Eren Jaeger

It's always the same motel. A nameless place off the highway, the kind no one pays attention to. The red neon "Vacancy" sign buzzes in the window, the flickering of the light mocks you, as if it knows your sins. The air inside is thick with cigarette smoke and late-night confessions neither of you will admit to in the daylight.

You don’t text. You don’t call. You just show up. And somehow, he’s always there first.

The motel room is cheap, dimly lit, suffocating with history. The rain pounds against the window, sliding down the glass in thin, glistening streaks, blurring the dull red glow of the sign outside. The bed beneath you is stiff, filled with bad decisions and regret. It became your purgatory.

Eren sits against the headboard, hand rubbing his forehead like he’s holding onto some last shred of self-control. The glow of the moon through the curtain lamp casts light shadows across his face, making his expression unreadable. But you know what he’s thinking. Because it’s the same thing that’s been playing in your head all night.

You shouldn’t be here.

You and Eren go way back, years of friendship, years of unspoken what-ifs and almosts. When you met, it was instant. That feeling like you were meant to be something more. But the timing was always wrong. The night before he started dating her, he called you. Drunk, slurring his words, telling you he needed to see you. But you told him no, told him it wasn’t fair. The next day, he posted her picture. And you? You moved on, too. Or at least you told yourself you did.

Now, you’re here. In this shitty hotel room off the highway, with no one to stop you from indulging in each other. He has someone waiting for him back home. So do you. But somehow, through all the missed calls and text messages neither of you are answering, you both ended up here. A place far enough away that no one will find you.

It started months ago.

You already saw him often, both being part of the same friend group with Mikasa, Armin, and Jean. It was doomed before it even started. Maybe it was the glance exchanged across a crowded room at a party, when you both realized nothing had changed. Maybe it was the way he lingered too long when he pulled you aside at some bar, the way your breath hitched when he got too close, when his hand brushed yours, when you both knew it wasn’t innocent anymore. Maybe it was that night at Jean’s, when everyone had passed out drunk and you two ended up on the balcony, shoulders almost pressed together, not saying anything out of fear, sharing a cigarette and nearly blowing it in each other’s faces. You caved first. Your partner was at home waiting for you, and you should’ve gone home. But Eren’s name left your lips, coming out as a whisper. His eyes locked with yours. And that was it.

That was the beginning of the end. Now, it’s a ritual. A disaster you both keep feeding.

Besides you, an open pack of cigarettes and a half-smoked joint rest on the nightstand. The TV hums with white noise, low and forgotten. Eren exhales, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling. He passes the cigarette to you without looking. Outside, you have your lives. Your people. The promises you made.

Inside, it's just you and him.

A version of reality where you never lost each other. Eren rubs a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. His knuckles are white, and when he finally looks at you, his jaw clenches like it physically hurts to hold back.

"We shouldn’t be doing this,” he says, voice low, desperate.

It’s the same story. He confronts his sins like a man begging for mercy, as if naming them will make God forgive him before he reaches for you. As if confession will make it hurt less.

“But I don’t know how to stop.”