Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

9:12 AM, at The Scouts Agency headquarters 

The meeting was already underway when Jean pushed the glass door open, coffee in one hand, his phone still glued to the other.

“Sorry,” he muttered, not bothering to lie. No one cared anyway. Well, except maybe Erwin. And Erwin was the boss. So.

He slid into the empty chair next to Hange, ignoring the piercing stare from Levi across the table and Floch’s smug little smirk like he was thrilled someone else was late for once.

“You look like shit,” Hange whispered, barely concealing their amusement.

“I spent the night with Hitch.”

Levi raised a brow.

“Not like that. She broke up with that footballer guy. Again. I had to stop her from slashing his tires.”

“Mature of you,” Hange grinned.

Jean sipped his coffee. “Barely. I just held the scissors while she cried.”

Erwin cleared his throat. “Now that we’re all here—” (a pointed glance at Jean) “—we can begin.”

Jean slouched back in his chair, already halfway mentally checked out, until he noticed something… off. Erwin looked positively gleeful . Which was terrifying .

Jean leaned toward Hange. “Okay what happened, did the Titans sink?”

“Even better,” Hange whispered, practically vibrating.

Levi scoffed. “That’s debatable.”

“Better than the Titans sinking?” Jean blinked. “That’s a high bar.”

Erwin’s smile widened like some villain in a noir film. “We’ve just acquired a very high-profile new client.”

Jean sat up straighter. Oh. This might be good.

“He left the Titans’ roster as of this morning and signed with us just an hour ago.”

Jean narrowed his eyes. “Wait, left ? Who the hell leaves the Titans? They’ve got Zeke Jaeger as a lead agent, they practically wipe their clients’ asses.”

“Yeah,” Hange giggled. “Guess who we’re wiping now?”

A beat.

Erwin clasped his hands together like a priest delivering a benediction.

“Eren Jaeger is now with the Scouts Agency.”

The room went still.

Jean’s brain short-circuited.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I’m sorry, what the fuck ?”

“Oh it gets better,” Hange grinned. “You’re directly concerned.”

Levi rolled his eyes and rubbed his temple.

Jean squinted. “Wait—no—hold on—how does this—how does this involve me?”

Erwin’s eyes sparkled like he’d been waiting for that question. “You’ll be his agent.”

Silence.

Jean stared at him.

“ Excuse me? ”

Erwin nodded, calm as ever. “You’re the perfect fit.”

“ Am not. ” Jean’s voice cracked. “Why not Hange? They’ve got the experience.”

“I’m not touching that man with a ten-foot pole,” Hange said cheerfully.

“Levi?” Jean turned in desperation.

Levi looked personally offended . “Because I’m not being punished.”

“What about Floch—” He cut himself off. “No. Right. Floch is a fucking intern.” He finished with disdain with a look for the little shit. 

“Hey!” Floch protested from the end of the table.

Jean turned back to Erwin, panicking. “Sir, with all due respect—Eren Jaeger is a diva . He changes agents like he changes cologne and he still thinks he’s starring in a Greek tragedy—”

“You’ve worked with difficult talent before,” Erwin interrupted mildly. “You can handle him.”

Jean gestured wildly. “But I know him. From college. Theater program. We did Antigone together and he—he threw a chair during dress rehearsal because someone said his line delivery sounded like a robot going through puberty—”

“That sounds like him,” Hange mused.

“And I hate him. He’s insufferable. He’s—he’s barefoot on Instagram kind of insufferable!”

“I don’t care if he posts pictures licking rocks,” Levi said coolly. “You’re the youngest here—excluding the intern—so you still have something to prove.”

Jean’s mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding.”

“If we could choose which actors we worked with,” Levi went on, “I wouldn’t be stuck babysitting Reiner fucking Braun and his seasonal identity crisis.”

Erwin gave a pointed nod. “This is an opportunity, Jean. One that reflects our trust in your ability.”

“More like your willingness to watch me suffer.”

“And?” Hange said sweetly.

Jean closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Reminded himself that he loved this job. That he’d worked five damn years to get this far. That Erwin wasn’t actually Satan, he just looked like him in natural light.

“…Fine.”

“Wonderful,” Erwin said, all benevolence. “He’ll be here this afternoon.”

Jean’s eyes snapped open. “ WHAT— ”

Levi smirked. “You might wanna brush up on your Greek tragedies.”

******

Jean stood by the tall window of The Scout’s fourth-floor conference room, staring blankly at the tiny dot that was a pigeon.

He calculated.

Not the height—he’d survive the fall. Worse, he’d sprain something and be out of commission for just enough time to watch someone else get promoted while he sat at home icing his knees.

Not worth it.

“You look like you’re trying to astral project,” Hange said, appearing with two coffees.

“I am,” Jean muttered. “Trying to exit this dimension before he gets here.”

“You’ve handled way worse,” they offered kindly.

“Name one worse.”

“You repped Connie Springer through three separate ‘rapping cowboy’ phases.”

Jean sighed. “That was performance art compared to this.”

“Come on, it’ll be fine. You’ll be charming, efficient, emotionally bulletproof—”

“I hate him.”

“That’s not very emotionally bulletproof.” Hange muttered with a giggle.

The glass door opened.

Jean didn’t turn.

Hange leaned closer. “Okay, but don’t react too strongly—”

“I’m fine,” Jean said. “I’m calm.”

“Mm-hmm.”

He turned.

And there he was.

Eren fucking Jaeger .

Hair longer than it used to be. Still messy. Black suit, no tie. Shirt half unbuttoned like this was a photoshoot instead of a business meeting. Same sharp jawline, same eyes like a thunderstorm, same infuriating smirk .

“Wow,” Eren said. “Still got the horse face.”

Jean blinked once.

Twice.

“I see you’ve kept up with your maturity regimen ,” he said coolly. “Right on schedule for a full regression by Thursday.”

Eren laughed. “Missed you too, Kirstein.”

They shook hands like enemies at the UN .

“Thanks for the dramatic entrance,” Jean said. “Next time, try a backflip. Really commit.”

“Oh, I save those for people I don’t despise.”

“Fantastic. Let’s get this over with.”

He led Eren into one of the private meeting rooms with his usual brisk, clipped stride. Inside, Jean sat, not inviting Eren to. Eren sat anyway, because of course he fucking did.

“Alright,” Jean said, steeling himself. “Let’s talk career goals, PR image, brand strategy. And—miracle of miracles—how we avoid any more public tantrums like your Cannes press conference.”

Eren gave a slow blink. “That wasn’t a tantrum. That was art.”

“You threw a glass at a reporter.”

“It missed.”

“It cracked a chandelier .”

“It was a small chandelier.”

Jean exhaled sharply through his nose.

“I’ve worked with problematic talent before. You’re not unique.”

“I am unique,” Eren said, grinning. “And problematic, apparently.”

Jean closed his eyes. “We’re going to set boundaries. We’re going to craft a narrative that doesn’t involve assault charges or barefoot interviews with Vogue. And you’re going to listen —”

“Yeah, yeah. I trust you.”

Jean paused. “What.”

Eren leaned back, arms behind his head like this was a poolside in Ibiza. “You’re good at what you do. You’ve always been good.”

Jean’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“I also know exactly what to say to piss you off. So it’s a win-win.”

Jean stood. “I’m getting Erwin.”

“Why?”

“Because this is insane. You’re clearly not taking this seriously—”

Eren tilted his head. “I am . I’m taking it very seriously. That’s why I asked for you.”

Jean froze.

“What?”

“I requested you,” Eren repeated casually, like it was no big deal. “Told them if I was gonna switch agencies, I wanted you as my rep.”

Jean stared.

“You… chose me?”

“Sure did.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re competent. And hot when you’re mad.”

Jean looked up. To the ceiling. To the heavens. To a god who had clearly forsaken him.

“Is this revenge?” he asked. “Did I do something in a past life? Did I kill a nun ?”

Eren leaned forward on the table, resting his chin on his hands.

“No, Jean. You just made the mistake of being unforgettable.”

Jean stared at him.

Then he turned, walked straight to the door, and muttered, “I’m putting in for a transfer.”

From the hallway, Levi’s voice rang out:

“No one wants your job, dumbass.”

***

Jean doesn’t even notice how tightly he’s holding the script until his thumb cramps.

The title is pretentious— “In the Hollow of Her Shadow” —and the pages are even worse. Or better. He can’t quite tell.

It’s not just dark. It’s disturbing. A psychological descent wrapped in painfully poetic stage directions, with the main character obsessively recreating conversations and routines he had with his dead wife—dressing the mannequin in her scarf, cooking meals for two, rewinding audio cassettes of her humming. At first, it reads like grief. Then it mutates.

Because, as Jean finds out near the end, the man’s the one who killed her.

It’s the kind of script that curls into your head like smoke, makes you want to open a window just to breathe something else. And yet, as he turns the final page, Jean already knows two things:

One, Pixis—legendary director, chain-smoker, notorious alcoholic, long-time fan of the grotesque—is going to win a handful of awards for this thing.

And two, Eren Jaeger is going to nail it.

Which is infuriating.

Jean sets the script down on his desk, jaw clenched. He’s barely slept since this whole nightmare started and watching Eren’s past films was the worst part. He’s spent years avoiding them. Whenever someone in the agency would praise “his rawness” or “that magnetic screen presence,” Jean had waved them off like the pretentious bullshit it sounded like.

But then he watched Mother’s Bath —some tragic little indie flick from four years ago, budget lighting and a script stitched together with emotion—and he got it.

There’s a scene in it where the character walks into a bathroom, slips on the tiles, and finds his mother’s corpse in the tub, arms blue, water red. And something about the way Eren crumbles—no tears at first, just shock , the kind that lodges in your throat before you can make a sound—had Jean frozen.

When the sobs finally came, they felt… real. Messy. Too big for the room.

Jean hated every second of it.

Not because Eren was bad. But because he wasn’t.

He’s still glaring at the blank screen where the next clip should start when his phone lights up with a call. He answers out of habit.

“What,” he snaps.

There’s a pause.

Then: “That’s a hell of a greeting, horseface.”

Jean grits his teeth. “Jaeger.”

“Jean Kirstein. My agent ,” Eren purrs, so smug he might as well be licking the words. “Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”

“I didn’t think I’d live to see the day I had to clean up your career, yet here we are.”

“Aw. You do care.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Jean says flatly. “I’m sending you the script Pixis wants you for. In the Hollow of Her Shadow. Read it. Make a tape of scene 42 just to see what I’m working with. I’ll call you in two days.”

There’s a pause again. Too long.

Then Eren says, “Nah.”

Jean blinks. “ Nah? ”

“If you want me to take this one seriously, you’re gonna have to work for it, agent. ”

“Are you high?”

“Maybe. But you’re the one watching my old shit like a creep.”

Jean makes a strangled sound. “It’s literally my job—”

“Cool. Then here’s the deal,” Eren cuts in, voice gleaming with satisfaction. “I’ll send you a tape. But I get to pick the scene. No cheating, no second guesses. You watch it. You figure it out.”

Jean’s temple twitches. “This isn’t a fucking guessing game, Jaeger.”

“Everything’s a guessing game with me. You should know that by now.”

The line clicks dead before Jean can curse him out properly.

He stares at the screen a moment, teeth gritted, and mutters:

“Fuck.”

***

Jean doesn’t flinch when his phone dings—he’s still too pissed off from the call.

The video has no title. Just a wetransfer link and a message.

From: Eren Jaeger

happy fucker? 🖕

He exhales through his nose. Doesn’t reply. Just downloads the damn thing.

It loads in VLC—blurry at first, then sharpening into harsh candlelight. The room is dimly lit, Eren’s apartment Jean tries to guess. Bare walls. The camera’s static, handheld style, grainy in that intentional way.

The character is sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, head down. Breathing uneven.

Jean squints.

Wait.

His hand moves. Then again.

Jean freezes.

Is—?

Oh no. No fucking way.

But yes.

Yes way.

Eren— the character —is jerking off. He picked the ONE scene in the whole fucking script where the character jerks off. Jesus. 

Right there, fully in frame. The movement subtle at first, lazy, almost mechanical. A quiet moan escaping his lips as he leans forward, bracing his forearm against his knee. He’s not even looking at anything. No porn. No photograph. Just—

Lost in his head.

It’s raw. Ugly. Erotic in a way that makes Jean feel like he should be arrested for watching it.

His first instinct is to shut the laptop and throw it out the window.

His second instinct is to rewind it.

Which is worse.

The groan that comes about thirty seconds in is what really fucks him up—because it’s not performative. There’s no theatrics, no eye contact with the lens, nothing designed . It just happens , low and breathy and so real Jean instinctively clenches his jaw.

It doesn’t help that Eren’s acting is good . Too good.

His face screws up just the way people do when it’s less about pleasure and more about compulsion . A nervous tick. A muscle memory. A distraction from loneliness.

And now Jean’s wondering if it’s acting at all.

He pauses the video, breath shallow.

It’s paused right on Eren’s face, jaw slack, lashes low, mouth parted. And Jean—fucking idiot that he is—leans slightly closer, like proximity will somehow give him answers. Like he’ll find a tell. Something fake.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he replays the last ten seconds. Again. Just to be sure .

And when the tape finally ends, there’s nothing but black.

Jean sits back in his chair, blinking at his reflection on the dark screen. His ears are hot. His palms are sweaty. His morals are… somewhere under the desk, probably.

It takes him a full two minutes to remember to breathe properly.

Then, without even thinking, he opens his phone, types:

To: Eren Jaeger

What the fuck is wrong with you.

Eren replies almost instantly.

From: Eren Jaeger

you said you wanted acting. that’s me acting.

unless it’s not. who’s to say. 🤷‍♂️

wanna watch again, agent? 😘

Jean shuts off his phone and flings it face-down across the room.

He is not watching it again.

Not tonight, anyway.

***

Jean sets his jaw, pulls open the notes app on his iPad, and stares at the contact screen with the kind of dead-eyed resolve usually reserved for hostage negotiators.

He Facetimes.

Eren picks up lying down . Shirtless. Head tilted back on some obnoxiously large sofa, hair wild, pushed to the right side of his neck, drooping over one shoulder like a scarf.

He says nothing. Just looks.

Jean clears his throat. “Alright. I watched the clip.”

Eren perks up. “Did it make you hard?”

Jean doesn’t even blink. “It made me consider quitting.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Eren drawls, stretching like a cat. “That was art, baby. You could smell the sadness. Taste the regret. Feel the—”

“I’m begging you to stop talking.”

Eren grins. “You loved it.”

Jean pinches the bridge of his nose. “I tolerated it, because it’s my job. Which brings me to the next part of my job.” He swipes to the production schedule. “We’re shooting on location for In the Hollow of Her Shadow in two weeks. I’ll be joining the team directly on set.”

“Fantastic,” Eren says. “We’ll share a trailer. I like the left side of the bed.”

“You’re not listening.”

“I never listen.”

Jean powers through. “I’m going to be following your every move. Press, rehearsals, media days, fittings, the whole ride. Consider me your shadow.”

Eren raises a brow. “Hot.”

Jean doesn’t dignify that.

“I’ll be overseeing every scheduled appearance, every time you step onto a red carpet, and every goddamn drink that touches your hand. Because you, Eren, have the public image of a raccoon that snorted coke and fought a priest on TikTok.”

Eren sits up slightly. “That was one time.”

“And yet, here we are,” Jean snaps. “So I’m the leash. You’re the dog. No biting. No humping the crew. No disappearing to ‘go method’ in the middle of fucking Joshua Tree.”

Eren blinks innocently. “But I was researching trauma. ”

“You were naked in a rave tent drinking absinthe from someone’s shoe.”

“And I nailed the hospital scene the next day. Coincidence? I think not.” He smirks.

Jean actually groans. “I swear to God, Jaeger, if you so much as breathe on a paparazzo, I will have you replaced by a CGI skeleton with better impulse control.”

Eren just smirks, eyes half-lidded. “God, you get bossy when you’re stressed.”

“I am stressed.”

“I can tell.” Eren leans closer to the camera. “You clench your jaw when you’re turned on.”

Jean’s whole face twitches.

Eren barks. Actually barks. One sharp, aggressive WOOF . “That’s for the leash talk. Really got me going.”

Jean slams the iPad onto the desk face-down.

Then picks it back up. “We’re doing this. Whether you implode or not. Because you’re my client now. And unlike you, I take this job seriously.”

Eren beams. “That’s hot.”

Jean hangs up.

A second later, his phone buzzes.

From: Eren Jaeger

🐶 good boy

Jean throws it into the laundry basket and screams into his fist.

Chapter Text

Day one on set for Pixis’ In the Hollow of Her Shadow .

It’s barely 9 a.m. The sky’s still gray, and Jean is already on his third espresso, watching a grip nearly commit vehicular manslaughter with a lighting rig.

He finds Eren—because of course he does—parked in one of the folding chairs outside makeup, legs spread wide, shirt half unbuttoned, talking low and smiling like he’s trying to sell sin by the pound.

Across from him sits a woman in scrubs and crocs, hair tied back, dabbing something over his cheekbone.

She’s not laughing.

Not even smiling.

Eren tries again, eyes half-lidded. “I mean, I could stand still, but where’s the fun in that?”

She tuts. “If you move again, I’ll glue your eyelids shut.”

Jean hides a smirk behind his coffee cup.

Eren grins wider. “Kinky.”

She deadpans, “I once did a prosthetic dick on a man who passed out mid-application. You’re nothing.”

Jean nearly chokes.

Eren, for once, is momentarily stunned. “…huh.”

The woman—Sasha, Jean sees on her badge—steps back, caps her brush, and turns to grab another product. “Keep your mouth shut unless you want foundation in your teeth.”

Jean beams .

Eren, baffled, looks around like he’s trying to spot the camera crew for this reality show he’s accidentally wandered into.

Sasha glances at Jean, clocking him instantly. “You’re the new guy with the clipboard?”

Jean lifts it. “Jean Kirstein. Agent. Babysitter. Damage control.”

She nods once. “Sasha Braus. Makeup. Sanity preservation. Water cooler gossip.”

Jean grins. “Pleasure.”

Eren’s still recovering. “Wait, so no one’s gonna flirt back with me today?”

Sasha shrugs. “Not unless you come with a better tip and less perfume.”

“It’s cologne.”

“It’s obnoxious .”

Jean sips his coffee, watching Eren spiral internally for the first time since their reunion, and thinks:

She’s going to be my new best friend.

Because clearly, she’s got the cure to the Jaeger Plague.

****

It’s the third day of shooting. Crucial dialogue. Tight schedule. One take, or they’ll blow the entire day’s budget.

And Eren?

Eren is gone.

Not “in the bathroom.” Not “at wardrobe.” Not even “vaping on the roof like a misunderstood Greek god.”

No.

Gone.

Jean’s walking the perimeter of the set like a man in the last stage of grief, headset screeching in his ear:

“We’re waiting on Jaeger—”

“Pixis wants to move on , Jean, we’re losing the light—”

“Did he seriously vanish again—?”

Jean finally yanks the earpiece out, hurls it into his back pocket, and mutters to himself, “I’m going to lose my fucking job. I’m going to die in shame. My tombstone will read ‘Crushed by Jaeger’s E-GO.’”

He checks catering. Nothing.

Trailer? Empty, except for a half-eaten granola bar and a copy of The Little Prince , which he refuses to emotionally process right now.

Then he hears it—laughter, somewhere outside the fence. Low, raspy. Two voices. One of them familiar.

Jean storms around the corner and freezes.

There, in the middle of the service road, sitting on the pavement , is Eren fucking Jaeger. Legs stretched out, shirt rumpled, hair falling into his eyes, passing a battered bottle of whiskey back and forth with an old man who’s clearly been sleeping rough. His coat’s a quilt of duct tape and dust. His eyes, sharp. Smiling.

Jean doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches.

Eren’s saying something, gesturing lazily with the bottle. “—and so I said, fuck it, right? If you’re gonna die anyway, might as well make the scene count.”

The man cackles. “That’s some heavy shit for nine in the morning.”

“You should’ve seen my last director.”

Jean steps forward, shadow falling over them.

“ Eren. ”

Eren tilts his head up slowly, blinking like a cat in the sun. “Oh. Hey , Jean. You found me.”

Jean’s jaw ticks. “You really think this is fucking funny ?”

Eren frowns. “He was telling me about his wife. She used to run a bakery. Before the pandemic, before all this shit. She died last year.” He gestures to the man, who nods quietly.

Jean doesn’t budge. “They’re holding the entire set for you. Pixis is on the verge of crucifying someone. You had a call time , Jaeger.”

“I didn’t feel ready.” Eren shrugs. “Then I met Hannes, and he reminded me people exist outside that plastic circus back there.”

“You don’t get to not feel ready ,” Jean snaps. “This isn’t theater camp. You’re under contract. You get paid more than everyone on set combined and you’re out here—what? Playing philosopher with a bottle of rotgut on a public road?!”

Eren’s eyes flicker with something unreadable. “Are you always this fun at parties?”

Jean looks at Hannes. “I’m sorry,” he says tightly. “For the interruption.”

Hannes waves him off. “He’s a weird one. But he listens. That’s rare.”

Eren stands up, slowly. “C’mon, horse-face. Let’s go make some art .”

Jean clenches his fists but turns on his heel, walking back toward the set with murder in his veins.

Eren falls into step beside him, still holding the bottle.

“Want some?”

“ Fuck you.”

“I missed you too.” Eren laughs.

***

Back on set, the tension is vicious . Everyone’s pretending to be busy. Pixis is pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s about to start reciting Latin incantations to summon the old gods of cinema.

Jean stands behind the monitor, arms crossed, jaw tight, headset half-on. His entire body says “don’t fucking talk to me” but his eyes never leave Eren.

Who, for the record, is still tipsy. And still holding the bottle. ( Where the fuck did he even hide that walking back? )

Pixis doesn’t even look at Jean. “We good?”

Jean grits out, “We’re good.”

Pixis sighs. “Scene 47. Take one. Sound rolling.”

“ Rolling! ”

“ Marker! ”

“Action.”

The lights shift.

And it happens.

Eren straightens. The drunken sway is gone. His entire posture changes in one breath. He’s not Eren anymore—he’s the character, some broken, angry, vulnerable shell of a man collapsing in a motel hallway. There’s bruising on his cheek (makeup), his hands are trembling, and his mouth is set like he’s trying not to cry.

He leans back against the peeling wallpaper, breath heaving, eyes darting.

Then—

“I didn’t come here for you to fix me,” he whispers, voice raw. “I came because you’re the only one who looked at me like I wasn’t already gone.”

Silence.

Jean’s breath catches.

For a second , for just a damn second , he forgets where he is. He forgets the sound tech coughing beside him, forgets Pixis growling for another angle.

Because that line. That look . Eren delivers it like a confession. Like he’s bleeding.

Jean swallows.

And then Eren looks directly at his mark and breaks character barely . Just a twitch of the lip. A tiny upward smirk. Not enough to ruin the scene, just enough for Jean to see it.

Like a personal jab.

You’re watching? Good.

The little fucker knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Cut!” Pixis shouts. “Perfect. We’re moving on.”

Everyone exhales.

