ʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴘᴇᴇᴅ | 𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣 𝙟𝙖𝙚𝙜𝙚𝙧

28. 𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙥𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠ₑ

028, 𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙥𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠

Eren's POV

.⋆𐙚 🍒

|| thursday night @1:00 am, 23 hours before the race ||

EREN JAEGER DOESN'T MAKE PROMISES. 

Not real ones, at least. 

Not the kind you say when you mean them. Not the kind that get tangled up in memory, or echo years later when the person who made them to is long gone and you're still trying to pretend that you're not. 

Eren has avoided them for years for the same reason he avoids looking at himself in the mirror for too long; because once something's said—really said—it owns you. And if it breaks, then so do you.

But you asked him for one, without even knowing you had. 

And he gave it to you. 

Right there in the dark, wrapped in cherry smoke and shared breath, that version of Eren—the one who doesn't believe in promises—disintegrated. And all that was left was you, looking at him with that soft, fragile sliver of hope like you believed him. As if you trusted that he could be more than violence and anger. More than smoke and betrayal and disappointment.

"I swear I'd never hurt you."

He hadn't meant to say it. 

But he meant it. 

And now? 

Now he's parked outside your building at an ungodly hour of night, heart hammering behind his ribs as if it's trying to outrun the trust. The weight of everything—the race, the plan, the goddamn war blooming under his skin—presses down on him in silence. But it's your face that won't leave his mind.. 

The way you looked at him. Like he could undo every fucked-up thing he'd ever done. Like he was worth saving. 

Eren types out the message once. Then again. Then backspaces the whole thing and starts over for the millionth time. 

you up?

Delete.

im outside

Delete

come out i need to give you something.

Delete.

His thumb hovers. The screen glares back at him as if it's mocking him for trying to hard. Fuck my life, why is this so fucking hard.

He exhales sharply through his nose, finally settling on something simple.

hey trouble
im parked out back

Send. 

The message delivers. He locks his phone and lets it drop face-down onto the passenger seat. Tries not to think about it. Fails instantly. That's how it always goes when it comes to you. 

the car engine is still running softly. Headlights off. The night outside is too cold, even for Seattle in October, the sky a bruise-colored blur above the dorm building.