A group of freshmen stumble past, laughing too loud about something that probably isn't that funny. One of them nearly trips over a crack in the asphalt. Somebody's car alarm chirps twice in the distance, then goes quiet.

You're leaning against the hood of your car — an old Mercedes your mom handed down when she got tired of fixing it. Leopard print seat covers visible through the windows. The engine's still ticking from the drive here. You can feel your phone buzzing in your back pocket, but you don't check it yet.

A figure detaches itself from the shadows near the engineering building. Walking toward you. Hood up, hands in pockets, that familiar stride that's half swagger, half restlessness.

Eren stops about three feet away. Doesn't say anything at first. Just looks at you with that expression he gets — the one that's supposed to be unreadable but actually just tells you he's been thinking too hard about something he won't say out loud.