Eren pushes off the wall, walking off set like a man who just dropped a nuclear bomb and wants a sandwich.

Jean stays frozen behind the monitor.

Because he knows two things now with absolute certainty:

1. Eren Jaeger is really fucking good at this.

2. And that scene? The one where the character’s on the verge of begging not to be abandoned?

He wasn’t acting. Not completely.

There was something in that line delivery. Something pointed .

And it’s fucking with Jean’s head.

Badly.

***

Scene’s wrapped. Pixis has already disappeared into his trailer with a glass of something expensive and an assistant massaging his temples. Crew’s cleaning up. It’s the eye of the storm—quiet, almost peaceful.

But Jean?

Jean is stomping through it like a man possessed.

He finally finds Eren at the back of the set, sitting on the arm of a golf cart like he owns the lot. Someone handed him a water bottle, but he’s not drinking it. He’s scrolling through his phone, legs spread obnoxiously wide, sunglasses perched on top of his head like he’s too cool to acknowledge the sun.

Jean doesn’t even stop walking.

“ We need to talk. ”

Eren doesn’t look up. “ About how good I was? Sure. Go ahead. I’ve got thirty seconds.”

Jean laughs . Not kindly. “About how you vanished in the middle of a scheduled shoot, actually.”

“Relax.” Eren finally lowers the phone and meets his eyes, sharp and annoyed . “I made it back. On time. Sober. Jesus. More than I can say for half this industry.”

Jean blinks. “You call that sober?”

Eren shrugs, clearly done with the conversation before it even began. “If you’re gonna be on my ass every time I breathe wrong, this partnership’s gonna suck for both of us.”

“Oh I’m already having the time of my life,” Jean spits. “Do you think I want to be glued to your side like some glorified babysitter? You think this was my dream job , keeping you from turning a prestige shoot into your personal TMZ blooper reel? Spoiler alert you fucking God-complex-drama queen: it isn’t.”

Eren stands now—slowly. Taller. Cooler. Suddenly not the guy pleading in a motel hallway anymore.

Back to being Eren Fucking Jaeger , the unstoppable golden boy with the ego of a small nation.

“You’re not glued to me,” he says, low and lazy, stepping a little closer. “You’re orbiting me. Like everyone else. Don’t confuse your job with relevance.”

Jean’s nostrils flare. “Right. Because nothing screams relevant like getting shitfaced with a homeless guy on Sunset and almost tanking a Pixis film.”

Eren’s expression darkens just enough to register.

Then he smiles. Cruel. Bright.

“I still got the take, didn’t I?”

“You got lucky. ”

Eren steps closer again. Barely a breath between them now. “Or maybe I’m just better than you remember.”

Jean doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But his whole body is rigid like he’s seconds away from either strangling Eren or pushing him against the nearest trailer wall and kissing the smugness out of him.

Instead, he clenches his jaw and mutters, “Don’t pull that stunt again.”

“Or what?” Eren breathes.

Jean looks him up and down—slowly. Then turns and walks away without another word.

But his ears are burning.

And Eren’s still watching him like he won something.

***

Jean’s practically vibrating when he stomps back toward the crew tent. The sun’s too bright, someone’s blasting fucking Tame Impala for ambiance, and he’s pretty sure his heart rate hasn’t dipped below “cardiac threat level red” since he laid eyes on Eren’s shit-eating grin.

He grabs a water bottle, realizes it’s warm, throws it into a bin like it insulted him, and mutters something vile under his breath about actors with god complexes.

That’s when a hand appears in his peripheral vision, holding a to-go cup with a little heart doodled in sharpie.

“ You look like you need this more than I do, ” says a voice.

Jean turns. It’s the makeup artist— Sasha , he remembers now. Sharp eyes, high ponytail, Crocs that somehow work, and a “don’t fuck with me before 10 a.m.” aura that could kill a man.

Jean blinks. “…You got this for me?”

“No, dumbass. I got it for me. But your face looked like someone kicked your puppy and then forced you to watch Eren Jaeger jerk off in Dolby surround, so…”

Jean snorts, actually snorts, and takes the coffee. “You’re not far off.”

Sasha raises an eyebrow. “Lemme guess. Eren disappeared mid-scene, you found him whispering philosophies into a whiskey bottle with an unhoused man named Craig, and now you’re having an existential crisis about your career.”

Jean stares at her like she’s psychic.

She just sips her backup coffee. “Told you. He’s a walking disaster movie. I’ve been on the same set as him like what, three times now? He does this all the time. You’re just the unlucky bitch in the control room.”

Jean drops into a canvas chair with a heavy sigh. “Why does he even do that shit? One second he’s sweet-talking the crew, the next he’s biting my head off for doing my literal job.”

Sasha shrugs. “Maybe he hates being watched. Maybe he’s trying to piss you off. Maybe he thinks you’re cute when you’re mad.”

Jean chokes on the sip he just took. “What—no. No no. Don’t say that.”

Sasha grins wickedly. “Why not? I’ve seen how he looks at you when you’re not watching.”

Jean looks at her like she’s grown a second head. “He looks at me like he wants to punch me in the throat.”

She leans forward conspiratorially. “Exactly.”

Jean stares at her.

Then drinks.

Slowly.

Sasha leans back smugly, already scribbling something into her continuity notes.

“…He tried it with you too, huh?” Jean mutters.

Sasha rolls her eyes. “Yeah, he flirted. Told me my eyeliner could make a man beg. I told him I don’t date actors who refer to themselves in the third person.”

Jean exhales, half in relief. “God. Thank you.”

She winks. “Don’t worry, Kirstein. I’m your ally in this war.”

Jean gives her a long, grateful nod. “You’re my new best friend.”

“Damn right I am. And I demand gossip rights.”

They clink coffee cups like warriors exchanging blood oaths—just as someone shouts that Eren’s missing again.

Sasha sighs. “Your turn.”

Jean groans and rises like a soldier to the gallows.

“Wish me luck.”

“Break a leg,” she calls. “His, preferably.”

***

Jean throws the door open with his shoulder, clipboard clutched under one arm, headset tangled in his hair. He looks like a man two inches away from a breakdown and exactly zero inches away from homicide.

Inside the dressing room, Eren’s lounging on the sofa, shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, makeup half-wiped, a bottle of mineral water in one hand like he didn’t just derail an entire production by playing drunk philosopher in the street.

He doesn’t even glance up.

“Nice of you to finally show,” Eren says lazily, flipping through his script.

Jean slams the door shut behind him. “You—! I—! What the fuck is wrong with you today? ”

“Define ‘wrong.’”

“ Define shut the fuck up, ” Jean snaps, tossing the clipboard onto a nearby chair. “You almost got yourself run over for a bit with a homeless dude who didn’t even know your name.”

“His name was Hannes. We bonded.”

Jean drags a hand through his hair, only making the headset worse. “Oh my God.”

Eren finally looks up.

And squints.

“…Is your mullet getting longer?”

Jean freezes.

“Don’t touch my fucking mullet.”

Eren sits up a bit, expression unreadable. “No, I’m serious. It’s like… floopier. Like it’s trying to become a personality trait.”

“Better than your personality trait, which is being a public menace with zero emotional regulation.”

“Better than yours, which is following me around like a sarcastic golden retriever with anger issues.”

Jean rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t roll out of his skull. “Yeah, okay, talk shit about me being responsible while you’re still sitting there looking like a hot mess of half-blended concealer and stolen ego.”

Eren smirks. “You think I’m hot?”

Jean flinches like he just got slapped with a cold fish. “ That’s not— ”

“Relax, I’m kidding. Jesus.” Eren tosses the script aside. “You really are uptight today.”

Jean stares at him. At the flushed cheeks that aren’t from makeup, at the slightly quiet way he said it, at how his gaze doesn’t hold quite as long as usual. Something is… weird. Off. Less bite. No venom. Still the same Eren, but like he’s running at 80% asshole instead of 110%. And Jean doesn’t know what the hell to do with that.

“…What is your deal?” Jean mutters finally.

Eren shrugs. “Maybe I’m tired.”

Jean narrows his eyes. “You’re never tired. You run on spite and trauma.”

“Maybe I’m just choosing not to be a dick for five minutes.”

Jean stares harder. “Why.”

Eren meets his gaze. Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t smirk , either. Just looks at him for a second too long. Jean’s stomach does something traitorous.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he snaps.

Eren snorts. “Like what?”

Jean gestures vaguely. “Like you know things.”

“I do know things. Like how your mullet gets puffier when you’re mad. It’s happening right now.”

Jean slaps a hand to his hair.

“ Fuck you. ”

Eren’s lips twitch, like he’s fighting a grin. “Anytime.”

Jean opens his mouth to retort.

Closes it.

Turns on his heel.

“Pixis wants you on set in fifteen,” he says flatly, yanking the door open.

“You gonna walk me there too?”

Jean doesn’t even look back. “No. I’m gonna be busy scheduling your media apology tour when you get cancelled for fighting a streetlamp next.”

Eren laughs—an actual, genuine laugh—and Jean shuts the door behind him so fast it nearly breaks the hinges.

His heart’s doing something absolutely fucking stupid and he hates it.

Chapter Text

The set is buzzing.

The crew is already breaking down lights, interns high-fiving each other like they just survived a war, and Pixis is somewhere in the back yelling about how that take is going in the trailer. Everyone’s giddy. Gassed up. Glowing.

Except Eren.

He’s still kneeling in the middle of the soundstage, blood makeup dripping from his temple, hands shaking like he can’t get the ghost of the last line out of his bones.

Jean watches from the sidelines, arms crossed, headset muted. He’d been ready to throw out some smug “good job not fucking it up this time” line, but… yeah. No. That’s not happening.

Because Eren looks wrecked. Like… not method actor “I just cried on cue” wrecked. Like haunted. Like there’s still something in him that didn’t leave when they cut the cameras. Eren finally gets to his feet, slow and stiff, like he’s been punched in the ribs a few too many times. People clap. Someone shouts “ICONIC!” from craft services.

Eren flinches.

Only Jean sees it. Jean’s jaw tightens. He starts moving. He intercepts him just off set, right near the makeup trailer, where Eren’s trying to light a cigarette with hands that won’t stay still. Jean rips the lighter from his grip.

“Hey—”

“What the fuck was that?” Jean snaps. 

Eren glares. “A good performance, apparently. Go choke on a thank-you cupcake like everyone else.”

“That wasn’t just a good performance, that was—” Jean cuts himself off, looking closer. “You’re not even here right now.”

Eren sways slightly. Not enough for most people to notice.

Jean does anyway.

“You went too deep,” Jean says quietly. “You’re not out of it yet.”

Eren doesn’t answer. His eyes are still slightly glassy, staring past Jean like he’s trying to remember where the hell he is.

Jean grabs his arm—not hard, just grounding. “Hey. Eren. ”

That gets a flicker.

Jean doesn’t let go.

“You ever done that before?” he asks, voice low. “Lost yourself like that during a scene?”

Eren looks at him for a second. Longer. Then shrugs like he doesn’t know the answer. “Maybe.”

Jean exhales. He knows what it’s like to black out emotionally. To get so inside your own head you forget there’s a world outside it. He also knows no one else on this set gives a shit.

“Come here,” he mutters, pulling him gently toward the shadows behind the trailer, away from the noise, the people, the lights.

Eren follows. Doesn’t resist. Doesn’t make a joke. Which might be the scariest part.

Jean leans against the wall, tilting his head back. “Just breathe for a sec. You’re fine.”

“I’m not—” Eren starts, but then shuts up.

Jean doesn’t push.

They stand in silence for a bit. Eren’s breathing eventually evens out.

After a moment, he mutters, “Don’t make it a thing.”

“Too late,” Jean says, eyes still on the sky. “I make everything a thing.”

Eren actually huffs a small laugh. It’s weak, but it’s real.

And Jean lets himself glance over.

There’s something raw still flickering in those green eyes, but it’s fading. He’s coming back down.

“You good now?” Jean asks.

“Yeah,” Eren says.

But he doesn’t move away from where he’s standing, shoulder almost brushing Jean’s.

Jean doesn’t either.

The silence stretches, not heavy this time.

Just there .

Finally, Jean mutters, “Try not to possess your own soul next time.”

Eren snorts. “You love it.”

Jean clicks his tongue. “No, I love not dealing with your emotional exorcisms between catering runs.”

But the way he says it? It’s not biting. Not really. And Eren doesn’t call him out on it. They stand there a bit longer, too close for two guys who allegedly hate each other, saying nothing.

Jean feels his heart ache when a few seconds later, Eren brushes past him, face blank again.

****

The days start blurring.

Call times at six, blocking by seven, shoot until eleven, repeat. Somewhere along the way, Jean forgets Eren used to make him want to commit crimes. The guy’s professional, shockingly focused, and when he’s not hurling insults, he’s mostly… quiet. Chilling in corners. Rehearsing under his breath with that stupid little furrow between his brows like he’s trying to summon Shakespeare from memory. It’s unsettling. But fine.

Fine enough that Jean stops checking over his shoulder every time he walks into the studio kitchen. Fine enough that he doesn’t even flinch the next time Eren sits across from him at lunch, headphones in, not saying a word. He’s even almost impressed.

Until Wednesday afternoon.

Jean’s flipping through notes for the next sequence, walking down the side hallway that leads to the private green rooms. He’s looking for Eren to give him a heads-up on a location change—he’s not even in a bad mood. Just tired. Chill. Borderline human. Then he hears it. Yelling. Muffled, but sharp. He pauses near the slightly cracked door of Eren’s dressing room.

“—don’t fucking tell me to calm down, are you serious? No, you always pull this shit—”

A pause.

A rustle.

Then the sound of something hitting the wall.

“Go to hell,” Eren spits, voice suddenly cold as ice. “You fucking asshole.”

Jean barely has time to blink before there’s the flat, angry slap of a phone being hung up hard. Silence. Then a muttered “Fuck.” Jean frowns, raising his hand. Taps the doorframe lightly. “Hey. You good?”

Silence.

He steps in. Eren’s standing with his back to the room, hands on the sink, shoulders locked. The phone’s face-down beside him.

Jean clears his throat. “They need you on set in ten. You okay?”

Still nothing.

Jean’s patience—admittedly shallow to begin with—snaps.

“Alright, what is it, silent film week? Use your goddamn tongue, dumbass.”

Eren finally turns. His eyes are hard. Distant. The mask’s already back on, sharp and cold like it never left.

“Fuck off, Kirstein.”

He pushes past Jean without a glance, shoulder knocking his as he storms out. Jean’s jaw clicks shut. He blinks after him, heat crawling up his spine—not the kind that flusters, the kind that burns .

“Oh yeah,” he mutters under his breath, standing alone in the weird tension of the dressing room. “There’s the piece of shit I know.”

For a second, he stares at the dent in the wall where the phone clearly hit. Then he turns and leaves, muttering curses under his breath, face hot for reasons he doesn’t care to dissect. Because he knew it. He knew Eren was just biding his time, pretending to be tolerable for once before shoving his head straight back up his ass. Just when Jean had started to think maybe they could be civil. He stomps onto the lot, mood ruined, fully ready to pretend none of the last three days happened. And he definitely doesn’t notice that Eren’s eyes are a little too red under the studio lights.

Because that would require caring.

And Jean doesn’t give a single fuck.

Right?

***

By Friday, they’re barely speaking.

Eren shows up on time. Stays in costume. Hits his marks.

But he’s… absent. Not just in that tortured actor way. Like something’s missing behind his eyes. He goes through blocking like it’s muscle memory. Lines slip. Direction bounces off him like static.

Jean doesn’t say a word at first. Because fuck him, right? Let him sink.

But after the third fumbled take and a not-so-subtle look from the director, Jean has to step in.

He corners Eren just before the next scene, the big one—an emotional blowout between his character and Mikasa. The kind of thing agents dream about. Jean’s not in the mood to lose it over some diva spiral.

“Oi.”

Eren doesn’t look up from the script in his lap. Doesn’t even blink.

Jean exhales sharply through his nose. “You forgot half your fucking lines last take.”

“Didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“I’m not offering it. I’m telling you to lock the fuck in or get out. That simple.”

Eren finally lifts his head. His eyes are flat, but something under them twitches—like he wants to snap back. Say something cruel. Maybe throw a chair. But instead, he just stares. Quiet. Intense. Then nods once.

Jean narrows his eyes. “That a yes?”

A pause. “Fine.”

And then he’s gone, walking onto set like nothing happened. Costume crisp. Back straight. No limp, no fumble, no hesitation. Jean crosses his arms and watches as the cameras roll. The next five minutes feel like a gut punch.

Eren’s presence on screen swells like a tidal wave—restrained rage, grief, bitterness leaking from every look he throws Mikasa. His voice cracks in all the right places, and when he stumbles forward, jaw trembling, it’s so real the entire crew seems to forget to breathe. Even Mikasa, a pro to her bones, looks shaken by the time they cut.

Silence falls.

The director mutters a stunned “Jesus Christ.”

Someone claps—just once. Then a few more join in. Jean can’t move. His clipboard hangs loose in one hand, eyes still locked on the monitor. Because what the fuck was that? Behind him, a crinkling bag rustles. He flinches as a chip grazes his cheek.

“Wow,” Sacha says around a mouthful of something sour cream flavored. “You did that?”

Jean blinks, turning to see her standing there, eyebrows raised like she didn’t almost choke on her own tongue thirty seconds ago.

“I don’t even know at this point,” Jean mutters, still watching Eren walk off set with the same cold detachment as before, like he hadn’t just publicly annihilated everyone’s expectations.

Sacha pops another chip. “You think he’s possessed?”

Jean sighs. “Honestly, wouldn’t be surprised.”

They watch him disappear down the hallway, silent again. Jean’s heart is still hammering. And that pisses him off most of all.

***

It’s supposed to be a simple location shoot.

One quick scene in an old, half-renovated apartment near the Old Town. Long hallway. One window. Natural lighting. They’re in and out by 4 p.m.—or so Jean thought. But then someone forgets a key. A PA disappears. And suddenly Jean and Eren are stuck in a locked third-floor unit, waiting for someone with actual authority to find the right fucking landlord.

“I told you not to close the door,” Jean snaps, pacing back and forth as the sun dips low behind the cracked windows.

Eren doesn’t look up from the floor. He’s sitting against the wall, legs stretched out, eyes half-lidded. “You told yourself not to close the door. I didn’t even touch it.”

“You were standing right there!”

“You think I wanted to be locked in a moldy box with you ?” Eren mutters.

Jean scoffs and sits down across from him, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “God, you’re such a brat.”

A silence stretches between them. Heavy. Awkward. The room smells like plaster dust and old radiator heat. They’ve been here for thirty-five minutes.

Jean exhales slowly, leaning his head against the wall. “Just text someone again.”

“No signal.”

Jean frowns, checks his phone—he’s right. No bars.

“Great. Fantastic. I hope the cockroaches eat me before you do.”

Eren chuckles, low and bitter. “You’d probably taste like cheap cologne and rage.”

Jean glares at him. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, considering the shit you pulled this week.”

Eren doesn’t answer. He just watches the light on the wall shift slowly with the fading sun.

Then, softly, like it slips out without his permission:

“…Sorry.”

Jean blinks.

He turns his head, thinking he misheard. “What?”

Eren shrugs one shoulder. “I wasn’t in the best mood. That’s all.”

Jean narrows his eyes. “Is this about the phone call?”

Another pause.

Then Eren shifts slightly, drawing one knee up. “Drop it.”

Jean stares. “You yelled like someone told you your dog died.”

Eren tilts his head. “You don’t know me.”

“Unfortunately, I’m starting to,” Jean mutters.

Eren lets out a low laugh. Not amused—more tired than anything. “Then maybe don’t.”

They sit there in a heavy stillness. Not quite talking. Not quite hostile. Two strangers with history and no manual.

Jean finally sighs. “Look, I don’t need your whole tragic backstory, alright? Just… don’t fuck up the shoot again.”

“I didn’t,” Eren says sharply, defensive. “You saw it.”

Jean doesn’t reply.

Because yeah, he did see it. They all did. And it scared the shit out of him how good it was.

After a while, Eren speaks again, voice quieter now. “I’m just tired.”

Jean looks over. Eren’s head is tilted back against the wall, jaw tight, hair falling into his eyes. He looks less like the insufferable show pony Jean remembers and more like a guy one bad breath away from breaking.

Jean swallows thickly. “Yeah. Me too.”

They sit in the fading light, not speaking.

And for once… they don’t feel the need to bite at each other’s throats.

***

They get out of the apartment an hour and a half later. No dramatics. No heartfelt confessions. Just the click of a key, the creak of an old door, and a vaguely apologetic assistant mumbling about “some mix-up with location logistics.” Jean doesn’t even say goodbye. Eren brushes past him without a word. But that night, back in his own apartment, Jean finds himself staring blankly at the ceiling, mind echoing with that one too-quiet “sorry” and the look on Eren’s face right before he’d said it. Like it cost him something.

Weird.

He shakes it off, blames the boredom of the lockdown. But the weirdness doesn’t go away.

Because over the next week, Eren keeps showing up on set on time. No tantrums. No dramatic entrances. Just quiet focus, memorized lines, cold coffee, and dead-eyed stares that turn molten as soon as the cameras roll. Jean watches him during takes, arms crossed, jaw tight, not saying a word. And what he sees unnerves him.

Because Eren’s good. Too good. That scene with Mikasa? Unsettlingly good. The kind of good you don’t learn in overpriced drama classes or get handed by your rich ass daddy. The kind of good that lives somewhere under your ribs and only comes out when something in you’s already cracked. And Jean starts to realize something that sits wrong in his stomach.

He doesn’t know shit about Eren Jaeger.

Which is weird.

Because Jean always knows. That’s his whole job. Knowing what they’ll say, how they’ll move, when they’ll lie. He makes a living out of understanding the actors he handles—down to their first press-worthy trauma and their fake allergies for on-set catering.

But with Eren… there’s just this void. The public story is easy: son of a pharmaceutical giant, trained at some overpriced theatre program in Berlin, got lucky with one festival darling and landed two streaming gigs back-to-back. That’s how it usually works with rich kids anyway—they don’t fall, they float. Jean had filed him away under “spoiled egomaniac with decent cheekbones and delusions of brooding.”

But now?

Now he’s not so sure.

He sees it in the way Eren disappears after takes, never staying long enough for compliments. In the way he zones out, tension in his shoulders like he’s bracing for something. In the way he never checks his phone anymore—like whatever he was yelling at last week, he’s trying to forget it existed.

And worst of all—

Worst of fucking all—

Jean catches himself looking. Not watching—looking. Too long. Too often. Eyes flicking across the set, only to find Eren already in position, already lost in whatever character he’s dredged up from his private hell. It pisses him off. This shouldn’t matter. It’s Eren. He’s still an asshole. Still smug. Still got the nerve to smirk at Jean when they pass in the hallway, like they’re sharing some inside joke Jean never agreed to.

But now it’s different.

Now there’s something behind the smirk. A weight. A shadow.

Jean hates how much he wants to understand it.

***

The scene wraps.

Another gut-wrenching, award-bait close-up with Mikasa, and Eren fucking delivers again—voice trembling, eyes bloodshot like he’d actually been crying, chest rising like he couldn’t breathe until the director called cut. And once he does, the entire set lets out this collective exhale, like they’d all been holding their breath with him.

