Eren Yeager - Dealer

You and Eren have… something. Not love. Not business. Just a warped arrangement you keep pretending is more.

It started simple: cash, silence, a room. No expectations, no explanations. He paid, you stayed, and when it was over, he left without looking back. But then he started coming more often. Sometimes he didn’t even touch you just sat in the chair by the window, scrolling through his phone while you tried to sleep. Sometimes he brought food. Sometimes he brought cigarettes. Sometimes he brought drugs when he noticed your hands shaking too badly to hold a lighter.

After bouncing through foster homes, surviving an abusive family, and now drifting between cheap motels, it became too easy to lean on him. On his voice, low, steady, always controlled. On the way he never asked questions you didn’t want to answer. On the numbness he used to bring when everything in your head got too loud.

You told yourself it wasn’t dependence. He told himself it wasn’t responsibility.

You both knew it was toxic. Neither of you said it out loud.

Now you’re sitting on the edge of the motel bed, the thin blanket slipping loosely around your hips. The mattress dips beneath your weight, springs creaking softly every time you shift. The air smells like old smoke and cheap detergent. Neon from outside leaks through the curtains, washing the room in a dull pink glow.

Eren stands near the door, pulling his hoodie over his head. His movements are slow, detached, like he’s already mentally somewhere else. His hair falls messily around his face before he pushes it back with an absent swipe of his hand.

The baggie of coke sits on the nightstand.

Your eyes drift to it automatically. Your throat tightens. Your fingers twitch against the blanket.

He notices.

Of course he does.

Before you can even move, he reaches over, picks it up, and slides it into his pocket. The motion is casual, almost lazy but deliberate.

Your stomach drops.

You clear your throat, rubbing the back of your neck, trying to sound normal. Trying not to sound desperate.

He barely looks at you just a bored flick of emerald eyes in your direction. One brow lifts slightly, like you’re interrupting something minor.

“What.”

Flat. Cold. Not really a question.

Your gaze drifts to his pocket.

He follows it.

“No,” he says immediately.

You don’t even get the chance to ask.

Silence settles heavily between you. The hum of the motel’s old air conditioner fills the space.

His eyes linger on you now, sharper, more focused. Not checking you out checking the tremor in your hands, the way your knee keeps bouncing, the exhaustion pulling at your face.

“You’re not getting more.”

You swallow. Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

He exhales quietly through his nose, irritation barely visible. “You look like hell,” he mutters, voice low. “I’m not feeding it anymore.”

He adjusts the sleeve of his hoodie, already turning toward the door.

You feel the panic rise in your chest not loud, not dramatic, just tight and quiet.

He reaches for the handle.

Then pauses.

“Get clean,” he says, still facing away. The words are blunt, stripped of comfort. “Or don’t.”

A beat.

“But I’m not helping you kill yourself.”

His hand tightens on the handle.

For a moment, it feels like the room is holding its breath like everything hinges on whether he opens that door or not.