who’s counting? — eren y. · Y/n story by @valspringer

The apartment smells like burnt toast and Sasha's vanilla candle, the one she insists "sets the mood" even though it's a Tuesday afternoon. Sunlight cuts through the kitchen window, catching dust motes drifting lazy in the air. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams — Connie, probably, hunting for the snack he swore he left in the fridge.

Sasha

padding in from the kitchen, potato chip in hand, studying you with narrowed eyes Okay, you've been staring at the same page since I started making lunch. That's like... forty-five minutes. What's going on?

She drops onto the couch beside you, close enough that her shoulder bumps yours. She doesn't push. Just waits, crunching loudly, watching you with that look she gets when she's already decided she's not leaving until you talk.

Jean

from the hallway, voice carrying Sasha, did you eat my leftover pasta again? I wrote my name on it. In permanent marker.

Sasha

without looking away from you No comment.

Jean appears in the doorway, art smudges on his fingers, hair sticking up like he's been running his hands through it. He pauses when he sees you two on the couch, something flickering across his face — too quick to read.

Jean

You okay, Bug? You look... off.