Everyone starts clapping. Everyone except Jean. He’s still frozen behind the monitor, jaw tense, watching Eren slowly pull himself back together—shoulders rolling, blinking too fast like he’s shaking something off that no one else noticed. No one but Jean. Again. Later, in the hallway, Jean catches him.

Eren’s halfway through unbuttoning the purposely dirtied-with-makeup shirt he wears as part of the costume, the emotional residue still clinging to his expression like smog. He looks startled when Jean appears, then smirks— too fast, too performative.

“You’re following me now, boss man?” he says, that sleazy little grin sliding into place like armor. “Getting kinda obsessed.”

Jean doesn’t flinch. “Cut the act.”

Eren blinks.

Jean steps closer, voice low. “Don’t pull that flirty bullshit with me. I know something’s wrong.”

“Oh?” Eren leans back against the wall, arms crossed, head tilted like he’s amused. “And what gave me away? Was it the Oscar-worthy monologue or my mysterious aura?”

“I’m serious,” Jean snaps. “You’re off. You’ve been off for days. And I don’t mean method-actor moody. I mean absent. You forgot your lines three times last week, you flinched when the director raised his voice, and you haven’t touched your phone in days. That’s not you.”

Eren shrugs, too casual. “Maybe I’m just turning over a new leaf. Digital detox. Very L.A. of me.”

Jean exhales sharply, scrubs a hand down his face, and then— fuck it —he just says it.

“Talk to me. For fuck’s sake, I’m your agent.”

Eren lifts a brow, genuinely confused.

“I’m the one who’s supposed to have your back,” Jean continues, voice quieter now but no less insistent. “Even if you hate me. Even if the feeling’s mutual. I’m still the one who picks up your mess when you ghost directors or cancel interviews or show up to shoots looking like you didn’t sleep. I can’t do that if I don’t know what the hell is going on with you.”

For a second, Eren looks like he might respond honestly. His jaw shifts, and something flickers across his face—vulnerability, maybe, or hesitation. But it’s gone in a blink.

“Fine,” he says, pushing off the wall. “Wanna know my favorite color? It’s green. Deep, tragic shit. You feel closer to me now?”

Jean glares. “God, you’re exhausting.”

“And yet, here you are.” Eren winks.

But the usual bite isn’t in Jean’s voice when he fires back. “That’s not trust, Jaeger. That’s you hiding behind jokes because you’re scared shitless of someone seeing the real you.”

Eren doesn’t respond. He just stands there, staring at Jean with an unreadable expression, like maybe he doesn’t have a quip for once.

Jean sighs. “I don’t need a memoir. Just… stop lying to me. I don’t care if you hate me, but I can’t protect someone I don’t know. And I don’t think anyone else is looking out for you, are they?”

A beat of silence. Eren’s smirk is gone.

Then, quietly, like it’s not meant to be heard:

“No. They’re not.”

But by the time Jean processes it, Eren’s already walking away.

Chapter Text

It’s been a few weeks since the hallway fight, and something between them’s shifted. Eren stopped ducking Jean’s texts. Jean started actually laughing at Eren’s dumb jokes. Things were still sharp around the edges—but now they had rhythm, banter. A kind of functional chaos.

Jean doesn’t hate him.

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

He’s on set today, watching Eren pace through a heated scene with that usual obsessive intensity. The guy is on fire , eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched, every gesture dripping in manic focus. The director is giddy. The lighting team’s holding their breath.

Jean’s phone buzzes. Nope—Eren’s phone. He glances over. The screen reads: “Dad.” Jean frowns. Eren’s mid-take, definitely can’t answer. Jean’s already reaching for it when a second call comes through. Same name. It feels important. He hesitates. Then picks up.

“Eren Jaeger’s phone,” he says, voice clipped, professional. “This is his agent.”

There’s silence.

Then a voice, older, cold and slow and laced with contempt. “Agent? Right. Another leech with a title.”

Jean’s brow ticks. “He’s busy. I can take a message.”

“I doubt it. He won’t call back.”

A long pause. “Tell him his little performance at the funeral last year wasn’t appreciated. I don’t care what act he’s living in now, he doesn’t get to rewrite the past. Not with crocodile tears and magazine covers.”

Jean stays silent.

“I always said he’d sell his soul for applause,” the voice says. “Didn’t think he’d drag the family down with him.”

Click.

Jean stares at the screen as the call ends. Jesus. Later, after the shoot wraps, Jean catches Eren near the catering tables, towel slung around his neck, still flushed from the scene.

“Hey,” Jean says, holding up the phone. “You got a call. I answered. From your dad.”

Eren freezes.

His eyes narrow, voice turning flat. “You answered what ?”

Jean blinks. “I mean, you were filming. It seemed urgent.”

“You answered my personal phone? While I wasn’t there?”

Jean’s frown deepens. “Relax. It’s not like I scrolled through your nudes.” 

But he can see Eren’s face darken, his expression stern and fuming with anger.

Eren steps closer, something ugly flashing in his gaze. “That part of your contract too? Stick your nose in shit that’s clearly none of your business?”

“Whoa—okay, back the hell up,” Jean says, hands raised. “It was one call. He was being a dick, by the way. Guess the apple didn’t fall far.”

That’s when Eren snaps.

“Oh, fuck you.”

Jean flinches—not at the words, but the sheer venom in them.

“I let you in, and now you’re sniffing around my family? ” Eren snarls. “You think you’re some savior ‘cause you kept me from falling asleep on set last week? You’re a goddamn agent, not my confessor.”

Jean throws up his hands. “I wasn’t playing shrink, you psycho! I just thought maybe you’d want to know your dad’s out here dragging your name through mud!”

“ He always does. ”

The silence that follows is sharp. Eren’s chest heaves. Jean doesn’t know whether to punch him or shake him.

Eren scoffs, then steps forward again, too close now. “You want to know why you’re standing here wearing slacks and emailing publicists while I’m up there getting standing ovations?”

Jean stares at him.

“It’s not because you weren’t good enough,” Eren says, voice low and brutal. “It’s because you were made to crawl. You want everyone to like you. Be safe. Be good. Be manageable.”

Jean’s face goes blank.

“You’d rather be tolerated than burn. And you think that makes you professional, but it just makes you forgettable. ”

The words hit like a slap.

Eren’s jaw tenses, as if even he regrets saying it, but he doesn’t take it back.

Jean lets out a hollow laugh. “Well, you’re right about one thing. No one forgets you.”

Eren’s lips twitch—torn between pride and regret.

“But maybe that’s because you leave nothing of yourself behind,” Jean finishes, voice like frost. “There’s no ‘you’ left to forget.”

The silence is brutal. Then Jean turns and walks away. He doesn’t look back.

****

The following week, they’re cold. Not “I don’t greet you with a smile” type of cold. The type of coldness that’d make fucking Alaska jealous. Every interaction they have either ends with them arguing and ready to jump at each other’s necks or with a “fuck you”. 

But then one night…

It’s 2:08 a.m. Jean is asleep in his shoebox apartment, phone vibrating violently on the nightstand. He groans, flips over, swipes it blindly.

Eren Jaeger is calling.

He’s about to decline when something in him prickles.

He answers. “What.”

Silence.

Then: breathing. And then—

“Jean.”

His spine shoots straight. He knows that voice. Hoarse. Ragged. Choked.

“Eren?”

More silence, except this time he hears it: the stagger of a breath. And then a sound he didn’t think he’d ever hear from that cocky bastard— a sob.

“I—” Another choke. “I really need you right now.”

Jean is already up. “Where the fuck are you?”

“Home.”

“I’m coming. Don’t fucking move.”

He’s out the door in record time, pulling on yesterday’s clothes, keys in hand before his brain even catches up.

Twenty minutes later, Jean’s pounding on Eren’s apartment door. It opens slowly, and there he is: Eren Jaeger, eyed circled with red, the faint hint of tears still lingering on his cheeks, hoodie thrown over some shirt, barefoot. His face is swollen from crying. Jean steps in before he says anything stupid.

“Sit down,” he orders, voice low.

Eren doesn’t argue. Just collapses onto the couch like he’s been running a marathon in his own head.

Jean stands there a moment, unsure how to proceed. Then sits too, but far enough away to avoid triggering another landmine.

They don’t speak for a long beat. Then:

“My father called again.”

Jean stays still.

“He saw some stills from set. From the scene with Mikasa. Said he didn’t spend a quarter million on me growing up just for me to sell my soul and pretend to cry in front of a camera like a goddamn clown.”

Jean’s jaw tenses. Eren doesn’t look at him.

“He’s always thought acting was just code for prostitution. Says if I’d at least fucked rich people like the slut I am, I could’ve gotten something out of it.”

Jean doesn’t know what to say. He’s not used to this Eren—the version who’s unraveling right in front of him. This isn’t the brat who threw tantrums or made snide remarks. This is someone scraped raw, someone who’s been hurting for a long time.

“I thought I didn’t care anymore,” Eren continues, voice dull. “But hearing it again… makes me feel like I’m still sixteen, hiding out in the school theater to avoid dinner.”

Jean says quietly, “You’re not sixteen.”

Eren huffs a tired laugh. “Yeah. I’m worse now. Because now I know exactly how much of me he built just to tear down.”

There’s a pause. Jean shifts slightly.

“You didn’t answer your phone earlier that day,” Jean says eventually. “When he called. That’s why I picked it up.”

Eren rubs his face.

“Yeah. I know.”

“I didn’t mean to creep.”

“I know.”

They sit in the dark a little longer.

“You’re a good actor, Eren,” Jean says. He doesn’t know why, but it feels necessary. “Like… fuck, I don’t get how good sometimes.”

Eren gives him a broken little smile. “You don’t think I’m just a nepo baby playing pretend?”

“I did,” Jean admits. “But I’ve been wrong before.”

“You say that like it’s rare.”

Jean huffs a soft laugh. Eren’s smile stays a second longer before disappearing.

“I don’t want to hate you anymore,” Eren says quietly, like a confession. “It takes too much energy.”

Jean looks at him. “Then stop.”

Eren shrugs, like it’s not that easy.

But maybe it could be.

Chapter Text

The week after that night is… strange.

Jean doesn’t know when exactly it shifted, but it did. There are no more snide remarks. No icy glares. No half-assed insults thrown like knives. Instead, there’s this quiet thing between them. Fragile, unspoken. Jean still hates the way Eren leaves half his clothes in the makeup van. Eren still hates being told what to do. But the tension isn’t war anymore.

It’s just… there .

Eren shows up to set a little more subdued. He’s focused, but quieter. He still makes smartass comments, but Jean catches the edge underneath. Like he’s not mocking Jean anymore. He’s just trying to feel something . And Jean—who has never comforted anyone in his goddamn life—starts trying. In his way.

A protein bar tossed at Eren’s face when he hasn’t eaten. A shoulder bump when Eren nails a scene. A badly phrased “you did good” that makes Eren stare at him like he grew a second head. But Jean notices he stares less at his phone now. Or at least stops flinching when it vibrates. Still, the shadows don’t fully leave his eyes. So Jean, in a moment of dangerous inspiration, gets an idea.

“Where are we going?” Eren groans from the passenger seat.

Jean keeps his eyes on the road. “Somewhere.”

“That’s helpful. You know I don’t do well with cryptic shit.”

“I’m aware,” Jean mutters.

Eren stretches with a dramatic sigh. “If this isn’t a jacuzzi spot filled with champagne and half-naked masseuses, I’m revolting.”

“Oh, it’s better than that.”

Eren eyes him. “You better not be taking me to some nature retreat or I will kill us both.”

Jean just smirks and presses on the gas. They pull up to an unassuming warehouse at the edge of town.

Eren squints at the sign. “The fuck is this?”

Jean tosses him a pair of safety goggles. “You’ll see.”

Inside, the staff hands them baseball bats and neon vests. Eren looks like he’s been invited to a cult.

“Jean. Jean. This is weird. I don’t like the vest. What are we doing?”

Jean leads him to a small room lined with smashed TVs, porcelain, mannequins, plates. “We’re gonna break shit.”

Eren stares.

“We?”

“Rage room.”

Eren blinks . Then grins. Like really grins . “You took me to a fucking rage room?”

Jean hands him a crowbar. “Thought you could use a little emotional therapy.”

And then—chaos. Eren goes feral . He smashes plates like he’s releasing twenty five years of daddy issues in one swing. Jean’s crying-laughing because the man just screamed “FUCK YOUR MONEY!” at a fax machine.

They both end up covered in dust and porcelain bits, panting, high on adrenaline. And then— Jean pulls out a bottle of Jäger. Eren loses it .

“You did not .”

“Had to make the pun.”

“You’re a menace.”

“Drink, Jaeger.”

****

They’re both panting, still breathless with laughter and leftover rage, cheeks flushed pink from the chaos and the heat. Jean’s hair is stuck to his forehead with sweat and dust. Eren’s vest is half slipping off his shoulder, revealing the slope of his collarbone, smeared with grime and glitter from whatever the hell that party balloon explosion was. The bottle of Jäger swings lazily between their fingers.

Jean takes a long pull and winces as it burns down. The feeling doesn’t bother him, though. In fact, it spreads through his chest like a warm wave, dulling the sharp edges of the week, of deadlines, of sleepless nights and snappy mornings. He lets out a sigh so deep it feels like something’s finally unclenching inside of him.

Eren giggles— giggles —as he points at the washing machine blinking out of sync in the corner.

“Why’s it still tweaking?” he slurs, snorting. “It’s like—it’s still trying to work. Poor guy’s got a concussion.”

Jean laughs, more with his whole chest this time, the sound loud and unfiltered. He tips the bottle again before handing it to Eren, who immediately drinks without wiping the neck. Their shoulders are pressed together. Jean’s not sure when that happened—maybe when they slid down the wall. Maybe earlier.

The world starts to feel soft around the edges. Warm, blurry, weightless.

Eren tilts his head toward him, eyes half-lidded and lazy, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “You’re not bad at this.”

Jean lifts a brow. “What? Rage? Drinking? Smashing your ex’s luxury appliances?”

Eren’s eyes flicker down to Jean’s mouth. “Letting go.”

It’s quiet, just for a beat.

The air thickens like it’s holding its breath with them. The room still hums with leftover energy—broken glass, neon vests, the aftermath of fury—but now there’s something else tangled in the static. Jean’s buzzed, more than he meant to be. Not drunk-drunk, but loose enough that the way Eren’s looking at him is doing things to his balance.

Eren’s face is close now. Closer than before. Jean doesn’t remember leaning in. He doesn’t remember Eren shifting either. But their thighs are pressed together, and Jean can feel the faint rise and fall of Eren’s chest against his arm.

He swallows, hard.

The bottle rests on the floor between them, forgotten.

“Eren,” he says softly, but he doesn’t even know what he means by it. A warning? A question?

But Eren just leans in, slow. His eyes flutter down, then up again, like he’s asking permission without words. Jean could say no. He should say no.

Instead, he tilts forward too.

Their lips meet—not quite steady, a little off-center—but slow and cautious at first, a gentle press like they’re afraid of scaring it off. Jean can taste the Jäger on Eren’s lips, the bitter sweetness soaked into his mouth. Eren kisses like he’s holding a secret in his chest, something soft and too vulnerable to say out loud.

It should feel wrong. It doesn’t.

Jean breathes through his nose and tilts his head, deepening the kiss just slightly. And that’s all it takes—Eren exhales shakily and suddenly it shifts.

It goes from tentative to desperate in a blink.

Eren grabs the collar of Jean’s vest, yanks him closer, their mouths crashing together with a messy clack of teeth and a low, ragged moan. Jean groans, surprised by the need that slams into him all at once like a second wave of alcohol. Their lips slide, catch, part again. Eren bites his bottom lip, and Jean swears under his breath, threading a hand through Eren’s damp hair to pull him closer.

They kiss like they’ve been starving . Like every night spent pretending not to look meant nothing. Like every bicker and jab was a prelude to this —heat and tension and weeks of restraint unraveling on a dusty living room floor.

Eren’s hand curls around Jean’s waist. Jean grips the back of his neck, feeling the line of heat running from his spine to his stomach. Every time they shift, the vests rustle and the friction sends sparks through him. Jean sucks on Eren’s tongue and Eren moans into his mouth, hips twitching forward without meaning to. The sound they make together is something halfway between a gasp and a growl.

Jean’s brain is fogged, drunk and dazed and pulsing with arousal. He doesn’t care where they are, doesn’t care how dirty the floor is or that his knees hurt. He’s kissing Eren like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense. Eren kisses him back like he agrees.

And when they finally break apart—panting, mouths red and slick, foreheads pressed together—Eren’s voice is rough and hoarse:

“You kissed me.”

“You kissed me first ,” Jean breathes, chest rising and falling against Eren’s.

“No, you leaned in—”

“I thought you were falling over.”

“You’re such a liar.”

***

Jean barely remembers the walk up to his apartment. He remembers Eren’s laugh echoing off the empty streets, his hand tight in his, the bottle of Jäger dangling dangerously from Eren’s other hand until it was emptied and tossed somewhere behind them. Everything else is a blur of heat, motion, and hunger.

By the time they reach his door, Jean’s stumbling. The hallway light’s way too bright and Eren’s clinging to him like a second skin, his arms looped around Jean’s neck, mouth pressed hot against his jaw. Jean fumbles with his keys, cursing softly under his breath. His hands don’t work right, everything’s sticky and slow from the alcohol buzzing under his skin. Eren’s teeth graze his earlobe and he swears he feels it in his knees.

“Hold on,” he mumbles, trying to find the right key, trying not to moan into Eren’s open mouth when it finds his again. “Eren—fuck, just—lemme—”

The lock clicks.

Jean barely pushes the door open before Eren grabs at his vest again, and Jean slams him back against the wood with a thud that echoes down the hallway. His head is spinning, heart pounding, and Eren is right there, grinding on him like they’ve been doing this for years, like this is their routine. Jean’s breath hitches.

“Eren,” he tries again, but his voice is ruined by the fact that Eren’s hips are rolling into his, and Jean’s brain is melting.

He wants to say this is a bad idea . He wants to say you’re drunk, I’m drunk, maybe we should think about this . But he can’t get past the way Eren’s mouth feels on his throat. His body reacts faster than thought: his hands clutch Eren’s waist, slide under the hem of his shirt, explore hot skin and damp muscle. He’s flushed all over, dizzy, his blood fizzing with something electric.

“Fuck,” Jean breathes, but it’s lost in the wet, urgent sound of their mouths clashing again.

The stolen neon vest hangs half off Jean’s shoulders, clinging by a thread. Eren grins against the kiss and tugs it roughly down his arms, letting it fall to the floor. Jean’s shirt comes off next—he can’t remember when he even started sweating, but he’s burning now, skin overheated and bare against Eren’s palms. Eren’s fingers trail his chest like he’s mapping the lines of a fever dream.

Jean’s legs feel unsteady, the hallway tilting a little around the edges, but he doesn’t care. Not when Eren looks at him like that. His pupils blown wide, hair sticking to his forehead, mouth kiss-bruised and glossy with spit.

Jean opens his mouth to say what the fuck are we doing , but Eren’s already sliding down, already on his knees.

“What are you—”

Eren doesn’t answer. He just looks up at Jean with a smirk that’s borderline obscene, hands braced on Jean’s hips, and starts undoing his belt with maddening slowness.

Jean’s head thuds lightly against the door. The rush of alcohol in his blood has his whole body tingling. He sways a little on his feet, half from the Jäger, half from the fact that Eren Jaeger is kneeling in front of him, mouth inches from his cock, eyes dark with intent.

Jean groans, long and low, and lets his hands slide into Eren’s hair.

And he stops thinking.

***

Jean’s not sure when he started moaning—he just knows he can’t stop. Eren’s lips are soaked from all the kissing, swollen and slick, and when they wrap around the head of his cock, Jean nearly blacks out.

“F-fuck,” he breathes, voice catching as his head thunks lightly back against the door again. His fingers are knotted tight in Eren’s hair, the other hand pressed to his mouth to stifle the ragged sound clawing up his throat. But it doesn’t help. The pleasure is white-hot and dizzying, a tidal wave crashing over his nerves.

Eren’s tongue traces a hot, maddening circle, then he sinks lower, and Jean’s knees buckle.

His cock slides deeper, the heat of Eren’s throat swallowing him inch by inch. Jean tries not to move—tries not to fuck up into that gorgeous mouth—but his hips twitch anyway, instinct taking over as his vision swims. Eren groans around him, and Jean nearly sobs. His thighs are trembling. The world is tilting, sweat slicking his skin, and the drunken haze makes everything feel softer and louder at once—like his body’s screaming, but his brain can’t keep up.

And then—

He blinks, and they’re on the bed.

He doesn’t know how they got there. His shirt’s gone. Eren’s is somewhere on the floor. Everything’s a blur of heat and mouths and stumbling motion. But now Eren’s beneath him, half-undressed, his hair a mess, chest heaving, lips dragging lazy, open kisses down Jean’s neck like he’s starved for him. Jean’s breath catches again. His whole body aches. His cock’s still wet and hard between them, but his hand moves before his thoughts catch up.

He reaches down and wraps his fingers around Eren’s cock.

Eren shudders. His gasp ghosts across Jean’s collarbone, barely audible over the blood rushing in Jean’s ears. Jean jerks him off with a messy, desperate rhythm, slick sounds mixing with the sound of the sheets twisting underneath them. Eren’s hips stutter up, muscles tightening, and Jean feels like he’s burning from the inside out.

“Shit,” Eren whispers, voice wrecked, “Jean—I’m—gonna—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

He crashes up into Jean’s mouth in a kiss that tastes like sweat and alcohol and the memory of moaning each other’s names against the door, in the bed. His fingers dig into Jean’s shoulder, then his body jerks, and he goes limp, breath catching in his throat before spilling out in a broken sigh.

Jean’s hand is sticky.

He wipes it on the sheets without thinking, breathing hard, sweat cooling on his skin. His arms give out. He collapses beside Eren, boneless, brain numb.

The last thing he feels is the warmth of Eren’s thigh pressed against his and the cold air on his chest before sleep hits him like a freight train, dragging him under.

And then there’s nothing.

Chapter Text

Jean wakes up to pain.

Not emotional— not yet —but visceral. His skull is pounding like someone stuffed a speaker inside and cranked it to hell, and his mouth is so dry it feels like it’s been sandpapered. His tongue tastes like cheap alcohol and worse decisions.

The light leaking through the curtains feels illegal. It slices straight into his eyes, and for a moment he can’t think. He can’t move. Just breathe, slow and nauseous.

Then he shifts—and feels it.

The warm weight pressed against his side. A knee draped over his thigh. Bare skin, too close. Soft breaths against his collarbone.

His eyes snap open.

Eren.

His heart seizes in his chest. He turns his head slowly, praying it’s not real—but it is. Eren’s lying there, completely out cold, mouth parted, lashes long against flushed cheeks. His dark hair is a wild halo against Jean’s pillow, and his chest rises and falls steadily under Jean’s own arm.

Jean jerks it back like he’s been burned.

