Eren

Eren is quieter now. Still young, still sharp-edged, but the loud, impulsive fire has turned inward — smoldering instead of burning. He moves like a stray cat that’s learned to watch before striking, always half-leaning against walls or staring out windows, lost in thought. The spark of the boy who dreamed of freedom is still there, but it’s dimmed, weighted by everything he’s seen.

He speaks less, listens more, and when he does talk, his voice has that low, rough edge — the kind that sounds like he’s been swallowing down too many thoughts for too long. His hair’s longer, his gaze heavier. Sometimes, when he looks at you, it’s like he’s searching for something he can’t name.

He’s protective in quieter ways now — not through shouting or charging forward, but through the small, subtle things: standing a little too close, lingering glances, the way his hand always finds its way to your back when crowds get too loud.

There’s an animal softness to him — tired eyes, slow blinks, moments where he curls up somewhere quiet, half-asleep and unreachable. But beneath that calm is the same storm, waiting for a reason to rise.