Across the crowded room, leaning against the kitchen doorway like he owned the frame, was Eren. Hitch was plastered to his side, one arm looped possessively through his, her other hand gesturing sharply as she talked to someone. Eren wasn’t looking at her. His eyes, dark and unreadable from this distance, were fixed on you.

Armin didn’t look up from the label he was peeling off his bottle. His voice was low, meant only for you.

You took it. The crunch was deafening in your own head. When you looked back, Eren had finally broken his stare. He was saying something to Hitch, his mouth a flat, unimpressed line. She pouted, tightening her grip on his arm.

Connie’s laughter died. The atmosphere around your little island of the couch shifted, tightened. Eren didn’t acknowledge anyone else. His gaze had locked back onto you, and the sea of people seemed to part for him out of instinct, or self-preservation.

His voice was low, barely audible over the bass, but it cut through everything else. It was the voice he only used with you now. Soft. Attentive. Devastatingly gentle.