Pieces start clicking together in his head, jarringly out of order—Eren kissing him in the hallway, Eren on his knees, Jean’s hand in his hair, the bedroom, the sheets, Eren coming in his hand , slurred moans and frantic touches and then nothing.

A blackout. Fuck.

He pulls himself upright too fast and immediately regrets it—his head throbs, stomach rolls. His whole body aches, not just from hangover but from the phantom of Eren’s hands on him, mouth on him, weight under him.

The vest. The rage room. The stolen drive home. Jean rubs his hands over his face, trying to catch up to the disaster he now realizes he let happen .

“I’m going to lose my job,” he mutters hoarsely into his palms.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when Eren stirs.

A groggy groan, then a lazy stretch, and Eren blinks one eye open, puffy-lipped and content like he just had the best sleep of his life.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice low and smug.

Jean stares at him, incredulous.

“You—” he starts, but stops. He can’t even look at him without wanting to scream. Or throw up. Or both.

Eren hums, dragging a hand across Jean’s bare stomach. “You smell like regret.”

Jean grabs his wrist and pushes it away, a bit too hard. “Don’t.”

Eren frowns, not expecting resistance. “What’s your problem?”

Jean gets out of bed, stumbling slightly. He finds his boxers and pulls them on with trembling hands. “ My problem is that I fucked up. That we fucked up. I shouldn’t have brought you back here. I shouldn’t have touched you. I—”

“You seemed pretty into it last night,” Eren cuts in, sitting up now, sheets falling from his bare chest. “You weren’t exactly reluctant when I had your dick down my throat.”

Jean’s jaw clenches. “Shut the fuck up.”

“No, really,” Eren snaps, sarcasm thick. “Let’s play the blame game. You were drunk? So was I. You made the move? So did I. You wanna be mad about it now, Jean, fine. But don’t pretend you didn’t want it.”

“I wasn’t thinking!” Jean shouts, voice hoarse. “I was drunk out of my mind and I let it happen, and it was a mistake! ”

That shuts Eren up. Not because he agrees—because it stings . Jean sees it in the way his face tightens, his throat bobs with a silent swallow.

Then: “You think that was a mistake?”

Jean exhales sharply. “Yes. Because I have rules. And this— you —break every single one of them.”

Eren’s face goes blank, the way it always does when he’s about to either self-destruct or start a fight. “You mean your precious job rules? The ones that matter more than anything else?”

Jean turns, voice quieter now, but not calmer. “It’s the only thing I’ve built for myself. And you— you’re chaos , Eren. I can’t afford to fuck you.”

Eren nods slowly, like that answers a question he’s been afraid to ask.

“Right,” he mutters. “Good to know I’m just a threat to your career. Thought you relied on me to get your bills paid.”

Jean rubs his temples, trying to breathe through the headache and the guilt. “You don’t get it.”

“No,” Eren snaps. “I get it just fine. You’ll fuck me, but you won’t choose me. Not really. Not when it counts.”

Silence.

Then, Eren gets out of bed without looking at him, starts pulling his clothes on with sharp, practiced movements. Jean just stands there, bare-chested and shaking, watching the one person who got past every one of his walls disappear into the same armor he always wears.

Before Eren leaves, he pauses at the door.

“I hope your fucking job keeps you warm at night.”

He slams it behind him.

Jean sits down on the edge of the bed, surrounded by the smell of sweat, sex, and shame, and presses his face into his hands.

His headache is still pounding, but the ache in his chest is worse.

****

Jean hadn’t heard from Eren in a week. And thank fuck for that.

The air between them had gone arctic since their last encounter—an unspeakable cocktail of rage, confusion, and something too fragile to name. The kind of distance where neither of them flinched anymore at the other’s presence, just existed side by side in the studio and hallways like ghosts haunting the same cursed movie set. Eren went full diva mode: harder to reach, colder in conversation, more demanding on set. His tantrums were sharpened, curated, and fired straight at Jean like heat-seeking missiles. Jean, for his part, gave him absolutely nothing. No eye contact. No emotion. Just that taut-jawed, sleep-deprived professionalism he’d been taught to perfect.

Until, of course, it all went to shit at 2:08 a.m.

Because that’s exactly when Jean’s phone lit up, buzzing aggressively against his forehead where he’d been using it as a poor excuse for a cold compress.

The name said it all:

FaceTime Incoming: Eren Jaeger

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Jean muttered, groaning as he squinted against the screen light. His head throbbed with the rhythm of a hangover he hadn’t earned—just the stress kind. The kind that started between the temples and crawled behind the eyes like a parasite.

He almost declined. Almost.

But then—he answered. Because technically , Eren was still his client. Because tomorrow morning was the final day of shooting. Because if Eren threw a wrench into the most emotionally critical scene—the one where his character kills his wife—Jean would be the one getting chewed out by three directors and Erwin himself. Because that was his job.

The screen lit up. The connection was fuzzy. Eren’s face filled it—flushed, glassy-eyed, lips parted in a woozy grin. Loud music blared behind him, distorted by the mic.

“Jeaaaaan,” he slurred, tilting the phone. “Guess who’s drunk.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Jean snapped, sitting up fast and regretting it instantly. The room spun. “Where the fuck are you?”

Eren giggled. Giggled. “Some place with neon titties. Not sure. But I’m fine.”

There was a cut—someone shouted “shot! shot!” in the background—and Eren nearly dropped the phone. Jean caught a glimpse of his surroundings: club lighting, some busted couch, a girl in glitter kissing Eren’s cheek. Another was perched beside him, holding what looked dangerously not like a cigarette.

Jean sat up straight, heart spiking—not from jealousy, fuck no—but from pure agent dread .

“Eren, what the hell—tomorrow’s the final shoot. You have to be in hair and makeup at eight. Where exactly are you?”

Eren squinted, tilted the phone at his face again. “Somewhere with a bouncer who doesn’t ask questions. Club Acheron? Achel—Ach-ronnnn.”

Jean was already throwing on a hoodie over his T-shirt, phone clenched between his shoulder and cheek. “Stay there. Don’t move. Don’t smoke anything else, don’t drink anything else, don’t kiss anybody else.”

Eren pulled a face. “You’re so bossy. Did you miss me?”

Jean hung up without answering.

***

It was 2:38 a.m. by the time Jean reached the club. The place was a swamp of bass and spilled drinks and kids too young to know better. He spotted Eren instantly: out front, slouched on a bench like some bored little god, cigarette dangling from his fingers, flanked by two girls dressed with an awful lot of latex.

Jean didn’t hesitate.

He marched up, grabbed Eren by the arm, and yanked him to his feet.

“Hey!” Eren protested, stumbling. “I was mingling .”

“You were self-sabotaging like a fucking expert,” Jean hissed, hauling him off. The girls laughed and waved. Eren winked back. Jean wanted to slam his head against the pavement.

They didn’t speak again until they were outside Jean’s apartment, Eren swaying gently beside him while Jean unlocked the door. The hallway light flickered. Jean’s headache had matured into a full-blown migraine.

Once inside, Jean shoved Eren toward the couch.

“Do you try to make my life harder?” he snapped, stripping off his coat. “Or is that just your natural state of being? Is chaos just the default setting?”

Eren didn’t answer. He looked dazed, oddly quiet. His eyes flicked over Jean’s living room, like he wasn’t really seeing it. Then—without warning—he stepped forward. And kissed him. Or tried to. Jean shoved him back immediately, hands to Eren’s chest, holding him at arm’s length.

“Don’t,” he said sharply. “You don’t get to do that. Not again.”

Eren blinked, uncomprehending.

“You don’t get to show up trashed and reckless and kiss me like that’s gonna fix anything,” Jean continued, voice rising. “What the fuck do you think I am to you, huh? Some halfway house for your mood swings? A warm mouth when you’re lonely? I’m your fucking agent Eren.”

Still nothing. Eren’s eyes were glassy, but not with drunkenness anymore.

And then he started crying.

No theatrics. No sound. Just tears, suddenly, falling thick and fast. His chin trembled. His hands dropped to his sides like they’d given up. It knocked the breath out of Jean.

“What—” he faltered. “Eren, what the hell—what did I do?”

Eren didn’t answer at first. He looked… defeated. Like someone had been chipping away at him for years and tonight was when the statue finally crumbled. Jean stared. Something ice-cold melted under his ribs. He took a step closer.

“I may have to repeat myself,” he said, more softly this time, “but I can’t help you if you clearly don’t trust me. I might suck at this, but even just as a human being, I don’t get it. You freeze me out, then kiss me, then vanish, then call me from a club half-dead with gin. Your mood swings are fucking exhausting . You don’t tell me anything. How the hell am I supposed to understand?”

Eren wiped at his face with his sleeve. Shook his head. His voice cracked when he finally spoke:

“You really don’t get it, do you.”

Jean folded his arms. “No. I don’t. Because you don’t say anything. You treat me like I’m supposed to read your mind, when I barely know you.”

Eren’s expression crumpled.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said flatly. “It never matters.”

“Yes, it does, Eren.”

“No,” Eren said, louder now, bitter. “It really fucking doesn’t. You want to know why I drink? Why I fuck around? Why I ghost people and disappear and pick fights with you? Because I don’t know who the fuck I am . I’m always playing somebody. On-screen, off-screen, in interviews. I’ve been performing since I was sixteen. I have to. I don’t have a ‘real’ me.”

He looked away.

“And the only thing that never changes, no matter how hard I try, no matter who I pretend to be… is that I’m a fucking disappointment. A burden. Just like my father said I would be.”

Jean didn’t say anything. Because there it was. Laid bare like an open wound. And despite every bone in his body telling him to be professional, to keep the boundary up, to stay angry — Something inside him ached. Like really ached.

“You’re not a burden,” Jean said finally. “You’re just… complicated.”

Eren gave a hollow laugh. “That’s a nice word for it.”

“I mean it,” Jean said. “You’re a pain in the ass. You’re demanding and defensive and you have a temper. But you’re also—” he hesitated, mouth twitching— “you’re funny. Weirdly funny. Like that time you mimicked Floch’s headshot pose? I almost choked.”

Eren looked up, surprised. Jean shrugged, looking away.

“You’re not all bad, Jaeger. Just—stop trying so hard to disappear.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then Eren said quietly: “I’m sorry.”

It hit harder than it should have. Jean glanced back.

“I mean it,” Eren said. “For everything. For making your life hell.”

Jean nodded once. “Thanks.”

And they both knew they were talking about more than the club.

***

Then there’s a long silence setting in the living room. Eren’s still sitting on the edge of the sofa, head bowed, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes like he could scrub away the tears that already dried. Jean’s leaning against the counter of his opened kitchen, arms crossed, a frown carved so deep into his forehead it hurts.

“So,” Jean finally says, quiet but not gentle. “You gonna stop crying or should I get you a medal?”

Eren lets out a sound—half laugh, half scoff. “You’re such a dick.”

Jean shrugs. “Yeah, well. You’ve called me worse.”

Another pause. But this one doesn’t crackle with tension. It’s tired. Muted.

“…I meant it, by the way when I say I’m sorry,” Eren mutters, apologising again, not looking at him. “I know I’m a lot. I don’t blame you for hating me.”

Jean breathes in. Holds it.

“You’re not a lot,” he says, eventually. “You’re just… a goddamn maze. Like you drop a different version of yourself in every room you walk into, and then I get blamed for not finding the right one.”

That seems to get to Eren. He glances up, something raw in his gaze. “Maybe I do,” he says. “Maybe I don’t even know what the right version is.”

Jean doesn’t say anything. Just watches him. The shadows under Eren’s eyes. The bruised part of his mouth where he must’ve bit it too hard earlier. The slump of his shoulders, like someone peeled all the arrogance off him and left nothing but the ache behind.

“I used to think,” Eren starts, voice hoarse, “that if I played the role well enough, it would eventually become real. If I was charming enough. Talented enough. Wild enough to distract people. But every time I walk off set, I still feel like nothing. Like a hollow space people project shit onto. That’s all I’ve ever been.”

Jean swallows. “And your dad…?”

“Was the first director I ever had.” Eren looks up again, eyes glassy but clear now. “And he fucking hated the script.”

That hits harder than it should.

“…Damn,” Jean murmurs.

“Yeah.” Eren sniffs and exhales, like there’s nothing else to say. “So I drink. I disappear. I flirt with you until you yell at me because at least then, someone’s reacting to me like I’m real.”

Jean runs a hand down his face. “Eren…”

“No, don’t—don’t give me the pity voice. I’m not asking you to fix me.”

“Good,” Jean says, finally pushing off the counter. “Because I can’t.”

He sits down across from him on the coffee table, both elbows resting on his knees.

“But I don’t think you’re nothing. Even when I want to strangle you, I never think that.”

Eren looks skeptical.

Jean continues, slow. “You’re… frustrating. You’ve got the sharpest fucking tongue on set. You’re demanding and rude and you piss everyone off in under five minutes.”

“Thanks?”

“I’m not done.” Jean’s voice softens a little. “But you’re also one of the most talented actors I’ve ever seen. You’re smart. You’re funny when you’re not trying to impress someone. And when you’re not being a bitch, you’re actually…” He trails off. “Kind of likable.”

A corner of Eren’s mouth lifts. “Wow. High praise coming from you.”

Jean shrugs. “Don’t get used to it.”

There’s a moment. The air feels different. Not less heavy, but less sharp.

Eren’s voice is quieter. “I’m sorry for being an asshole.”, apologising for a third time now.

“I’m sorry for yelling.”

“Which time?”

Jean almost smiles. “All of them.”

A beat.

“So,” Eren says, like he’s reaching for something lighter, “that night we slept together…”

Jean blinks, wary. “Yeah?”

“It didn’t mean anything, right?”

He tries to make it sound casual. But Jean hears the question behind the question.

Jean nods slowly. “Right. It was a mistake. Let’s keep it professional.”

Eren looks down at his hands. “…Right.”

The word lands between them like a pebble dropped in a well.

“And I’m sorry for fucking up with your job. Didn’t realise you loved it that much”, Eren says, apologising for the fourth time.

“S’alright.” Jean mutters under his breath.

“I genuinely don’t get it though. Who dreams of chasing actors around like they’re toddlers in couture?” Eren tries with a slightly more playful tone, like he’s trying to make up for the tears and the screams by lightening the mood now.

Jean smirks. “Not everyone is like you.”

“Oh, enlighten me, O wise one.”

Jean chuckles under his breath, but he answers seriously.

“I like building something. I like watching someone grow into their role, watching them become someone bigger than they thought they could be. I like helping people get the spotlight for something they actually believe in. Like, one time I helped an actor coming out when he was shitting himself to tears, and the way he thanked me… It felt like… I don’t know. Like being a part of something important.”

Eren tilts his head. “That’s weirdly noble for someone who threatened to throw my phone into traffic three days ago.”

Jean shrugs. “I’m a complex man.”

“You’re a workaholic.”

“Says the guy who hasn’t had a day off in six months.”

They fall into a lighter silence. Eren shifts, facing him more.

“…That actor you mentioned before,” he says, “the one who came out. Was that your client?”

Jean nods. “Yeah. He was scared. His parents were religious. Studio was even worse. But we worked through it. He came out, got the role he wanted, ended up happier than he ever thought possible.”

Eren hums. “You gay too?”

Jean raises an eyebrow. “Bi. You?”

Eren leans back against the wall, smirking faintly. “Mysterious.”

Jean snorts. “You’ve never even gone public with a single relationship.”

“Maybe because there’s nothing to go public about,” Eren says, voice dry. “You really think I’m screwing everyone in the city?”

Jean raises his brows. “I saw you with those two girls tonight. I’m surprised you’ve even got juice to spurt out anymore with how busy you must be.”

Eren chokes on his own breath. “Jesus—what the fuck, Jean?!”

Jean’s grin is real this time. “I’m just saying.”

“Gross. Even for you.” Eren wipes his face like he’s trying to erase the sentence. “For the record, I haven’t slept with anyone in months. Like, not a single soul for six months before you.”

Jean blinks. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” Eren shrugs. “Guess I just got bored.”

“Of people?”

“Of pretending.”

Jean doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how to.

But they both start laughing at the same time—quietly, like they’re not sure it’s okay to be laughing.

It’s the most normal they’ve ever felt. Like two idiots trapped in the same orbit, finally stopping for a breath.

And for once, they talk. Like civilised people, who didn’t drunk-fuck a week ago and definitely didn’t fight an hour before.

Chapter Text

The final shoot day starts early.

Jean is there before call time, headset on, clipboard in hand, coffee in his veins. He’s in full agent mode—moving between departments, confirming the shot list, double-checking Eren’s wardrobe and notes. On the outside, he looks composed. In control. Reliable.

But inside, it’s a different story.

His mind drifts, unwillingly, to the night before.

The image of Eren sitting on his couch with glassy eyes and tear-soaked lashes. The way his voice had cracked when he said “I don’t think I exist anymore.”

The way Jean had felt something raw and unfamiliar rip through his chest, something that refused to go away even now, hours later.

He’s tried shaking it off—this is work. This is his job . He doesn’t get to feel things about his clients. Especially not difficult, erratic, impossible men like Eren Jaeger.

But as the cameras roll and the clapperboard snaps, Jean finds himself watching him.

Not just as a performer. But as a person.

Eren is brilliant—of course he is. His performance is haunting. The scene is brutal: his character murders his wife, and in the final frame, he stares down at her lifeless body with a stillness that makes even the director shiver. It’s the sort of intensity people win awards for.

But Jean knows it’s not just acting. Not entirely.

He can see it now—the pain underneath. The way Eren’s eyes don’t just flicker with rage, but something lonelier, deeper. That unbearable quiet he confessed last night, hiding behind every smirk, every biting line.

Jean sees it, and it makes his chest tighten like a fucking vice.

It hits him again—Eren feels like he has to perform to exist. That underneath it all, he doesn’t even believe he’s real. That he’s a disappointment. A nuisance.

It’s all there. Jean sees it now, and he doesn’t know how he didn’t before.

He forces himself to look away.

He gives a few notes to the assistant director. Checks his watch. Redirects a PA. Anything to keep himself grounded. But the sting in his chest lingers.

Because for all the shit they’ve thrown at each other—for all the yelling, the sex, the mind games and the walls—they had a moment last night that was real. Painfully real. And it’s still echoing through him.

And maybe what terrifies Jean the most isn’t that they slept together.

Maybe it’s that now, he knows Eren .

And he can’t stop watching him, even if he fucking wants to.

****

The shoot ends late.

The sun’s dipped low behind the hills by the time Jean finds himself lingering outside Eren’s trailer, hand hovering in the air like he’s about to knock. He doesn’t. Not yet. He’s not even sure what he wants to say—he just knows he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about Eren’s face from the night before.

The things he said. The way he said them.

Like he was already halfway gone.

Jean finally forces his knuckles to the door. Light knock. No answer.

Then, before he can talk himself out of it, he opens it. Eren’s there, alone, slumped on the little couch in his sweats, face bare of makeup and his hair a mess from the final scene. He looks… human. A little tired. A little older than usual.

He blinks up at Jean. “What, did I fuck up continuity?”

Jean huffs a dry laugh. “No. You were good today.” He pauses. “Really good.”

Eren nods, like he doesn’t fully believe it but appreciates the lie anyway.

There’s an awkward beat, and Jean clears his throat.

“Hey, um. I know this is… maybe weird, but after this wraps, I could look into finding you someone to talk to.”

Eren tilts his head. “Someone to talk to?”

“A therapist. I could book an appointment, if you’re interested.” Jean tries to keep his tone even, casual. Like this is all part of the job. “There’s a few I know who work with actors—discreet, flexible hours. It wouldn’t be a thing, I’d just—”

“Why?” Eren asks, cutting him off gently.

Jean stares at him, genuinely baffled. “Yesterday? Ring any bells?”

Eren’s expression softens. His lips curl into a faint smile—wistful, almost apologetic.

“Oh,” he murmurs. “That.”

He exhales, looking down at his hands, fiddling with the drawstring of his sweats.

“I’ve lived with it for so long, Jean. That stuff I said—it’s just… how I am. How it’s always been.” His voice is calm, like he’s reciting the weather. “There’s not really anything to fix. But…” he looks up again, “thanks for caring.”

That throws Jean.

That word.

Caring.

Jean opens his mouth, then closes it again.

Because he doesn’t care —not in the way people mean when they say it with puppy eyes and gentle tones. He manages Eren. He keeps him on schedule. He makes sure he doesn’t punch any journalists or show up drunk to interviews. That’s what caring means in this job. Efficient, cold-blooded caring.

But this—last night, and now—this doesn’t feel like management. It feels personal. They go back to set that afternoon to reshoot a few minor dialogue pickups. Jean’s got his headset on, his clipboard tucked under one arm, but his brain is somewhere else entirely.

Every time Eren passes by, every time he slips into character with that casual, brilliant fluidity, Jean’s chest tightens again. Because somewhere in the last two months, something shifted. Somewhere between yelling matches and last-minute rewrites, between passive-aggressive texts and one night of messy, confusing sex, Jean stopped hating him.

And worse—worse than that—he started seeing him.

Not the star. Not the problem. Not the brand.

But Eren. Complicated, broken, difficult-ass Eren.

He doesn’t know when it happened, exactly. Maybe it was the night they spent together. Maybe it was yesterday, watching him cry. Maybe it’s just a slow build that snuck up on him when he wasn’t looking. But now that it’s here, he can’t ignore it. He cares. Not as an agent. Not as a professional. Not even as a friend.

Just… as a person. Someone who hears Eren say “ thanks for caring” and wants to scream that you’re not supposed to say shit like that to me, because I don’t know what to do with it.

But he doesn’t scream. He doesn’t even say anything.

He just watches Eren from across the set. And this time, he doesn’t look away.

***

The day bleeds quietly into night. The set’s gone still. Lights off, trailers half-packed. The last ever scene is done. It’s over. Jean finds himself with Eren again—not by plan, but by inevitability. The two of them sit outside the trailer, legs stretched out, water bottles cracked open. The air is heavy with summer heat and not saying things.

Jean clears his throat. “The press conference is in two months.”

Eren hums.

Jean eyes him. “You’re not gonna pretend you forgot.”

Eren smirks faintly, eyes half-lidded. “No, I didn’t forget.”

“Then act like it,” Jean says, tone sharper than intended. “You need to prepare for it.”

Eren shrugs, the motion loose and unconcerned. “I’ve done a hundred of those. Let them ask what they want. It’s my life. I chose to be watched.”

Jean’s jaw ticks. “That doesn’t mean they have a right to everything .”

Eren turns to him. His smile is faint, amused. “Jean, you do realize I’m an actor. Selling bits of my life is part of the job.”

Jean doesn’t smile back. “You’re not your job.”

Eren blinks.

Jean presses on before he can lose his nerve. “Just like I’m not always the control freak asshole who yells at everyone for being five minutes late.”

“You totally are,” Eren mutters, but there’s no bite in it.

Jean lets out a breath through his nose. “Your personal life isn’t part of the script, Eren. It doesn’t belong on camera. I don’t care how used to it you are. It shouldn’t be like that. And I’ll keep fighting for that, every time.”

Eren looks at him for a long moment. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t joke. Just… studies him. Like he’s trying to memorize the face of someone he doesn’t fully understand.

