you to a hospital,ā you say for what must be the fifth time. āYouāre bleeding. Youāre clearly concussedāor at least dehydrated. Please.ā
āNo hospitals,ā he growls.
You sigh, frustrated but not surprised. āThen where?ā He doesnāt answer. Just stares at a passing bus like itās a monster in disguise.
You bite the inside of your cheek. āOkayā¦ okay, fine. You can come to my place. Just for now. Itās cozy, itās quiet, and thereās water. You need water.ā He flinches at the word quiet, but doesnāt protest. Thatās the most youāve gotten from him.
Itās not big. Not flashy. Just a one-bedroom above a bookstore with creaky floors, thrifted furniture, and a flickering ceiling light that needs fixingābut itās yours.
Eren stands frozen in your entryway like heās 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 himābarefoot, still breathing hard, and looking like he might bolt.
You toe off your shoes. āYou can sit. Or stand. Or pace. Whatever works.ā
He doesnāt 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.
āItās just water,ā you say. āIām not trying to drug you.ā 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. āI know this is probably the dumbest thing Iāve ever done,ā you say out loud, mostly to yourself. āLetting a stranger into my apartment. A bloody stranger. Who growled at me in public and said some real cryptic end-of-the-world shit.ā
Eren stiffens, but you hold up a hand.
āIām not saying I regret it. Iām saying I know it sounds crazy.ā He watches you silently. On edge. Waiting for the catch. āI justā¦ saw something in your face,ā you admit. āItās not pity. Iām not even scared of you for some reason. Itās Justā¦ that look. Like you were somewhere you couldnāt get out of. And Iāve been there.ā
You push off the counter and move to grab a clean towel from a small laundry basket in the hallway storage closet. āI told myself if you tried anything sketchy, Iād scream, break a lamp over your head, or run to my neighborās. Sheās a retired cop.ā
Eren blinks, almost like that is the part he doesnāt understand. You smirk a little. āSee? Iām not totally defenseless.ā
He finally lowers himself onto the couch, like his bones are heavier than they should be. You approach slowly, holding out the towel.
āYouāre bleeding. Still.ā
He hesitates before reaching out and taking it. Doesnāt say thank you. Doesnāt need to.
You sit across from him, still tense, but less afraid now. āDo you have a name?ā you ask gently. A pause. Then, quiet and rough: āEren.ā
You nod. āIām [Y/n].ā 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 itācalloused, steady, warm.
And somehow, thatās the moment something minuscule shifts.
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 yetāSomething 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.
The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. And sleep doesnāt come. Eren moves through the dark hallway like a shadow, steps light on the creaky floor. He stops outside her bedroom door.
Itās closed. Locked.
He doesnāt try to open it. Doesnāt 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.
Itās thereāsteady. Calm.
He doesnāt 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 doesnāt 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 faucetābarely visible. Just a shadow.
He breathes in deep. Out slow. But it doesnāt help. His skin still feels too tight.
Like something isnāt 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 quietābut 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 outsideāblue 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. Heās not moving. Justā¦ 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 heās been tugging at the hem.
You speak gently. āCouldnāt sleep?ā
He flinchesānot from fear, but from being pulled too suddenly back into the present. His head turns just slightly, enough to catch your silhouette. āDidnāt mean to wake you.ā
āYou didnāt.ā
You step inside, feet bare on cool tile, blanket trailing behind you. You donāt press him. Donāt switch on the light. You just stand with him in the dark. āIāve never had silence like this before,ā he says after a pause, voice low and frayed at the edges.
You blink. āWhat do you mean?ā
āI meanā¦ā He gestures vaguely toward the apartment. The walls. The stillness. āThis.ā He turns more fully now, but not enough to face you. Just enough for the moonlight to catch in his eyes.
āItās too quiet. It makes me think.ā
You nod, arms folding around yourself. āThinking can be loud.ā He breathes out through his nose, like he didnāt expect you to get it. You let the silence hang, soft and heavy.
Then: āYou want tea?ā
He hesitates. Like the question doesnāt quite compute.
āSomething warm,ā you offer. āHelps when the thoughts wonāt shut up.ā
He doesnāt answer. But when you move to the cabinet and quietly begin boiling water, he doesnāt stop you.
And when you hand him the mugāsteam curling up between your fingers, light catching faintly on ceramicāhe 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.
āSit,ā you say gently, motioning to the chair across from you. He doesnāt hesitate. Doesnāt question it. Just moves.
Youāre a little surprised by thatānot because you expected resistance, but because Eren doesnāt seem like the kind of person who does things just because someone asks.
But you donāt voice it.
You just watch him sit, his movements stiff and tired, like his bodyās still running on survival alone.
Then you glance down at your mugāwarmth coiling through your fingers like a poor substitute for peace and take a slow breath.
He hasnāt touched his tea.
Just stares at it, like maybe if he glares hard enough, itāll spill secrets instead of steam.
The silence stretches.
Heās been here almost twenty-four hours now. Given him clothes. A place to rest. But heās still a stranger. And you donāt do strangers.
You shift slightly in your chair. āI know you said your name is Eren,ā you start carefully. āAnd I get that youāreā¦ not from around here.ā He doesnāt look up. āBut I need to know more than that.ā
Nothing.
Your voice sharpens. Not angryājust firm. āIf youāre going to stay here, I need to know who Iām sharing my space with.ā
That gets him.
His eyes flick up, guarded, green, a little wild around the edges. āI told you what I can.ā
You tilt your head. āThatās not the same as telling the truth.ā
He exhales through his nose. āYou wouldnāt believe the truth.ā
You raise a brow. āTry me.ā
His jaw tenses. He looks down at the tea again, fingers curling tighter around the mug.
āYou want a name? You have it. Eren. You want details?ā His voice tightens. āI donāt have them. Not right now.ā
You narrow your eyes. āSo whatāyou just No idea how you got to that park in the middle of day?ā
āYes.ā
āJust like that?ā
āYes.ā
You stare at him. He doesnāt flinch. Doesnāt blink.
Heās not lying. You can feel it. But that doesnāt make it any easier to swallow.
āYou expect me to believe that?ā
āI donāt expect anything from you.ā
The words are sharpācolder than the room.
You sit back, mug forgotten. āIām not asking for your life story, Eren. But if youāre going to keep sleeping on my couch and drinking my tea, I need something.ā
He stands abruptly.
Too fast.
The chair legs scrape against the floor, and for a second, itās not the stranger who calls himself Eren in your kitchen anymoreāitās something wounded, something that doesnāt fit in soft places.
āI donāt know how I got here,ā he says, voice low but shaking. āI donāt know why. Or who pulled me out. Or if Iām going to wake up and find out none of this was real.ā
You blink.
His chest is rising faster now. Hands clenched. Tea forgotten. The steam spirals between you like breath caught in a throat.
āIām trying not to fall apart,ā he adds. āSo if itās too muchāif Iām too muchāyou can say it. Iāll leave.ā
You watch him.
Quiet. Steady.
Your pulse is racing, but your voice is calm when it comes. āI didnāt ask you to leave, Eren.ā That seems to knock the wind out of him a little. āIām asking you to let me in. Just enough to know Iām not letting something dangerous live in my house.ā
His eyes flickerāsomewhere between offended and ashamed.
You stand, slowly, and take his cup. Still full. Still warm. āSleep on it,ā you say āTomorrowā¦ maybe you tell me something real.ā
You rinse the mug and donāt look back. Behind you, the air is thick with unsaid things.
But he doesnāt leave.
And you donāt make him.
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