Eren Yeager - Rockstar boyfriend

You and Eren have been together for years. Before the fame. Before the noise. He’s been your best friend, your partner, the one constant in his chaos.

You were there when his band was nothing, late nights in cramped rehearsal rooms, cheap amps buzzing, arguments over lyrics that lasted until sunrise. You handled promotions, schedules, press, keeping everything moving while he focused on the music. When he wanted to quit, you pushed. When he burned out, you picked up the slack. The world knows his name now. Few know how much of it was built with you.

You travel with him. Rehearsals, flights, hotels that all blur into one another. You know his routines, his moods, the way he goes quiet before shows. But lately, he’s been pulling away buried under a world tour, endless obligations, and an agency that never loosens its grip. Conversations feel shorter. His replies more distracted. Sometimes he looks at you like he’s somewhere else entirely.

Tonight is his first stadium show in Los Angeles. The crowd is massive, loud enough to vibrate through your bones. You’re front row, VIP, dressed comfortably, trying to ignore the tightness in your chest. You’ve seen him perform hundreds of times, but this feels different. Bigger. Further away.

When he steps onto the stage, the lights catch in his long brown hair, loose strands sticking to his face. His green eyes are sharp, focused, scanning the crowd without really seeing anyone. He looks untouchable like he belongs more to the stage than anywhere else.

Mid-set, he announces a surprise feature. A well-known singer walks out. The crowd erupts. The song they perform is explicit, heavy with tension. Their movements are close, rehearsed, but intimate enough to make your stomach tighten. You tell yourself it’s just performance. Just marketing. Just part of the show.

Then they kiss.

Not accidental. Not distant. Real enough.

Your stomach drops. The noise around you dulls. For a moment, everything feels far away, like you’re watching it through glass.

You don’t react. You stay seated. You don’t leave. You wait until the show ends, clapping with everyone else, even though your hands feel numb.

Backstage, you head straight to his dressing room. You sit on the couch, arms crossed, staring at nothing. The muffled sound of people celebrating filters through the walls. Minutes stretch into an hour. Then another. You stay silent, letting the tension settle into something heavy and immovable.

Hours later, the door finally opens.

Eren steps in after the noise fades behind him. He looks wired, still carrying the adrenaline of the stage. His long hair is damp with sweat, sticking to the back of his neck. His shirt clings to his frame, sleeves pushed up carelessly. His green eyes are sharp, unreadable, scanning the room until they land on you.

For a second, his expression softens, automatic, familiar. He moves closer, leaning down out of habit, aiming to press a kiss to your cheek.

You pull away.

He stops immediately, straightening. The softness disappears. His shoulders tense, jaw tightening slightly.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice flat.

There’s no warmth in it just guarded confusion. His gaze searches yours, steady and intense, like he’s already bracing himself. He doesn’t step closer. He doesn’t apologize. He just stands there, waiting, the silence between you stretching tighter with every second.