Finally, softly: “Thanks.”

There’s a silence that settles between them—comfortable, but not quite light. Like a blanket that’s too heavy for summer but still feels right to pull over your shoulders. They don’t say anything for a while. They don’t need to. Because for once, there’s nothing to fight about. Nothing to seduce. Nothing to hide behind. Just Jean. And Eren. And whatever this quiet, aching thing is curling warm and slow between them.

***

Jean’s back at his desk, coffee lukewarm, inbox overflowing, white noise of the agency buzzing around him like it always has. The Erwin-level chaos. Hange shouting across the floor. Levi giving someone death glares through his glass office door. Floch bragging about managing an influencer who got a sponsored deal with fucking Bugatti.

Everything normal. Everything fine.

Except it’s not .

Because now there’s this gap in Jean’s schedule. This stretch of time that used to be filled with “Eren, where the fuck are you?” texts and fighting with PR and watching raw takes at midnight because Eren’s performance haunted him like secondhand smoke. He’s not used to space in his day. He’s not used to silence .

And he’s definitely not used to feeling his stomach twist every time Eren leaves his texts on read. Jean tries not to dwell on it. Eren’s an adult. Maybe he’s decompressing. Maybe he’s partying. Maybe he’s doing just fine. Or maybe he’s not.

The thought needles Jean harder than he expects. Because he’s seen it now—what Eren looks like when the performance cracks. When the liquor stops helping. When he sits on Jean’s floor and says he doesn’t know who he is anymore.

So when Levi claps him on the back and goes, “Heard you wrapped with Jaeger. Congrats on surviving,” Jean doesn’t know how to respond.

Then it gets worse.

Hange’s already pulling a chair up to his desk, grinning. “Okay, seriously , though. Was he as awful as they say? I heard he threw a chair at his last agent. Did you guys bang heads every day or what?”

Floch snorts from two desks over. “Or just banged.”

Laughter.

Jean’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer. He types something meaningless into his calendar. Pretends he didn’t hear.

But Hange’s not done. “C’monnn, give us one juicy anecdote. He’s a mess but a hot mess. There’s gotta be at least one wild Eren Jaeger meltdown you can gift us.”

Jean looks up. He wants to say something. Anything. But nothing comes out.

Because they’re talking about him . Not the Eren Jean screamed at on the pavement at 2 a.m. Not the Eren who confessed through tears that he never felt like he was real. Not the Eren who said thank you with a voice so quiet Jean still hears it in his sleep.

No—they’re talking about the image. The myth. The walking scandal headline. And Jean fucking hates it. He never used to. Gossip was just gossip. Actors were names, brands, PR puzzles to solve. But now? Now he feels sick. Now he hears their questions and all he can think is: you have no idea who he really is.

And fuck. That shouldn’t bother him. Not this much. But it does.

And as he sits back in his chair, scrolling past another text from Eren that hasn’t been answered—or maybe won’t be answered—Jean realizes something’s changed.

He doesn’t hate Eren Jaeger.

He worries about him.

And that might be worse.

Chapter Text

Jean’s phone lights up at 22:37. A FaceTime request.

Eren.

He stares at it like it’s a trap. Because there’s been nothing for two weeks. Just a few dry text exchanges—schedules, PR drafts, a thumbs up emoji that felt like a slap in the face. He’d told himself good. That space was healthy. That this was professional again. But now? Now Eren’s calling him like they didn’t sit on a floor in semi-darkness with their hearts hanging out last month.

Jean lets it ring once. Twice.

He picks up on the third.

Eren’s face fills the screen, lit by a soft lamp. He’s in some dim room that doesn’t look like his place. But Jean could be wrong, he’s never been there. Hoodie, damp curls, a little flushed like he’s been laughing at something—or drinking. Could be both.

“Hey,” Eren says like nothing’s happened.

Jean blinks. “…What.”

Eren raises an eyebrow. “Nice to see you too.”

Jean leans back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. “You calling for a reason, or just to bless me with your face?”

“Damn, someone’s cranky tonight.”

“Someone’s weirdly casual for a guy who ghosted me for two weeks.”

Eren just hums, leans into his screen a little. “I was decompressing. You know, post-shoot existential spiral. The usual.”

Jean exhales sharply through his nose. “Could’ve said something.”

Eren shrugs. “I thought you’d be relieved.”

And there it is—that tone . Flat, blasé, like they didn’t go through hell together. Like Eren didn’t say the ugliest shit about himself and cry so hard Jean felt it in his own chest. Like Jean didn’t almost book him a goddamn therapist out of sheer human concern .

Jean tightens his grip on the phone. “Why are you calling, Eren?”

Eren looks away for a beat, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Dunno. Just felt like it. Wanted to hear someone’s voice who wasn’t a fake-laughing producer or my father asking if I’ve ‘recovered from the emotional drag show.’”

Jean flinches. “Jesus.”

Eren waves it off. “He’s always been a poet.”

There’s a silence. One that shouldn’t be comfortable—but kind of is. Familiar, at least. The kind of silence that hung around after their fights, right before one of them made a cruel joke and ruined everything again. But this time it lingers.

Jean finally sighs, softer now. “You good?”

Eren’s eyes flicker. “Depends what you mean by good.”

“I mean… functioning. Sleeping. Eating. Not getting shitfaced alone in some rented villa in the Alps.”

Eren smiles, small but genuine. “Wow. You really are worried about me.”

Jean doesn’t answer.

Eren studies him for a beat, then looks down. “I’m alright. Swear. I’ve been laying low. Trying to remember who I actually am when I’m not playing a miserable husband who murders his wife.”

Jean winces. “Fair.”

More quiet.

Then, Eren says, almost tentative, “You been alright?”

Jean huffs. “Define alright.”

Eren smiles again. “See? You do it too.”

Jean leans his head against the back of his chair. “I’ve been busy. Back in the machine. You know how it is.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Miss what?”

“The shoot. Being in the middle of the chaos. Me making your life hell 24/7.”

Jean wants to say no so badly it physically hurts.

But instead he says, voice low, “…Yeah. Kind of.”

Eren swallows. His voice is softer when he replies. “Me too.”

***

Eren’s voice is lazy now, like the weariness has settled somewhere softer. “You ever think about quitting?”

Jean raises an eyebrow. “Quitting what? Life?”

Eren snorts. “Well. That too. But your job.”

Jean leans back, letting out a low breath. “All the time. But then someone like you shows up and I’m like, ‘God, what a fun little disaster to manage.’ Keeps things interesting.”

Eren snickers. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Takes one to know one.”

They’re quiet for a moment, the call stretching into that rare space where neither of them is trying to win or deflect or posture. Just voices in the low buzz of night.

Then Eren shifts.

The camera jostles, flips for a second, and when it steadies again, Jean gets a full panoramic view of whatever room Eren just walked into.

He blinks.

“Holy shit ,” Jean mutters.

Eren looks back at the screen like, what?

Jean leans closer to his phone. “Is that a pile of laundry? Or a person you murdered and forgot to clean up?”

Eren shrugs. “I was gonna do it.”

“When? 2028 ?”

Eren waves a dismissive hand. “I fired my cleaning lady.”

Jean stares at him.

“You what ?”

“She kept moving my stuff.”

“Yeah, because it was in a goddamn war zone.”

Eren flops back onto what might be a bean bag or a very sad mattress. “It’s not that bad.”

Jean pinches the bridge of his nose. “You just panned over what looked like an unopened Amazon graveyard, an upside-down plant, and a full pizza box on your dresser.”

“There’s only two slices left,” Eren says, like that’s supposed to help.

Jean narrows his eyes. “And what are you eating these days?”

“I eat ,” Eren says quickly. “I totally eat. I’m not like wasting away or anything.”

“Eren.”

“…Ramen cups.”

Jean is silent.

“I said I eat!”

“That’s not eating , that’s surviving.”

“Same thing.”

Jean exhales deeply, runs a hand through his hair. “Okay. No. This can’t go on.”

Eren raises an eyebrow. “What’re you gonna do, call my dad?”

Jean gives him a flat look. “No. I’m coming over.”

Eren blinks. “You’re what?”

“I’m coming over. Right now.”

“You don’t even know where I—wait, shit, do you have my address?”

Jean just smirks and starts grabbing his keys off his nightstand. “Baby, I’m your agent. I know everything.”

Eren groans. “You’re not serious.”

“I am so serious. This is like… health hazard level. I don’t care if you hate me. I’m not letting you sink into your own filth.”

“I said I’m fine—”

“No, you said you eat ramen cups and fired your cleaning lady and haven’t washed your sheets in what looks like six years. That is not ‘fine.’ That is fucking horrifying. ”

Eren throws a pillow at the screen. “You’re so dramatic.”

“See you in twenty.”

“Jean—”

Click.

Jean’s already putting on his sneakers, heart hammering a little faster than it should.

He tells himself it’s because Eren’s his client. Because he needs him in shape for the press conference. Because he doesn’t want this whole thing to fall apart.

Not because the thought of Eren alone in that silent, messy apartment with nothing but ramen cups and his own thoughts makes Jean feel something dangerously close to worried .

***

The building isn’t what Jean expected. Sleek, maybe a bit too clinical—like whoever decorated it was going for “cool actor vibes” but missed the warmth by several kilometers.

He knocks twice. No answer. He knocks again, more sharply this time, and is about to call when the door finally creaks open.

Eren stands there in an oversized hoodie, hair a little greasy, dark circles under his eyes, and for some reason, Jean feels this massive, irrational weight just slide off his shoulders. Like he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath until right now.

He clears his throat, violently stuffing that moment down. “Jesus Christ,” he says instead. “You stink. ”

Eren rolls his eyes. “Hello to you too.”

“No. No hello . Go take a fucking shower. Like, now.”

“Wow. Straight to insults. You really know how to make a guy feel loved.”

Jean glares. “If you don’t voluntarily walk into that bathroom within the next two minutes, I will drag you in there myself.”

Eren smirks. “Kinky.”

Jean points toward the hallway like don’t test me today . “Shower. Now.”

Eren raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Keep your pants on.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Jean mutters under his breath.

The moment Eren disappears down the hall, Jean moves into action.

The smell hits first. Stale pizza, instant ramen, and something suspiciously close to gym socks and despair. He opens windows, ties a hoodie around his mouth like some kind of suburban ninja, and starts throwing out trash with the fury of a man barely holding onto his sanity. Thirty minutes and three trash bags later, the living room is visible again. Jean’s about to collapse when he hears the water shut off.

Great , he thinks. Time to act normal around someone who’s very much not just a client anymore, no matter how hard he tries to convince himself otherwise. Eren walks back into the room in fresh clothes—a loose t-shirt that hangs just wrong and sweatpants that Jean immediately has to pretend not to notice. Jean does not look up. Instead, he pretends to be deeply, spiritually invested in taping shut a trash bag.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Eren says, drying his hair with a towel, standing way too close to Jean’s personal space bubble.

Jean shrugs. “Well, clearly you weren’t gonna do it.”

“I could’ve .”

“Mmhmm.”

Eren plops down on the couch, like a freshly cleaned cat surveying its freshly vacuumed kingdom. “You hungry?”

Jean already holds up the takeout bag. “Obviously. I’m not risking your pantry. I’ve seen the apocalypse and it’s your fridge.”

Eren grins, somehow boyish. “You’re such a control freak.”

Jean tosses a pillow at his face. “Say thank you or I’m eating both meals myself.”

They eat on the floor, backs against the couch, the kind of casual comfort that creeps in like a fog. And when the food’s gone and the room is clean, Jean finally lets himself slump into the couch with a low groan.

“What movie do you want?” Eren asks, already grabbing the remote.

“Something stupid. I’m too tired for plot.”

Eren hums. “You sure? I was gonna suggest Requiem for a Dream. ”

Jean gives him a side-eye glare that could wither crops. “You’re lucky I just cleaned your entire apartment. Stupid , Jaeger. Like… Disney Channel-level stupid.”

Fifteen minutes later they’re halfway through Shrek 4 , and Jean’s questioning every life decision that led him here.

Eren, meanwhile, is aggressively narrating the film like he’s on MST3K.

“What’s his name again? Rumpelstiltskin? Who came up with that? A drug nomenclature specialist?”

Jean shoves a fistful of popcorn into his mouth and sighs through his nose. “Shut up.”

Eren leans over conspiratorially. “You know he looks like Levi, right?”

“Absolutely not .”

“Look again. Evil eyes, short, creepy yelling. Bet he’s got a tragic backstory too.”

Jean groans. “I regret everything.”

Eren just grins, clearly enjoying himself. “You secretly love it.”

Jean stares at the screen.

No. No, he doesn’t. He hates bad movies. Not that Shrek 4 is a bad movie but still, not exactly the type of tortured auteur bullshit short films Cannes worthy he usually watches. He hates mess. He hates surprises and feelings and—

He looks at Eren again, sees the way his eyes squint when he laughs, the way his posture is finally relaxed, the way he leans back like—for once—he’s not performing. And Jean doesn’t say a word. Because yeah, he might be tired, and confused, and knee-deep in feelings he should not be having. But weirdly? He does love it.

***

The movie’s still running—some bizarre fever-dream scene involving ogres dancing to a weird-ass flutist—when Jean realizes Eren’s stopped commenting.

At first, he thinks Eren’s just… letting him enjoy the movie in peace.

But then he glances sideways and sees it.

Eren, curled up on the couch, head tilted against the armrest, breathing slow and steady, lips parted just slightly. His damp hair sticks to his forehead, chest rising and falling under the worn fabric of his t-shirt.

Asleep. Peaceful. Like someone who isn’t haunted every second of the day. And fuck if Jean doesn’t just freeze there, popcorn halfway to his mouth. For a moment—just one fleeting second—it looks like Eren came down from heaven.

Which is insane . Objectively.

Jean sighs quietly and checks the time. It’s past midnight. The rain outside has picked up into a full downpour, wind rattling the windows. Of course it has. He should leave. This is unprofessional . This is not his job. He’s not Eren’s goddamn live-in therapist-slash-janitor.

But then he looks back at the sleeping lump on the couch, completely slack-limbed and oblivious, and of course Jean doesn’t have the heart to wake him.

Instead, he mutters a soft curse, gently nudges Eren’s shoulder, and whispers, “C’mon, Jaeger. Bed. Let’s go.”

Eren makes a quiet noise in protest but doesn’t open his eyes, just mumbles something incoherent as Jean hauls him upright with way too much effort for a man who weighs as little as Eren does. Actor my ass, Jean thinks. You’re deadweight. Somehow, they shuffle into the bedroom. Jean practically drops him onto the mattress. Eren barely stirs, just turns his face into the pillow and breathes out something like contentment.

Jean stands there for a beat too long. Watching. Thinking.

What the hell am I doing here?

He heads back to the living room and eyes the couch. It’s small, lumpy, definitely not made for sleeping. His jacket’s still hanging by the door. He could just leave. He should . Instead, he grabs a folded blanket from the shelf, tosses a pillow down, and crashes there without another word.

It’s not comfort. It’s obligation. That’s what he tells himself.

He wakes up groggy and a little stiff, neck cricked from the awkward position. The rain’s still tapping gently outside, softer now, more like a murmur than a scream. He checks the clock. 7:12 AM. No sign of Eren.

Jean yawns, stretches, and pads quietly to the kitchen. On autopilot, he gets water boiling, rummages around, and finds enough supplies to throw together two scrambled eggs, toast, and some questionably sourced orange juice.

He leaves the plate and glass out on the counter, alongside a small yellow post-it.

Eat. — J

It’s all he writes. He stares at it a second longer than he should. And then he’s grabbing his keys, tugging on his coat, and getting the hell out of there like he’s fleeing a crime scene.

Because this? This isn’t his job. He’s not supposed to be here. He’s not supposed to feel like this. And he’s definitely not supposed to make breakfast for emotionally unstable actors who fall asleep mid-bad-movie while looking like holy fucking angels.

Chapter Text

Jean’s halfway through his second coffee of the morning—cold, bitter, and doing absolutely nothing for the pulsing migraine between his temples—when he hears a knock on the glass. He doesn’t even look up at first, thinking it’s Floch being annoying with another dumb question about the intern files. But then a voice cuts through the buzz.

“Hey.”

Jean jerks his head up.

Eren.

At his workplace. In the agency lobby, in ripped jeans and a hoodie that looks like it survived a war, standing there like this is the most casual thing in the world.

Jean blinks. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Eren raises a brow. “Picking up the script?”

Jean stares.

“Oh,” he says eventually, like the word just learned how to walk. “Right. Yeah. That.”

Because of course. Eren’s never been the kind of diva who sends assistants for everything—he walks, talks, and argues like a regular person when he wants to. Jean knows that. Has seen it. But still. Seeing him here, in this building, with its glass walls and curated neutrality, after Jean showed up to Eren’s place a few days ago, feels… jarring.

He runs a hand down his face and mutters, “Okay. Fine. Come to my office.”

They settle in. Eren slumps into one of the visitor chairs like it’s his couch, legs spread obnoxiously wide, while Jean rifles through the pile of unopened envelopes, trying to find the damn draft.

And then Eren says, casually:

“That was really nice of you, by the way.”

Jean looks up, already tense. “What?”

“You staying the night. The breakfast.” Eren shrugs, a little too light. “Didn’t expect that.”

Jean goes still before mimicking the shushing move like a goddamn nanny.

“Don’t say that out loud,” he says sharply. “Walls have ears.”

Eren blinks at him, thrown.

Jean gestures vaguely to the office around them. “This isn’t—this place isn’t exactly… neutral ground. People talk.”

“So what?” Eren grins like he doesn’t get it. “We had dinner and fell asleep to a shitty movie, not exactly what I’d call an affair.”

“Still.” Jean doesn’t meet his eyes. “I’m not supposed to do that kind of stuff.”

Eren tilts his head, eyes glinting with something that isn’t quite teasing. “Sounded more like a privilege than a crime.”

Jean does look at him now. Flat. Unamused.

“You’re such a pain in the ass.”

Eren smirks. “So you’ve said.”

Jean hands him the script like it’s hot coal. “Take your damn pages and go.”

But there’s no venom in his voice. Just this dry, weary drawl, like he’s used to Eren being impossible. Like he doesn’t quite hate it anymore. Eren stands, script in hand, but doesn’t move right away. There’s a flicker of something else in his gaze. He opens his mouth like he might say more—something that would mean something—but then thinks better of it. Instead, he just taps the folder.

“Thanks, Jean.”

He leaves before Jean can answer. And Jean sits there for a long time after, staring at the empty chair.

****

Jean’s still staring at the door ten minutes after Eren’s gone. Like he expects him to pop back in and say, just kidding , or maybe accuse him of caring too much again. His brain feels scrambled. His coffee’s gone lukewarm. And that lingering scent of Eren’s cheap-ass cologne still clings to the room like a bad idea.

He’s yanked out of it by the sound of knuckles knocking on glass. Then the door creaks open without him answering—because of course it does.

“Knock knock,” Hange sing-songs, already halfway inside. “Oooooh. You look weirdly flushed. Did you finally cry over taxes?”

Levi trails behind them like a judgmental cat. He takes one look at Jean’s face and frowns.

“You look like shit.”

Jean groans. “You people are like herpes. You just appear.”

“Thank you,” Hange beams. “But don’t change the subject. Who was that tall, brooding figure leaving your office with what looked like an actual script folder in his hand?”

Levi narrows his eyes, catching on faster. “Was that Jaeger?”

Jean stiffens. “He came to pick up the script.”

“Wow,” Hange says, settling themselves onto Jean’s desk like they own it. “No assistant, no passive-aggressive emails—he came himself? Sounds like he’s growing up.”

“He’s not,” Jean mutters. “He’s just… annoying.”

Levi crosses his arms. “You’re sweating.”

“I’m not sweating—”

“You’re sweating and you’re twitchy,” Levi continues like he’s diagnosing a corpse. “You look weirdly anxious, that’s not like you Kirstein. What happened.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Liar,” Hange says, leaning in. “Spill.”

Jean rubs his face, tempted to scream into his palms. “We had a meeting. He said thanks for the breakfast . I told him not to say that kind of shit around here. That’s it. Don’t tell Erwin.”

Both Hange and Levi freeze at the same time. The word breakfast hovers in the air like a nuclear bomb.

Levi speaks first, tone bone-dry: “You fed him?”

Jean glares. “It’s not like I spoon-fed him eggs, Christ.”

“You made him breakfast,” Hange echoes, eyes lighting up. “Jean. Jean-Boy . Are you falling for your problematic little client?”

“I’m not—” Jean’s voice cracks. “No. He was in a bad state. I helped. Like a professional.”

“Ah yes,” Hange says thoughtfully. “Very professional to stay the night. Very normal to cook . Did you fluff his pillow too?”

Levi’s eyebrows twitch. “Did you at least write it off as a business expense?”

Jean smacks his hand on the desk. “It was just food .”

“Sure,” Levi says flatly. “But whose heart are you feeding here, Kirstein?”

Jean falls silent.

Hange’s grin fades just a bit. “Hey. Seriously. You okay?”

He shrugs, all snark draining from his shoulders like someone deflated him. “I don’t know. It’s my fucking job to manage him, don’t act like that’s not the case, it’s the values of the agency to take care of our actors.” Jean says a bit coldly, glaring at his colleagues. “But then I wonder if he’s eating, or if he’s spiraling, or if he’s just… acting like he’s okay again.”

Levi sighs, almost empathetically. Almost. “You got too close.”

“I had to ,” Jean says. “That’s what the job demanded.”

“No,” Levi corrects. “That’s what he demanded. The job didn’t say ‘stay over and tuck the client in like his exhausted dad.’ That was you .”

There’s silence.

Then Hange, gentler now, nudges him with their foot. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

Jean doesn’t answer.

Because he doesn’t know yet.

***

The rain hasn’t let up in two days.

It taps against Eren’s windows like it’s mocking him, steady and relentless, while he stares at the script in his lap for the third hour in a row. He hasn’t flipped a page in twenty minutes. The words blur together. Some of them start to feel like lines from real life.

He’s sitting on the floor of his balcony, hoodie pulled over his head, legs stretched out under a cheap throw blanket. The city stretches out before him like static. Cars below. Lights blinking through fog. Everything is so fucking alive, and yet—

He feels stuck. Not miserable, not really. Just this deep, low hum of something he can’t name. A weight under his ribs that never really leaves.

He thinks of Jean.

How he barged into his pigsty of an apartment without hesitation. How he didn’t judge, not really , not when it counted. How he tossed out bags of trash and brought back takeout and actually sat through Shrek 4, which Eren had half-forgotten he even picked. How he’d fallen asleep on Eren’s lumpy-ass couch, his long legs dangling off the edge like some tragic, sleep-deprived Greek statue.

Then, the next morning, he was gone. No goodbye. Just a post-it and breakfast on the counter like some weird fever dream.

Eren leans his head back against the sliding glass door, exhales. He’s not dumb. He knows something shifted. Has been shifting. He’s been in this industry long enough to know when someone starts looking at you like you’re more than a paycheck. And Jean? Jean was looking at him like he was human. That’s the part that fucks him up.

Not the care. Not the staying over . Not the quiet breakfast. But the fact that Jean is starting to see the pieces of him that aren’t marketable. That he doesn’t show . The parts that aren’t sculpted out of PR strategy and studio-approved vulnerability. And worse—he’s starting to want that gaze. Crave it. Even though he knows it’s temporary. Even though he knows Jean is going to wake up one day and realize how bad an idea this is. Like the one night they drunk-fucked. He pulls his hoodie tighter over his head.

He shouldn’t have gone to the agency today. Should’ve texted someone else, had the thing delivered like a normal diva. But he missed his face. That annoyed, half-asleep glare. The way Jean clicked his pen when he was stressed.

And Jean had looked… tired. Weirdly relieved to see him. Like they’d been holding their breaths apart. He wants to believe that means something. But wanting things has always been his downfall. He flips a page in the script and doesn’t read it.

***

Jean’s office, later that day.

Jean is slouched in his chair with three tabs open, none of which he’s reading. His eyes are sore, and his coffee’s cold, but his phone buzzes and suddenly none of that matters.

1 new message. From: Problem Child   😐📱

“idk why but I saw a girl ride a horse for a Pepsi ad and immediately thought of you, horse-face”

Jean stares.

Then: slow smile. Like the kind he doesn’t even realize is on his face until—

“You gonna tell me what the hell that’s about, or should I just call Erwin now?”

Jean flinches. Looks up.

Levi is standing across the desk like he manifested straight from the shadows, arms crossed, eyes locked on Jean like a sniper. Hange isn’t next to him again, well that’s a relief at least because Jean couldn’t survive their lame-ass jokes right now.

Jean slaps his phone screen down too late. “Jesus Christ—don’t you knock?”

“I did. Twice. Then I watched you smile at your little text like a schoolgirl with a crush.”

Jean swallows. “I didn’t—fuck off.”

“No thanks,” Levi says, stepping closer. “Here’s what I am gonna do. I’m gonna ask you once again: are you too close to Jaeger?”

Jean’s eyes sharpen. “Define ‘too close.’”

Levi levels him with a stare. “You know exactly what I mean.”

There’s a silence, thick and electric.

“I’ve handled him,” Jean says eventually, tone clipped. “Set boundaries. Got him to show up on time. Kept him out of scandals. Kept the studio happy. What more do you want?”

“I want to know if I need to switch him to someone else before this turns into a PR bomb.”

Jean leans forward, pulse spiking. “Like hell you’re giving him to someone else. Especially not Floch.”

“Oh?” Levi lifts a brow. “Funny. Sounds a lot like possessiveness , Kirstein.”

Jean’s jaw clenches.

“I’ve worked my ass off managing this file,” he says. “You know it’s delicate. You know what he’s been through. Switching agents now would fuck him up even more.”

“I know you’re making excuses.”

Jean exhales through his nose. “I’m being professional. ”

“Really?” Levi gestures to the phone. “Because that didn’t look professional. That looked personal.”

Jean says nothing.

“Actors aren’t our friends. They’re not our family. Hell—” His eyes cut into Jean’s— “They’re not our lovers .”

Jean flinches, just barely.

“They’re actors. Which means, they’re paychecks . End of story.”

Jean opens his mouth, then closes it.

But Levi’s not done.

“You think you’re special? You think he isn’t using you just like you’re using him to get your rent paid? Wake up, Jean. You don’t live in the same world he does. You manage it. That’s it. You walk through his chaos with gloves on, then you walk right the fuck back out.”

Silence.

Levi straightens.

“You lose sight of that, you’re out. And so is he.”

Jean jerks back in his seat, trying to regain confidence beneath the cold gaze of the Deputy Director.

“Here’s the deal,” Levi continues, calm as a knife. “You tell me right now if there’s something going on. I won’t be mad. I’ll handle it. I’ll reassign him to someone else. No one needs to know.”

Jean’s voice is quiet when he finally says:

“There’s nothing going on.”

Levi stares. “That your final answer?”

Jean meets his eyes without blinking. “Yes.”

Levi waits a beat. Then gives a slow nod.

“Okay,” he says. “But if I so much as smell something off, I’m switching him to Floch. And don’t think I won’t enjoy it.”

He walks off without another word.

Jean exhales like he’s been punched.

His phone buzzes again.

Another message.

“you ever think about that night or am I the only freak in this dynamic?”

Jean doesn’t smile this time.

He just stares at the screen and thinks: Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Chapter Text

At first, Eren thinks maybe Jean’s just tired again. The text replies are still coming—but shorter. Dry. Not even a sarcastic emoji. Not even a damn typo .

Then they stop altogether.

And when they do finally see each other at the agency for a prep meeting, Eren walks in with his usual confident strut, tosses his jacket over Jean’s chair and flops onto the couch in the corner of his office like always. Except this time Jean doesn’t look up from his computer. Doesn’t even glance at  him.

Not even when Eren mutters, “You know, most people say hi.”

Jean: “We don’t have time to waste.”

Eren frowns. “…Okay? Sorry, boss .”

The rest of the meeting is clinical . Precise. Cold. Jean doesn’t look at him longer than necessary. He doesn’t laugh when Eren teases him about his wrinkled shirt. Doesn’t even smirk. He’s acting like—

Like they don’t know each other. Like none of it happened. Eren watches him pack his notes and clear the room like he’s been doing this job for decades and never once got involved. He’s seen Jean play “professional” before, but never like this . Not with him .

So Eren finally says, low:

“Did I do something wrong?”

Jean pauses.

“No.”

Flat. Firm. A little too fast.

Eren narrows his eyes. “Right. So this is you being normal.”

Jean looks at him now. Just a flicker. The corner of his mouth twitches—like it wants to say something softer—but it doesn’t make it.

“I’ve just got a lot on my plate. Let’s not make this about us.”

Us.

That word lands like glass cracking.

Eren scoffs, sarcastic. “Yeah. Wouldn’t want it to be about anything other than your lovely agency .”

Jean looks like he’s about to say something. Then stops.

Because what would he say?

I care about you but not like that but also yes like that but also not professionally but also maybe too much?

No. He just swallows it down and says nothing. And that’s when Eren really gets it.

Jean isn’t pulling back because he has to. He’s doing it to keep him. He doesn’t want Eren switched to someone else. Doesn’t want to lose his file. Doesn’t want to lose him . The precious dollars that come with his file, because god knows Eren brings a lot of them to the agency with his contracts. So he’s trying to shove them back into boxes— his box, Eren’s box—and pretend the rest didn’t happen.

Eren’s jaw ticks.

“You’re a fucking coward.”

Jean’s face hardens like stone.

“Meeting’s over,” he says.

Eren grabs his jacket, slams the door on the way out, and tells himself it doesn’t hurt.

Spoiler: it does .

****

Jean shuts the door behind Eren and immediately leans against it like someone just punched the air out of his lungs.

A fucking coward .

The word echoes in his head for hours after Eren storms out. Sits with him in the meetings, in his inbox, in the coffee he lets go cold on his desk. Follows him all the way home. He doesn’t even deny it. Because maybe Eren’s right. What the fuck was he doing? He told himself it was to protect Eren. Keep things professional. Make sure Levi didn’t assign him to Floch of all people. But really? It’s because he’s scared Of what he’s become.

Five months ago, Jean was the golden boy of the agency. Polished. Efficient. In control. He handled explosive talents like they were glass sculptures. He never got personal .

And then Eren fucking Jaeger walked in.

And now? Jean’s the guy who stayed the night. The guy who bought breakfast and cleaned an apartment that wasn’t his. The guy who left a post-it with a little goddamn smiley face on it and didn’t regret it until days later when he realized he had no idea what that made him. Friend? Caretaker? Enabler? Something else entirely? He doesn’t even know.

And now that he’s tried to walk it back—tried to be cold, distant, professionalagain—he’s just made it worse. Because he didn’t warn Eren. Didn’t talk. Just flipped the switch like the past few months hadn’t meant anything. Like none of it counted. And the worst part is? He misses him.

Not just the easy banter or the smirks or the way Eren always teased him like they were stuck in their own little world. No—he misses knowing him. Hearing the shit he’d never say to anyone else. Seeing the real person under all the press bullshit and public perception. That person’s gone now.

He pushed him away without even trying to understand what he was doing. Without thinking that maybe Eren wouldn’t just accept it like the other clients would. Because Eren isn’t like the others. And Jean hates that he’s the one who fucked that up.

***

The office is quiet. The only signs of life are the buzzing overhead lights and Levi, seated in the corner lounge with a mug that’s definitely not his first. He’s back from a “meeting with the boss,” and Jean catches sight of him as he trudges past, tie loosened, eyes like he hasn’t slept in days.

Levi looks… not disheveled. But too composed. A little flushed, shirt a bit creased, like he straightened it in the hallway. Jean raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything.

“You just get out of that meeting?” he asks, mostly to fill the silence.

Levi sips his coffee. “Yeah.”

“Damn. Y’all really milking the Braun file for all it’s worth, huh.”

Levi doesn’t answer right away. Just sets the mug down with a muted clink.

“Something like that.”

Jean drops into a chair nearby, groaning as he does. “Whatever. At least someone’s sleeping at night.”

Levi glances over at him. “You’re still spiraling.”

“Wow. Thanks for the diagnosis, doctor.”

A pause.

Levi eyes him for a second, then in a tone far too casual: “You and Eren.”

Jean freezes.

Levi keeps going, voice flat. “That look you get when someone says his name? That ghost shit you’ve been doing in meetings lately? It’s not subtle.”

“I’m being professional,” Jean says a little too fast. “I told you. It’s back on.”

Levi leans back slowly, not buying a goddamn syllable. “You say that, but I saw your face when Erwin mentioned him earlier.”

Since when does he call Smith by his first name? Jean thought to himself.

“I told you twice already Jean, I don’t take kindly to people not listening to me, you know it. You’ve worked here for five years, not once have I seen you being this stupid. If you keep acting like that, I’m gonna tell Erwin to reassign Jaeger. Even if it means giving him to Floch. ”

Jean actually pales. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Levi smirks, but his tone sharpens. “Then pull your shit together.”

Silence.

Jean rubs his eyes and mutters, “I’m trying.”

Another beat. Then, with uncharacteristic softness, Levi mutters:

“You okay, kid?”

Jean looks up. Stares at him.

And for the first time, notices—

His shirt is misbuttoned by one.

His collar’s faintly rumpled.

And there’s a red mark barely hidden on the side of his neck.

Jean’s eyes narrow.

“…You and the boss?”

Levi sips his coffee. “That’s also professional.”

Jean snorts. “Yeah? What kind of meeting ends with your shirt half-untucked?”

Levi’s eyes glint, amused but unbothered. “The kind that’s none of your business, Kirstein.”

Jean leans back, eyes wide. “Holy shit.”

Levi: “What?”

Jean: “You’re actually worse than me. ”

Levi smiles, just a little. “I never said I wasn’t.”

***

Jean’s back at his desk the next day, staring at his laptop like it insulted his mother.

His calendar is stacked, his inbox is an apocalypse, and someone just left a sticky note on his screen that says “Lunch?” with a smiley face he doesn’t recognize. The office is bright, normal, loud—people chatting, phones ringing—but Jean feels like he’s floating.

Because he can’t stop thinking about it.

About Eren.

About Levi.

About Levi and Erwin.

About how apparently everyone’s breaking rules around here and just walking away like it’s a casual Tuesday.

He tries not to imagine how that meeting ended last night. He tries not to imagine Eren sleeping alone in that hellhole of an apartment again.

His phone buzzes. Text from Eren:

“The ramen was better this time. Missed your mean ass.”

Jean stares at it like it’s a live grenade. Doesn’t respond. Locks the screen. From across the bullpen, Floch is laughing too loud. Someone’s talking about an actor doing a nude scene. Jean hears someone say Eren’s name and his whole body stiffens. He. Needs. To. Focus.

He pulls open a random file. One of his other actors, some promising indie darling who just booked a campaign with Saint Laurent. Objectively exciting. Normally, Jean would eat this up. But now? He keeps thinking: You’re not Eren. God, he’s losing it. Levi walks past his desk. Sharp as ever, unreadable as ever. His eyes meet Jean’s for just a second. Jean looks away too quickly, heart doing something stupid in his chest.

Because all he can think is:

You got away with it.

You and Erwin. You did it.

So why the hell can’t I?

But then he thinks about Eren again.

The smell of that apartment.

The way he laughed during that awful movie.

The post-it note Jean left him.

The way he’s now pretending none of it mattered, because he has to. Because Levi was right.

Actors aren’t friends.

They’re not family.

They’re not lovers.

They’re paychecks.

So why the hell does he feel like he’s failing Eren by being professional again?

And more than that—

Why does he feel like he’s failing himself ?

Chapter Text

Late afternoon sun filters through the agency windows in slanted gold, warming Jean’s office just enough to make his starched collar stick to the back of his neck. He’s halfway through annotating a redline contract—some rising indie actress, nothing major—when the front desk pings him on Slack:

[Reception]

Eren Jaeger here to see you. Didn’t say why.

He stares at the message like it might rearrange itself. No meeting scheduled. No script drop. No PR check-in. And after the mess of that night—after Eren staying over, the goddamn note, that silence—Jean had convinced himself it was done. That whatever temporary insanity gripped them both was over. That Eren had ghosted, as usual.

And now he’s here. Jean shoves back from his desk so fast his iced coffee sloshes, splattering the margin notes. He barely notices. His pulse is thudding like he just sprinted down Sixth Avenue.

He steps out into the sleek, marble-floored lobby—and there Eren is.

Sunglasses halfway down his nose, black surgical mask pushed to his chin, beanie slouched just right to make him look like he didn’t try at all. It’s just enough disguise to avoid TMZ, not enough to hide who he is. He’s sprawled across the armchair like a bored celebrity in a perfume ad, one boot tapping against the leg of the coffee table.

Jean storms toward him, tension radiating off his shoulders.

Voice low, teeth clenched: “What the hell are you doing here?”

Eren doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. Just slides his sunglasses up and grins like the embodiment of every bad decision Jean’s ever made.

“Wow. Not even a ‘hi, Eren’? No ‘Jaeger, you look radiant in bad lighting’?”

Jean stiffens. “You don’t have an appointment. If this is some stunt—”

“Relax.” Eren drawls. “Just here to grab the updated script. Figured you’d want to give it to me yourself. You know—personal touch.”

Jean’s jaw tenses. Because the worst part is… he would have wanted that. He exhales through his nose, forcing his voice level.

“Fine. Come on.”

Eren wanders in Jean’s office like it’s his place now. His eyes scan the walls, the shelves, the crisp minimalism of Jean’s setup. Not a stray paper in sight. Not a personal photo to be found. It’s almost surgical, like Jean had his life autoclaved. Eren lowers into the guest chair with all the respect of a housecat.

“Nice office,” he murmurs. “Smells like wood polish and unaddressed trauma.”

Jean hands him the script like he’s passing a live grenade.

“Here. Take it. Go.”

Eren doesn’t even glance at it.

“You’re cute when you’re nervous.”

Jean glances toward the door, voice like ice: “You can’t say shit like that here. People listen.”

Eren tilts his head.

“Why the fuck not?”

Jean snaps. “Because this isn’t your apartment. This isn’t a late-night phone call. This is my job. And what happened last week? That was off the books. Personal. It doesn’t belong here. Don’t bring it up again. Not in this office.”

That stops Eren. Just for a second. His posture shifts—less cocky, more coiled. Voice quiet: “…You think I’m trying to get you fired?”

Jean doesn’t answer. Doesn’t trust himself to.

Eren leans back, mouth twisting. “ You’re weird. You do all that—clean up my shit, feed me, tuck me into bed like a damn husband —and now you’re acting like it was a tax write-off.”

Jean bites the inside of his cheek. “Don’t twist this.”

“I’m not.” Eren’s voice isn’t sharp—it’s baffled. Almost hurt. “I’m trying to understand. You’re the one pretending it never happened.”

Jean opens his mouth, pulse ticking in his throat, when—

A knock at the door. He turns. It’s Levi. Fuck that’s not the moment. Dark eyes land on Eren. Then Jean. A subtle flicker of disapproval, like a judge who’s already reached a verdict.

“Didn’t know we had royalty visiting.”

Eren stands slowly, slouchy grin still on. “Hey, Levi.”

Levi’s gaze sharpens. “It’s Ackerman to you.”

Then, to Jean: “Conference room. Now.”

Jean feels his organs drop into his shoes.

Eren hums behind him. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep your desk warm. With my ass sitting on it for good measure, of course.”

Jean shoots him a glare so sharp it could draw blood, but it’s useless. Eren’s already leaning back the wood of his desk again, legs spread, that smug little smirk saying I live in your head, Jean Boy, and rent’s free.

Jean follows Levi down the corridor, every footstep a tiny death. He already knows what Levi’s gonna tell him: “I warned you, I’m going to reassign him to Floch”. With Erwin sliding an arm around Levi’s waist, he imagines. Fuck.

***

He enters the conference room, nerves twisting his gut, expecting to be thrown under the bus.

“So… what’s this about?” Jean mutters, gathering the balls to say this out loud, knowing in advance he’ll be fired by the end of this meeting.

Levi doesn’t even look up from his computer, showing something to Erwin with a pointed finger.

“Upcoming Cannes junket for the Laurent file. The kid can’t even string three words in English. He’s gonna tank unless you prep him hard.”

“Fuck that’s not our luck.” Hange groans in the chair next to Jean’s.

Jean blinks.

That’s it?

“Oh. Right. I’ll set something up.” Jean loosens a bit.

Levi finally peels his eyes off the excel sheet he was working on, giving a weird ass look to Erwin whose expression seems to soften. Jean is a fucking idiot for not having noticed before. Of course they were fucking.

“You good?” Hange asks, visibly observing Jean being all tensed up.

“Yeah. Totally. Why?”

“You look like someone just found your porn stash,” came Levi’s dry comment, making him grit his teeth.

“Need more sleep,” he muttered, but the question hung in the air — he wasn’t fooling anyone.

Not really.

Meanwhile, back at his office, Eren was alone, fingers rifling through drawers.

He wasn’t snooping out of boredom. There was this gnawing feeling, a pit in his stomach, telling him something was off. So, he dragged himself through the office, fingers tracing over papers and files like searching for a hidden truth. His eyes caught the edge of a folded letter tucked in a drawer pushed just a little too far in — careless, or maybe deliberately hidden.

His heart skipped as he pulled it out, unfolding the crisp paper. The handwriting was unmistakable — his signature scrawled across the bottom.

A resignation letter.

The words hit him like a punch he hadn’t seen coming. Why? His mind raced back through every meeting, every glance, every subtle shift in tone. Did he miss something? Was this the plan all along? The betrayal stung sharper than any insult.

He felt cold, betrayed — the ground under him cracking open.

How could the one person supposed to have his back write this? Did he not matter? Did the man who managed his career just decide he was done? Had Eren been the one pushing him to do this? Did he really hate him all that much?

His hands trembled, fists clenched tight enough to hurt.

And in the quiet of the office, alone with that letter, everything twisted into a storm he wasn’t ready to face.

***

When Jean comes back to his office, Eren grabs him by the collar and pushes him on the nearest chair, the letter clenched tight in one hand like a weapon. Voice sharp as broken glass, he slams it down on the desk.

“When the actual fuck were you going to tell me about this?”

Jean’s eyes snap up, heart pounding. He knows this can’t be good. Without a word, he stands and pulls the other out of the office, out the back, up the stairs, until they’re on the roof — the city sprawling beneath them, the noise swallowed by the open sky.

“Not a single soul can hear us here,” Jean says quietly. “If this gets out, I’m done. You know that.”

The other’s eyes burn into him, fury and hurt mixing into a storm.

“You’ve been cold, distant for weeks. Acting like you’re preparing me to quit. Like you don’t care anymore. So tell me, what the fuck is going on?”

Jean’s hands clench into fists. “You don’t understand a damn thing. It’s not as simple as you think. I’m not some shallow movie character. There’s shit going on in my life too, Eren.”

“Then why the hell didn’t you tell me?” the other snaps, voice cracking. “We’re supposed to be friends, aren’t we?”

Jean’s laugh is bitter, sharp. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I’m not supposed to be friends with you, or anything else. We’re professionals. You forget that, you’ll ruin us both.”

They stand there, the silence heavier than the city below, and neither willing to back down. Jean turns away, pacing the rooftop like he’s trying to outrun the guilt clawing up his throat. But Eren won’t let him.

“You keep pulling away like I’m some fucking liability,” he says, stepping forward. “And maybe I am. But don’t pretend like that night didn’t happen.”

Jean freezes.

“Right,” the other scoffs. “Forgot— that must’ve been another professional move. Just like taking out my trash and making sure I eat. Just like staying the night to make sure I don’t drown in my own mess. So what is allowed, huh? Can’t fuck, can’t be friends, can’t talk like humans. Should I just book appointments with you between 9 and 5, or is that too personal too?”

Jean exhales, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the skyline.

“You think I don’t want to talk to you?” His voice is low now. Bitter. “You think it’s easy for me to pretend I don’t give a damn when I do? Every second I stay attached, I’m walking a fucking tightrope, and if I fall, I lose everything.”

“Right. Because I’m the problem,” Eren snaps at him. “Because I make you feel things you’re not supposed to feel. You don’t even see it, do you?”

“See what?”

“You treat me like I’m both a burden and a secret. You care when no one’s looking, and the second anyone’s around, it’s back to cold, efficient Jean. The agent. The puppet on strings. So maybe stop lying to yourself—either you feel something or you don’t.”

Jean stares at him, heart in his throat, caught somewhere between wanting to run and wanting to scream.

“Why can’t you just listen to me?” Jean’s voice breaks halfway through the sentence, sharp with frustration, rough from the night. His hands are balled into fists at his sides like he’s holding something in—something big, ugly, years in the making. “You act like I don’t care. Like I’m just fucking around. But I do. I care so fucking much it’s turning me inside out.”

Eren stares at him. No retort, no smirk, not even a flinch. Just wide eyes and silence.

Jean laughs, bitter and breathless. “You think I’ve forgotten that night? You think I regret it?” His throat bobs, like it physically hurts to say this. “If I ever said I did, I was lying. Lying through my fucking teeth, and you should’ve known it.”

He drags a hand through his hair, grabbing at it, like pain might help him hold it together. “But I have a job. A job I love. The only thing I’ve ever actually been good at. And since the second they dropped your name in that meeting, I’ve been doing everything in my power not to fuck it up.”

His eyes flick to Eren again. “And you—you’ve made it impossible. With your mouth, and your attitude, and your fucking late-night phone calls. You think I didn’t ache when you cried, Eren? You think I didn’t lie awake for hours after that, staring at the ceiling, wondering why it tore me apart?”

Eren blinks. His lips part slightly. Still no words.

Jean barrels on, like if he stops now, he’ll never get it out. “You crawled under my skin and just… stayed there. Like some curse. Like an itch I can’t scratch. You say I’m being cold, but if you had any idea how hard I’ve had to clamp down—how many times I’ve had to grit my teeth just to keep from touching you—”

His voice dips, trembling.

“—you’d shut the fuck up about cold.”

It’s quiet again. The city hums below them. A car horn somewhere in the distance. But up here, the air feels too tight to breathe.

“I wrote the letter,” Jean says, lower now, each word cut clean like glass. “Because I knew where this was heading. And I knew if I didn’t stop it, I’d blow up everything. I wasn’t afraid of you, Eren. I was afraid of what I’d do to both of us if I kept pretending this was just a job.”

He swallows hard, the anger melting under something softer, more painful.

“If I couldn’t have you the way I wanted—I figured maybe I could still be near you. Still do right by you. Still mean something to you, even if it wasn’t what I wanted.”

His gaze drops to the ground, jaw clenched tight.

“So yeah. I pulled back. I acted like an asshole. But I did it because I was trying to protect what little I had left.” He meets Eren’s eyes again, a blaze behind them now. “But don’t you fucking dare call me a coward.”

And just like that—Eren moves.

One heartbeat, two—and then he’s across the distance, hands fisting in Jean’s collar, yanking him forward like the dam finally cracked. Their mouths crash together, all heat and teeth, all fury and longing, all of the ugly truths they’ve never said, colliding in a kiss that feels like breaking open.

Jean doesn’t even hesitate. He gasps into it, groans low in his throat, hands finding Eren’s waist, the jut of his hips, grounding himself in the weight of this—of him. Eren kisses like a warning, like a punishment, like he wants Jean to hurt. And Jean does. He wants all of it. The bite, the burn, the sheer electricity of Eren pressed up against him again.

The rooftop spins around them. The wind pulls at their clothes. But they’re not cold anymore.

They’re on fire.

The kiss ends, but neither of them moves.

Their foreheads are still pressed together, breath shared and shallow. Jean’s hands are still on Eren’s waist. Eren’s fingers are still clutching Jean’s shirt like he’s trying to anchor himself—or maybe keep him there .

Jean’s eyes flutter open first. “Fuck.”

Eren lets out a breathy laugh. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”

They finally separate, barely. A hand slides off. A collar straightens. Jean wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand and immediately regrets it. His lips feel swollen. Raw. Like a bruise he’s going to carry for days.

“So…” Eren says, too casually. “Still planning to quit?”

Jean glares. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying.” Eren shrugs, infuriating as ever. “If we’re already breaking all the rules, might as well—”

“I’m not doing this,” Jean interrupts, voice hoarse. “We’re not doing this.”

Eren raises a brow. “Could’ve fooled me five seconds ago.”

Jean steps back like he’s been slapped. “That was—” He stops. “That was a mistake .”

The air shifts. Eren’s jaw tightens.

“Right,” he says coolly. “Because kissing me always is, right?”

Jean looks away. His ears are red. “Don’t twist my words.”

“I’m not.” Eren crosses his arms, suddenly guarded. “I’m just trying to figure out where the line is, since you keep drawing it in chalk and wiping it away the second I cross it.”

Jean doesn’t respond.

“I didn’t ask for this, you know,” Eren adds. “I may have asked to be assigned to you. I didn’t ask to have this thing between us. But it’s there . You can’t just act like it’s not.”

“I know it’s there,” Jean snaps. “You think I don’t feel it? You think I haven’t been fighting it every fucking day since you walked into that goddamn conference room?”

The roof is quiet except for the city below, sirens in the distance and the hum of a thousand lives going on oblivious.

Jean sighs. Runs a hand over his face. “I don’t want to leave this job. But I also don’t want to ruin you. You get that?”

“Ruin me?” Eren frowns. “Jean—”

“You’re a client. My client. That matters. If anyone finds out, it’s not you they’ll punish. It’s me. I lose everything. My career, my reputation, years of busting my ass to get here—gone.”

“But you didn’t quit.”

Jean looks at him, defeated. “No.”

“And you kissed me.”

“…yeah.”

“So now what?”

Jean closes his eyes, breathing deep. When he opens them, something in him is steadier. Still terrified. But determined .

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I’m done pretending it’s not happening.”

Eren softens just a little. “Yeah?”

Jean nods. “I’m not quitting. Not yet. And I’m not switching you to someone else. I’ll figure out how to handle it.”

Eren smirks faintly. “You always do.”

Jean rolls his eyes. “Don’t make me regret this in the next five seconds.”

“No promises,” Eren says, stepping just close enough to make Jean’s breath hitch again. “But I’ll try.”

***

They descend from the rooftop like two teenagers sneaking back in after curfew. Jean walks three steps ahead like Eren might evaporate if he turns around. Eren doesn’t say anything either, just walks with his hands in his jacket pockets, eyes flicking toward Jean’s back every few seconds. They don’t go back to the agency. Somehow — maybe with a grunt from Jean and a shrug from Eren — they end up back at Jean’s apartment. It’s the only neutral ground they know. Jean unlocks the door like it personally offended him and tosses his keys on the counter with a clang.

“You want something?” he asks, already moving to the kitchen. “I have instant coffee or… more instant coffee.”

Eren lifts an eyebrow. “You don’t have tea? Or something that doesn’t taste like burnt battery acid?”

Jean shoots him a look that could wither crops. “Didn’t realize I was running a café. You want hospitality, go fuck your PR team.”

Eren smiles like that wasn’t the hottest insult he’s heard all week. “Touchy.”

Jean doesn’t respond. He busies himself with mugs and the kettle and aggressively ignoring how his hands are shaking. After a few minutes, Eren gets up.

“I need to go out for a bit,” he says casually. “I’ll be back.”

Jean finally turns. “What, now?”

“Yeah.”

“You can’t be serious—”

“Don’t worry, I’m not abandoning you,” Eren says, already slipping his shoes on. “I just need to take care of something. Won’t be long.”

Jean scowls, but says nothing. Just watches the door close behind him.

Silence.

And then he drops onto the couch and lets out a long, strangled groan.

“Fucking hell.”

He covers his face with both hands.

“What the fuck was that,” he mutters into his palms. “I had one job. One. Job.”

His voice is muffled but filled with pure disbelief.

I kissed him. I full-on confessed to him. I monologued like I’m in a goddamn romcom. I said under my skin . Jesus Christ. I might as well have pulled out a guitar.

He throws his head back against the couch cushion, looking at the ceiling like it holds the answers to his emotional spiral, still in his own mind. And now he’s just out there. Wandering around. With that fucking face and his mouth and  his everything . And I’m here. Marinating in my own shame.

He groans again. Louder this time.

“…I’m so fucking screwed.”

Jean’s still on the couch twenty minutes later, blinking at the ceiling like maybe if he stares hard enough the universe will knock him unconscious and save him from ever facing Eren again. The coffee’s gone cold on the table. His tie is half-off, shirt wrinkled from when he curled into a temporary fetal position trying to breathe through the humiliation .

Then—keys jiggle. Door opens. Eren steps in. Drenched from the light rain that started five minutes ago. Hair damp, strands clinging to his forehead. And in his hands—

A bag.

Jean sits up, blinking.

“…what’s that?”

Eren sets it down. Shrugs, like it’s nothing.

“You said you don’t keep anything but instant coffee, and that’s criminal,” he says, already tugging off his wet jacket. “So I got some stuff. Real coffee. Filters. A bag of those stupid little pastries I know you like. And… tea. Whatever the hell chamomile is supposed to do.”

Jean stares.

“You… went out. In the rain.”

“You say that like I scaled a mountain.”

“For tea.”

Eren doesn’t answer immediately. Just throws the wet jacket over a chair and finally looks at him.

“I know it’s dumb,” he mutters. “But I—” He hesitates. His tongue darts over his lower lip, wetting it like he’s searching for words. “I wish I could speak like you did. On the roof. All… Romeo-under-the-balcony type of shit.”

Jean makes a noise like he’s been physically struck .

“I mean, fuck ,” Eren goes on. “You said all this shit that sounded rehearsed, but I know it wasn’t. Because it was raw and angry and real. And I suck at that. I don’t know how to write anything that sounds like feelings unless someone hands it to me on a page. So—yeah. This is my version of that. Buying your dumb favorite coffee.”

He says it with the kind of awkwardness that only someone deeply sincere can pull off. He shrugs again. “Sorry it’s not poetry.”

Jean is quiet for a long second.

Then: “You remembered what coffee I liked?”

Eren rolls his eyes. “I’m not a goldfish, Jean.”

“…The pastries too?”

“I’m not even gonna dignify that.”

A pause.

Jean’s mouth twitches. “…You know, for someone who claims to be a nonchalant fuck, this is dangerously close to being sweet.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“You’re literally dripping rainwater on my carpet. For me .”

“I swear to god, Kirstein—”

Jean’s grin is slow and crooked. He doesn’t look giddy, not exactly — more like surprised. Quietly stunned that someone actually came back for him .

“…Thanks,” he says eventually, voice low. “Really.”

And Eren — cheeks faintly pink from the rain or something else entirely — shrugs one more time, grabbing a mug and moving toward the kitchen like nothing ever happened.

Jean watches him go.

Heart absolutely fucking ruined .

***

The kettle clicks.

Jean pours boiling water into the coffee press, eyes trained on the swirl of brown, doing everything in his power not to glance toward the couch where Eren sits, legs up, hair still damp, fiddling with the remote like it owes him money.

“So,” Jean mutters, “you gonna hog my couch for the rest of your life or…”

Eren flips to some black-and-white movie with dramatic violins screeching in the background. Doesn’t look at him.

“Only until your resignation hits. Then I’ll take your apartment too.”

Jean snorts.

“I’d love to see you try.”

“Please. You’ve got no locks I can’t pick. You hide your spare key in a literal flowerpot.”

“Not anymore I don’t.”

“Right. Forgot you’re a whole new man now. Professional. Cold. Unfuckable.”

Jean nearly chokes on the air.

“Jesus Christ.”

Eren smirks faintly, finally meeting his eyes.

“What? Thought we were back to normal.”

Jean’s jaw ticks. He finishes the coffee, brings Eren a mug, drops it a bit harder than necessary on the coffee table.

“Don’t burn your tongue.”

“Oh? So you do care.”

“I care about not having to clean up the corpse when you die from scalding.”

Eren hums, taking a sip anyway.

They sit in silence for a bit. The movie is just two men shouting about honor and duty . Jean stares at the screen like it’s supposed to distract from the fact he can feel Eren’s thigh brushing his. Just barely. Maybe accidentally. Maybe not.

Eren’s voice breaks the quiet.

“You think they end up fucking?”

Jean blinks. “What?”

“The guys in the movie. Lotta yelling. Lotta tension. Classic setup.”

Jean shifts in his seat. “Yeah, probably not. That one’s married to a duchess.”

“So was I. In a film. Didn’t stop you .”

Jean groans. “Jesus—”

“I’m joking.”

“No you’re not.”

A beat.

“…Okay. I’m not.”

More silence. It’s unbearable. Jean downs the rest of his coffee like a shot. Eren looks at him again. That crooked smirk faltering just a little now, something more uncertain tugging at the edge of his features. He taps the mug with his fingers.

“I know we’re not supposed to talk about it. But I just—” He hesitates. “I don’t want things to go back to… you pretending I’m just a file on your desk.”

Jean stares at him.

And very, very quietly says, “You’re not.”

Eren swallows. Looks away.

Then, mercifully: “So. Want to rewatch that shitty vampire movie you kept pretending to hate?”

Jean lets out a slow breath, slumping into the couch like he’s aged five years.

“…God help me.”

Eren’s grin creeps back. He tosses Jean the remote. Their fingers brush. The air sizzles.

Neither of them moves away.

They sit there. Shoulder to shoulder. Movie flickering across the screen. Saying absolutely nothing about the way their thighs are pressed together now, or the way Jean doesn’t actually change the film, or the fact that they’ve been in love for weeks now and both are far too stubborn to deal with it. The tension is back. Comfortable. Familiar. Stupid. Them.

Chapter Text

It starts simple.

Days pass. Eren doesn’t mention the resignation letter again. Jean doesn’t bring up the rooftop. They text about meetings. Jean sends Eren his schedule. Eren sends back this schedule is ass with three emojis and a picture of his middle finger.

Work things. Professional things. Nothing to see here.

Except:

Eren now lingers after meetings. He takes his sweet time leaving Jean’s office, always “forgetting” something. A scarf. A coffee cup. His sunglasses.

Once, he even said, “I forgot my presence,” and just sat back down.

Jean nearly screamed. But he didn’t ask him to leave.

Another day, Jean catches Eren asleep in the greenroom. Curled up like a cat. Script clutched in one hand, a half-eaten protein bar in the other. There’s ink on his cheek. Jean stands there way too long, just… looking.

He tells himself he’s about to wake him. But he doesn’t. Not right away. He just watches the soft rise and fall of his chest, the crease between his brows even in sleep, and wonders if Eren dreams about anything else than being famous. Or if he dreams about that night.

At Eren’s place, they’re watching something dumb again. Popcorn on the floor. Jean’s wearing a hoodie that Eren claims smells like sadness. Eren’s sitting way too close.

It’s late. They’re both tired. They’re both quiet.

A scene comes on — an actor crying, one of those ugly, real ones.

Eren scoffs. “Too dramatic.”

Jean hums. “Thought you liked dramatic.”

Eren turns to him. Their faces too close. Something in the room shifts.

“Only when it’s real.”

Jean doesn’t reply. Can’t. He stands to grab water. He needs to grab water. But Eren follows him. Of course he does.

In the kitchen, Jean fumbles with the tap. Eren leans against the counter. Watching him. All heavy-lidded and unreadable.

Jean finally breaks the silence.

“You do this on purpose.”

Eren raises an eyebrow. “Do what?”

“This… thing. Get close. Say shit. Just enough to make me think—” he swallows. “Just enough to drive me insane.”

Eren shrugs.

“You drive me insane too.”

And just like that, the air charges again.

Jean takes a step back. Eren takes a step forward.

“Don’t,” Jean says, voice low.

“I’m not doing anything,” Eren says, like he’s not ten centimeters from him.

“You’re trying to make me forget why this is a bad idea.”

Eren’s lips twitch. “And is it working?”

Jean’s heart is pounding . He hates this. He hates how close they always get. Hates how Eren always looks at him like that — like he’s not just some washed up almost-actor turned agent, like he’s something worth burning for.

But most of all? He hates that he looks back.

“I swear,” Jean mutters, “you’re gonna be the end of me.”

Eren doesn’t say anything.

He just leans in.

And Jean— Jean lets him.

They kiss again, hard and stupid and hungry — not like the rooftop, not like the first time. No confessions now, just raw need. Like they’ve been holding their breath for days. Weeks. Jean presses him against the counter, one hand fisting in Eren’s shirt, the other tugging at his hair. Eren gasps into his mouth, clawing at Jean’s back.

Their kiss deepens like a slow collapse.

Jean doesn’t know who moves first—maybe him, maybe Eren, maybe it doesn’t matter. All he knows is that Eren’s arms wrap around his neck with startling ease, like he’s done this a hundred times in dreams. Like his body’s been waiting for this. He’s warm, solid, slightly shorter than Jean, and when Jean’s mouth presses more firmly to his, Eren melts into him like a sigh.

Jean’s hand comes up, cupping the side of Eren’s face. His palm rests flat against the curve of his cheek, rough thumb grazing the delicate dip beneath his eye. His pinky brushes along Eren’s jaw—sharper than he remembers, all bone and tension beneath that soft, stubborn skin. And Eren, fuck, Eren leans into it. Like he wants to be held there. Like he wants to stay.

There’s a kind of stillness in the room. Not quiet—because Jean can hear everything. He hears the quick little breaths Eren takes when Jean licks into his mouth, testing, tasting. He hears the wet slide of their lips, the rustle of fabric as Eren’s fingers twist tighter around the collar of Jean’s hoodie. He hears himself, too—those low, almost involuntary sounds he never makes with anyone else. The kind that rise up from somewhere deep and starved.

He feels it, too. The slow thunder of Eren’s heartbeat, pounding against his chest in time with his own. Their bodies are close enough for Jean to feel every flutter, every shift in Eren’s breathing. There’s no alcohol clouding this. No rooftop, no crisis, no excuses. Just skin and want and the uncomfortable knowledge that this is what he’s been aching for since the second Eren walked into his office and upended everything.

Eren’s nose bumps against his when he tilts his head. His mouth opens a little more. Jean takes the invitation like he’s parched, tongue sliding past Eren’s lips again, and this time he feels it—really feels it. The press of soft, warm heat. The way Eren’s breath hitches. The almost embarrassed puff of air through Eren’s nose when Jean sucks lightly on his tongue.

Jean’s hand moves—tracing down from cheek to neck, settling in the dip at the back of Eren’s nape. He can feel the heat radiating off him, the soft prickle of sweat, the tension thrumming just under the surface. His fingers reach the stupid little elastic band holding Eren’s hair back.

He tugs it free.

And Eren’s hair falls like dusk, loose and wild and messy. Jean barely has time to register it before his fingers sink in—sliding through the smooth strands, finding the weight and texture of it intoxicating. He grabs it—firm, grounding himself—and Eren moans, a short sharp sound that punches straight through Jean’s spine.

Then Eren’s teeth graze Jean’s bottom lip.

No, not graze—bite. Not hard, but enough. Enough to spark something raw and low and dangerous in Jean’s gut. He groans, full-bodied and unfiltered, the sound spilling into Eren’s mouth like a curse. His grip in Eren’s hair tightens. He pulls—not to hurt, just to hold. Just to feel.

And god, Eren feels .

Every inch of him is alive. Responsive. Pressed against Jean with no hesitation now, like he’s letting himself be kissed, wanted , in a way Jean never imagined he’d get to touch him. One of Eren’s hands slides up the back of Jean’s neck, fingers weaving into the base of his hair, tugging lightly as if to say don’t stop . Jean doesn’t even think of stopping. His hand trails back down, finding Eren’s waist, pulling him closer until there’s not a breath of space between them.

And it’s different now— completely different. No panic, no shame. Just Eren in his arms, kissing like he means it. Like he feels it. Like this isn’t a mistake waiting to happen.

It should scare Jean.

But all he can think is: finally.

Their breaths are starting to hitch.

It’s slow at first — the way their bodies press tighter, the way Jean’s chest brushes against Eren’s every time they inhale, like they’re trying to breathe in sync but failing. The kiss deepens, messier now, wetter. Eren’s lips trail from Jean’s mouth to the corner, then down to his cheek, and Jean exhales sharply — a shaky, breathless sound that betrays just how long he’s been holding this in.

When Eren’s mouth brushes his jaw, Jean nearly jolts. It’s smooth, freshly shaved — and fuck, the contrast is maddening. His stubble has always been something Jean noticed in passing, especially after shoots, but now it’s something felt , dragged over with lips and breath. Eren’s tongue barely peeks out, tracing along the edge of Jean’s jaw like he’s mapping it, claiming it, and Jean’s hands twitch with the need to grab something, someone .

Then—Eren hits the spot.

His mouth finds the soft hollow beneath Jean’s ear, the pulse point that’s always been sensitive, and he latches on with just enough pressure to pull a real sound out of Jean’s throat — a low, guttural groan that seems to echo in the tiled kitchen. Jean’s eyebrows draw together tightly, breath ragged now, and his hands move without permission. He slides one up the length of Eren’s back, feeling the curve of muscle under fabric, the slope of his spine, until he’s slipping just beneath the hem of Eren’s long-sleeved shirt. Warm skin meets calloused fingertips. Jean exhales like he’s just touched something sacred.

“Bed…room,” he manages, hoarse and already flushed.

Eren doesn’t say anything. Just lifts his head, face flushed too, lips red and swollen and eyes dark, so dark. For a second, he just looks at Jean — really looks — and there’s something in his gaze that makes Jean feel cracked open.

Want. That’s what it is. Clear and blazing and unhidden.

Then Eren moves.

He takes Jean’s hand. Not yanks it, not tugs — takes . His fingers wrap around Jean’s, slow and sure, and he pulls him through the apartment like he’s done this a thousand times. Like Jean belongs here.

Jean barely registers the hallway or the way his own heartbeat pounds in his ears. He’s only aware of the warmth of Eren’s skin, the way it fits in his palm like some kind of cosmic fucking trick.

In the bedroom, the lights are dim, soft — like Eren always keeps it this way. A little too private. A little too quiet.

Jean doesn’t have time to dwell on it, because Eren turns, pushes gently at his chest, and Jean sinks onto the bed like he was always meant to be there.

Then Eren straddles him.

His knees frame Jean’s thighs, weight settling right into Jean’s lap, and fuck , Jean can feel it now — how hard he’s gotten, the pressure unbearable in his jeans, made worse by Eren’s steady, slow grind as he leans down and kisses him again.

This kiss is different.

Hungrier. Bolder.

Eren’s hands cup Jean’s face like he’s memorizing the shape of it. Jean’s fingers clutch at Eren’s waist, then slide up under the hem of his shirt again, palms dragging along warm skin, tracing ribs, shoulder blades, the dip in his lower back.

He feels the slight tremble in Eren’s thighs as their bodies press impossibly close.

And Eren — Eren is still kissing him like he means it. Like there’s no performance this time, no rooftop bravado, no show to put on. Just heat and lips and a rhythm they can’t seem to stop chasing. He tilts his head, deepens the kiss, tongue gliding over Jean’s with practiced, devastating ease. Jean lets out a sharp exhale through his nose, groaning when Eren shifts again in his lap, grinding down and pulling back all in one maddening movement.

“Fuck,” Jean breathes, head tilting back. “Eren…”

And god, the way Eren looks at him now — flushed, hair wild, lips kiss-bruised and slightly parted — it’s almost unreal .

Jean doesn’t even try to think anymore.

He just kisses him again, like maybe that’s the only language they understand.

***

Eren’s hips begin to move in slow, deliberate rolls, grinding down against Jean with a rhythm that feels maddeningly precise—like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Their clothes are still on, every inch of friction cruel and perfect, denim to denim, heat building in unbearable waves. Jean’s breath stutters, and when he shifts slightly underneath, he feels the full, hard weight of his own arousal straining against the confines of his jeans. It’s dizzying. Eren doesn’t ease off—not in the slightest. If anything, the smug flicker behind his half-lidded eyes says he can feel it too, and he’s enjoying it.

Jean curses low in his throat and sits up slightly, yanking Eren’s shirt with both hands in one fluid, needy motion. The fabric peels off, warm and slightly damp with sweat, and for a second, Jean just stares.

He hadn’t paid attention before—hadn’t let himself. Not that night in his own bed, with the both of them drunk and foolish and tangled under his sheets. He hadn’t let his eyes linger then. But now, under the soft lighting of the bedroom, he lets himself look.

Eren is—god, he’s beautiful .

His chest is firm, lightly defined pecs, skin sun-kissed and smooth, the color of cream stirred into coffee. His nipples are soft pink, almost delicate-looking, a shade that stands out against the golden warmth of his torso. His abs catch the light just enough to tease definition—real, lived-in strength, not sculpted vanity. And below them, Jean’s eyes trail down the line of his torso, to the subtle tapering V that disappears beneath the low waistband of worn Calvin Klein boxers. A faint, neatly trimmed trail of dark hair leads the way, disappearing like a promise.

Jean swallows, mouth suddenly dry.

Eren quirks a lazy eyebrow, his lips curled into a grin that doesn’t quite manage to mask the fire in his gaze. “Done staring, pervert?”

There’s no venom in it. No mockery, no real bite. Just breathless teasing, tinted with want.

Jean answers by leaning forward and closing his mouth over one of Eren’s nipples.

Eren gasps —a real, helpless sound—and his back arches instinctively, chest pushing up into Jean’s mouth. His hands fly to Jean’s hair without hesitation, fingers tangling in the strands behind his neck, curling near the base of the mullet. Jean groans low against his skin, the sound vibrating into Eren’s chest as he licks, then sucks, slowly and deliberately, feeling the soft nub harden under his tongue. Eren’s thighs tense on either side of him.

Jean lets his teeth graze gently over the sensitive skin, then soothes it with his tongue, his free hand splaying along Eren’s lower back. His fingertips trail downward, light and possessive, before slipping just barely beneath the waistband of Eren’s boxers, cradling the curve of his spine like he’s memorizing the way he fits in his palm.

Eren whimpers— whimpers —the sound raw and close to desperate. His hands tighten in Jean’s hair, nails lightly scratching against his scalp.

Jean pulls back, panting softly, and glances up. Eren’s eyes are shut, jaw slack, lips parted just slightly. His chest is rising and falling in short bursts, and the flush blooming down his neck is enough to make Jean dizzy.

“You good?” Jean rasps, voice hoarse from want.

Eren lets out a breathless, humorless laugh. “You licked me, Jean. What the fuck do you think?”

Jean smirks, though it falters when Eren rolls his hips again, slower this time—more of a grind than a thrust, but every bit as devastating. Their cocks press together through the layers of denim and cotton, and it’s almost too much. Jean’s head falls back slightly as his own hips buck up, chasing the pressure, needing more.

He’s already unraveling—and they haven’t even undressed fully yet.

And Eren knows it. That smug fire in his eyes is only barely dimmed by lust, his expression dazed and dangerous as he shifts his weight forward. Jean feels it—every inch of it—the way Eren presses close, bare chest against shirted torso, the heat of his skin searing through layers like open flame.

He leans down again, kissing Jean hard. There’s no patience in it now, no pretense. Just mouths clashing, breath mixing, teeth grazing. Jean moans into him, hands traveling up Eren’s back, memorizing every dip, every scar, every flexing muscle beneath his palms. He wants to devour him—wants to see what other sounds he can pull from him, how far he can push him before they both break.

And still—still—they’re only just getting started.

Jean lets out a breath through his teeth when Eren pushes his hoodie off his shoulders and down his arms, slow and deliberate, knuckles grazing his bare skin like it’s sacred. The air of the room is cool, but Jean’s skin burns under Eren’s touch. He watches through half-lidded eyes as Eren’s hands splay flat against his chest, fingertips brushing over his pecs. Jean’s nipples are a light beige, faintly erect from the cold and attention alike, and Eren leans in closer, licking his lips like he’s starving. Jean can feel the tension in his muscles beneath those palms, a subtle, involuntary clench, and he hates how that one look—half-lust, half-awe—makes something flutter messily in his stomach.

There’s a mole right on his collarbone, and Eren’s thumb drifts to it, brushing over it as if he’s marking a star on a map. Jean has more of them—moles scattered across his chest, the curve of his ribs, down to his stomach like constellations, and Eren is drinking it all in like he might never get the chance again. His gaze trails hungrily along every plane of Jean’s torso, a touch paler than his own sun-warmed skin, and Jean should feel confident—he is confident, usually, has worked on this body for years. He knows what he looks like. He knows the work it took to get here. But under Eren’s stare, so intense and lingering, something coils in his gut. Heat, yes. But something nervous too, a flicker of vulnerability that tightens his jaw.

So he distracts himself by getting to work—his hands fly to Eren’s waistband, undoing the button on his jeans with a practiced flick, pulling the zipper down as Eren leans back slightly to help. Denim drags over the curve of his ass and down his thighs, and Jean lets out a sound he doesn’t mean to when Eren bucks his hips up to kick them off entirely. There’s that damn smirk again, half-devilish, hungry and too pleased with himself—but then Eren is kneeling over him, eyes raking down Jean’s body, and he mirrors the motion, helping peel Jean’s jeans off, leaving him in nothing but the stretched black cotton of his boxers.

Eren’s grin deepens when he sees it—Jean’s cock thick and already leaking at the tip, the wet spot staining through the fabric, the waistband tented hard over his abs. Eren palms him through the cotton, a slow, firm stroke that has Jean gasping, hips twitching toward the heat, his head falling back against the mattress.

“Fuck—” Jean groans, voice low and desperate, but Eren doesn’t say anything—just leans in, pushes Jean flat against the sheets and kisses him again, deep and open-mouthed. Jean’s hands grab at him instinctively, clutching at his ass, the soft give of it making him groan into the kiss. His thumbs slide into the waistband of Eren’s boxers and press into the crease between his cheeks, teasing, claiming. He wants to touch him everywhere .

But Eren breaks the kiss again, the bastard—pulling back with a look so full of heat Jean could combust. Then he trails lower, his mouth leaving a wet, hot path down Jean’s neck, across his collarbone, over the middle of his chest. He licks the line between Jean’s abs, slow and lazy, tasting salt and sweat and skin, and Jean has to bite his lip to keep from making some embarrassing sound. His fingers clutch at the sheets as Eren kisses down his stomach, pausing to grip his hips—those lean, angular hips Jean takes stupid pride in—and tug the waistband of his boxers down.

Jean’s cock springs free, hard and flushed and resting against his abs, the head shiny with precome. Eren stares at it for a second—just stares—and Jean almost loses his mind from that alone. Then, slowly, with infuriating precision, Eren lowers his mouth to him.

The first press of lips around his cock makes Jean’s back arch, one hand flying to Eren’s hair. It’s warm, it’s wet , and Eren wastes no time sinking lower, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks him in. Jean groans, loud this time, all breath and disbelief, his fingers curling tight in the soft dark strands. He’s a lot more sober than last time—no haze to shield him from the sheer intensity of this, no fuzziness to dull the sharp rise of heat inside him.

Every flick of Eren’s tongue feels sharper. Every time he bobs his head, takes him deeper, Jean can feel it build —that warmth coiling low in his belly, tingling up his spine. Eren’s hand is wrapped around the base of him, working in sync with his mouth, and Jean’s legs shift wider on instinct, his body twitching and bucking under the rhythm.

“Jesus, Eren,” he pants, voice frayed, barely above a whisper. His free hand slides into Eren’s hair again, holding on for dear life, and he knows— knows —he won’t last long like this. Not when Eren’s so goddamn focused, not when the pleasure feels so clean and deep and overwhelming, not when Eren’s moaning softly around him, like he’s getting off on this too.

It’s obscene. It’s perfect. It’s him .

And then, just when he felt Jean’s dick slightly twitch in the back of his throat like he might cum, he stopped. Jean lets out a low groan, digging his palm against his eyes like that might give him a sense of relief when he felt the orgasm already building in the heat coiling down his stomach.

Eren crawls back to him, planting a deep kiss against Jean’s lips, as if he were taunting him.

“Satisfied?” Jean croaks, his chest still going up and down from his heavy breathing.

“Won’t be until you fuck me.” Eren simply responds, propping himself up with an elbow.

***

Eren’s breath caught as Jean’s fingers worked inside him, slow and deliberate, coated in a glide of expensive, unscented lube that felt almost too elegant for what they were doing. The first finger had made him shift with a little hiss, more from anticipation than discomfort, but now, with two fingers buried deep and the third teasing at his rim, Eren’s composure was cracking.

Jean had leaned down to kiss him again, mouth slick and warm, his other hand firm on Eren’s thigh, grounding him. Every time his fingers curled forward, searching deeper, Eren twitched beneath him, the muscles of his stomach clenching, his legs falling further open with abandon.

“You alright?” Jean murmured against his jaw, voice low and already roughened with arousal.

Eren gave a hoarse laugh. “Told you I hadn’t done this in a while,” he panted, sweat starting to bead at his temple. His eyes fluttered shut as Jean shifted his fingers, now working them with care but growing confidence. “Shit—don’t stop,” Eren added, fingers clenching the sheets beside him.

Jean’s mouth curled. “You gotta relax,” he said, leaning in to press a trail of open-mouthed kisses along Eren’s jaw, then down his throat. “Can’t let me in if you’re all tensed up like that.”

The third finger finally slipped inside with a slow stretch, and Eren’s hips jerked. Jean stilled immediately, feeling the tight clench around his knuckles, and paused to let him adjust. His free hand slid up Eren’s side, brushing his ribs, trying to soothe the tension.

But then Eren groaned—long and low—and arched into his hand. “Fuck, okay. Yeah. Don’t stop, Jean.”

Jean’s gaze darkened. He could feel how hot and tight Eren was already, and the thought of being buried deep in that heat made his cock throb painfully. He adjusted his position, grinding lightly against the mattress for a second’s relief. His hand moved again, this time with firmer strokes, scissoring slightly and curling until—

Eren gasped , the sound almost startled, and his head flung back against the pillow, exposing the long line of his throat. His back arched as Jean’s fingers hit a spot deep inside him, and his hips lifted in response, chasing the sensation.

“There,” Jean said, almost to himself. “That’s the spot, huh?”

Eren whimpered, a raw sound caught between frustration and pleasure. His face was flushed, dark hair sticking to his forehead, and his hands were clawing for Jean’s arms now, nails lightly grazing the muscle of his biceps. “Jean, if you don’t fuck me soon—”

Jean let out a breathless laugh, but he didn’t tease. He was too far gone, too affected by the way Eren looked spread out beneath him—skin flushed and shining, legs parted, chest rising with shallow breaths. His fingers pulled out slow, watching Eren twitch slightly at the absence, and then he reached blindly for a few condoms from the bedside table.

Eren, barely coherent, was watching him through half-lidded eyes. “Pick the biggest one,” he muttered, a lazy smirk curling at the edge of his mouth.

Jean rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the way his pulse pounded harder at the sight of him. “You’re gonna regret that,” he said hoarsely, ripping the foil open and sheathing himself quickly with practiced hands.

“ Promise I won’t,” Eren murmured back, dragging his fingers down Jean’s chest as if mapping every muscle.

When Jean settled between his thighs, guiding the tip of his cock to Eren’s entrance, he paused—just for a moment—to look at him. Their eyes met. And even with all the teasing, all the heat, there was something strangely raw there. Trust. Vulnerability. Want.

“Ready?” Jean asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

Eren nodded, voice shaky but firm. “Do it.”

Jean pushed in slowly.

***

Jean freezes for a moment, buried to the hilt, his breath caught between a gasp and a groan. Eren’s tight heat is unreal, squeezing him like it’s trying to drag the breath from his lungs. His hands brace themselves on Eren’s hips, fingers flexing, eyes squeezed shut like he’s trying to keep control—but it’s slipping, and fast.

Beneath him, Eren’s chest rises and falls, rapid and shallow. He leans up, presses a kiss just at Jean’s temple, mouth warm and trembling. Jean flinches at the contact, like it short-circuits something in him, and then Eren licks a droplet of sweat off the ridge of his brow, slow and deliberate.

“Move,” he whispers, voice ragged, and Jean shudders.

“I can’t,” Jean mutters hoarsely, tilting his head so their foreheads bump. His voice is ruined. “Not when you look at me like that, Eren.”

Eren actually huffs a laugh, even while breathless. “What, like I want you to split me in two?”

Jean doesn’t answer. Just grabs him—firm, efficient—and flips him clean onto his stomach.

Eren lands with a grunt, his cheek smushed against the pillow, hair wild, sweat-soaked. He glances back over his shoulder, lips curled into something crooked. “You talk like you’re straight out of an ’80s porno.”

Jean, silent, slicks his hand down the curve of Eren’s back, gripping one firm cheek and parting him again with a hiss. He doesn’t dignify that with a response—he’s too focused, too far gone. He slides back in with a groan like it’s the first time all over again, and Eren moans—loud and raw—fingers clutching the sheets, face buried in cotton.

Jean takes another pillow and slips it beneath Eren’s hips, angling him better, and the way Eren jolts at the change, back arching, makes Jean swear out loud.

“Fuck,” he grits, voice almost reverent, “you’re gonna kill me.”

And then he starts to move.

A slow pull out, followed by a deep, deliberate thrust, and Eren gasps. His entire body tenses, spine curving like a bowstring, knuckles white around the sheets. Jean does it again, again, his rhythm slow but growing sharper, more insistent. Every thrust is a muttered curse under his breath, every squeeze of Eren’s body around him another flicker of disbelief across Jean’s face, like he can’t believe he’s inside this , can’t believe it’s Eren.

Eren’s hips jerk back against him instinctively, matching his rhythm before even realizing it, and soon Jean’s groaning softly, breathless little noises that melt into the sound of skin on skin—flesh hitting flesh in desperate, slick rhythm.

Eren’s moans pitch up as Jean slams into him harder, deeper. His face is flushed, his hair damp, his whole body trembling as he pants into the mattress.

Jean leans over him, forearm braced beside his head, other hand gripping his hip tightly. “God,” he murmurs against Eren’s nape, “you feel so fucking good.”

And Eren just gasps, “Don’t stop.”

Jean doesn’t. He can’t.

The room is stifling, their bodies sticky with sweat, breaths uneven and tangled as they crash into each other again and again. Jean’s rhythm becomes relentless, driving deep with each thrust, and Eren’s cries are getting breathier, broken, punched out of him.

Eren claws at the sheets, voice muffled. “Jean—fuck—Jean—”

Jean presses his mouth to Eren’s shoulder blade, kissing it hard, sloppy, then bites it lightly through the sheen of sweat. His voice is rough as sandpaper. “Yeah? That good, huh?”

Eren tries to reply but it just turns into another strangled moan. His thighs are shaking now, ass flushed pink from the impact, and Jean loses the last thread of self-restraint. He grabs Eren tighter, hips slamming harder, the bed rattling beneath them.

Eren’s face is twisted in pleasure, eyes scrunched shut, lips parted around panting breaths. “F-fuck, Jean, I’m—”

Jean doesn’t let up. Not yet. Not when Eren sounds like that.

The only sounds in the room are their moans, their skin meeting with frantic rhythm, and the creak of the mattress protesting beneath them. Jean’s losing it, body tight, chest heaving, brain short-circuiting on how perfect, how filthy , how hot this all is.

And the worst part? He’s not even close to done.

Eren’s close. Jean can feel it— hear it—every stuttering breath, every desperate whimper spilling out of his swollen lips as Jean drives into him, relentless. Eren’s back arches, his muscles flexing beautifully, sheen of sweat glistening across the long lines of his body.

“Touch yourself,” Jean growls.

Eren doesn’t hesitate. His hand slips down, wrapping around his aching cock, and the sound he makes when he strokes himself— raw , needy—is obscene.

Jean almost loses it right then.

“Shit,” he hisses, fingers digging into Eren’s hips. “You’re fuckin’ perfect.”

Eren gasps, eyes fluttering shut, mouth falling open. “Don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”

Jean’s thrusts get sharper, deeper, rutting into him with reckless force. “I won’t,” he grits, sweat dripping from his temples. “You wanted this, remember? You said I didn’t have the guts—said I couldn’t handle you—”

Eren chokes on a breath, legs trembling. “I take it back —I fucking take it back—”

Jean’s laugh is hoarse. “Too late now.”

And then he grabs Eren’s wrists, pins them down against the mattress, forcing his chest flush into the sheets. The sudden roughness makes Eren gasp, curse, throb .

“Jean—”

“I said too late .”

The rhythm turns brutal. Desperate. He fucks Eren into the mattress, panting, moaning, completely losing control. Eren’s whole body rocks beneath him, mouth open, noises spilling out uninhibited and wrecked .

“Please, fuck—“ Eren moans. 

Jean lowers his mouth to Eren’s ear, teeth grazing the shell.

“You sound so pretty when you beg.”

Eren growls—actually growls —and pushes back onto him, grinding, riding the rhythm like he wants to flip the whole thing on its head and tear Jean apart from the inside.

But it’s too much .

Jean feels the orgasm building like a tidal wave, hot and overwhelming. He lets go of Eren’s wrists and grabs his hips again, holding him in place as he fucks him through it, deep and fast and shaking . His jaw clenches. His thighs burn.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m—”

And then he’s gone, moaning into Eren’s shoulder as he spills inside him, body locking up, every nerve on fire.

He doesn’t even realize how loud he’s being.

He barely hears Eren’s wrecked cry behind him as he comes too, cock twitching, hips stuttering, whole body trembling like he’s being ripped open from the inside out.

And then it’s quiet.

The only sound is their breathing—ragged, uneven. Jean collapses, careful not to crush him, his face buried in Eren’s damp shoulder. His heart is hammering. His limbs are trembling.

Eren doesn’t say anything.

Neither does Jean.

They just lie there—entangled, sticky, wrecked—like two men who did something they weren’t supposed to.

Something that can’t be undone.

And somewhere, in the silence that follows, Jean knows he’s going to regret this.

But for now, he just closes his eyes and lets himself feel it.

Lets himself fall.

Chapter Text

Morning seeps in like honey. Warm, golden, slow. The sheets are tangled around Jean’s calves. Eren’s arm is flopped across his chest, face mushed into the crook of his neck, and his breath is soft and steady against Jean’s skin. It’s quiet. For once.

Jean’s brain is blank. Not empty — just… still. He doesn’t need to think. He doesn’t need to speak. He just watches the sun crawl across the ceiling while Eren’s thumb twitches occasionally against his ribs. It’s the most peaceful he’s felt in weeks. Maybe months. Maybe ever.

Eventually, Eren stirs. He makes a low sound that can only be described as a gremlin yawn and drags his leg further over Jean’s.

Jean raises an eyebrow. “Comfortable?”

“Mmhm.”

“You’re crushing me.”

“Shut up, you like it.”

Jean huffs a laugh. “God. You’re such a menace.”

“I’m your menace.”

Jean swears his heart skips. He doesn’t say anything.

Eren blinks up at him through the mess of his hair, all pillow-creased and smug. “So.”

“So?”

“You ever gonna ask me what changed?”

Jean squints. “Changed how?”

Eren yawns again. “You hated me. I hated you. But then you started panting like a dog every time I looked at you. Kinda confusing, no?”

Jean flushes. “You’re one to talk.”

“Oh I hated you at first, don’t get me wrong.”

“Thanks.”

“But then…” Eren stretches, slow and sinuous, like a cat, before settling back on Jean’s chest with a smirk. “Then I realized how fun it was. Getting you flustered. Watching you try to be all high and mighty while your ears went red every time I licked my lips.”

Jean covers his face. “Jesus Christ.”

Eren grins, shark-like. “I was so proud of that first video I sent.”

Jean groans. “So you weren’t acting?”

Eren shrugs. “Porn stars are still actors.”

Jean barks out a laugh, sudden and loud and unrestrained. He laughs so hard he has to clutch his stomach, Eren grinning like he just won a prize.

“Fuck,” Jean wheezes. “I actually like you.”

Eren fake-gasps. “Tragic.”

They settle again, quiet and content. Jean lets his fingers trail through Eren’s hair, and Eren doesn’t pull away.

Then— BZZZBZZZ .

Jean startles as his phone rattles violently on the bedside table.

“No,” Eren mutters, burrowing into him. “Let it die.”

Jean leans over, grabs it, and checks the screen. “It’s Hange.”

“Double homicide.”

He answers anyway. “Hello?”

“Jean!” Hange’s voice booms through the speaker. “What’s the deal with the Cannes schedule? We need the reservations confirmed by 11 or we’re screwed. Also, did you see that Floch tried to assign Mikasa to that war epic? That asshole’s on thin ice, I’m telling you—”

Jean tries to sit up. “Wait—what? I thought I sent that email last night—”

Eren interrupts by sliding a hand under the sheets.

Jean flinches, putting his hand on the speaker part of the phone. “Don’t.”

Eren looks up, all wide-eyed innocence. “What?”

“Eren. Don’t.”

Hange’s still rambling: “Also we’re finalizing the short list for Berlin. I know we talked about Eren, but—”

“ Shit— sorry, not you, Hange—” Jean slaps a hand over Eren’s wandering fingers. “Give me two seconds.”

Eren smirks like the absolute devil, nudging Jean’s thighs apart with his knee.

Jean clenches his jaw and glares, hand still on the phone’s butt. “Stop.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re the worst person I’ve ever met.”

“And yet…”

Jean glares harder.

Eren goes down under the covers.

“Fuck me— Hange, can I call you back in like… ten?”

There’s a suspicious pause on the line. “Jean. Why do you sound like you’re about to run a marathon?”

Jean disconnects the call with the speed of a man fighting for his life.

And Eren?

Eren just hums.

Mouth full.

***

The apartment’s full of soft light and far too much Eren. Jean steps out of the bathroom towel-draped and barely holding it together, only to find Eren sprawled across the couch like sin incarnate — legs splayed, one arm behind his head, phone in hand, shirt nowhere in sight.

Jean glares. “Why are you still here.”

Eren doesn’t even look up. “I live here.”

“You don’t.”

“I do emotionally.”

Jean groans and grabs a shirt off the back of a chair. “I have shit to do today.”

“Do it,” Eren says cheerfully, eyes still on his screen. “I’m not stopping you.”

“You’re following me around like a stray cat.”

“I’m your emotional support animal. ” He grins up at Jean now, all teeth and evil glee. “Besides, after last night? I think I earned visitation rights.”

Jean turns away before he says something dangerous. He heads back into the bathroom, muttering under his breath, pulling open the cabinet to grab his razor. He squints at the stubble in the mirror — a few days’ worth, growing out in defiance of every agency grooming policy ever. Too messy, he thinks. Too much. Just as he clicks the razor on, a hand catches his wrist.

Jean startles. “What the—”

Eren’s behind him now, sleepy-eyed and warm from bed, chin hooked over Jean’s shoulder. “Don’t.”

Jean frowns. “It’s just shaving.”

“Exactly.” Eren runs a thumb along Jean’s jaw, slow and lazy, fingers curling around the side of his neck. “You look better like this.”

Jean stiffens. “What does that even mean.”

“It means,” Eren says, voice dipping low, “you look stupid hot with stubble. Like… angry, overworked boyfriend material.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It absolutely is.”

Jean looks at him in the mirror. Eren’s smile is infuriating. His eyes are shameless. His fingers are still on Jean’s face.

“You’re so weird.”

“And you’re still holding the razor,” Eren points out, sing-song. “But you haven’t shaved yet.”

Jean stares at the mirror for another beat, jaw tight, throat working. Then — with a defeated sigh — he sets the razor down.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Jean tries to step away. Eren doesn’t let him. He slides his arms around Jean’s waist from behind, chin still on his shoulder, smirking like he’s won something major.

“Now what?” Jean asks, a little too tightly.

“Now,” Eren says, eyes flicking up to meet his in the mirror, “you go about your business like a good little agent, and I’ll be here, right behind you. Watching.”

Jean narrows his eyes. “That’s deeply unsettling.”

“I’m a deeply unsettling man.”

“No kidding.”

Jean tries to push past him again, but Eren doesn’t move — he just follows. All day. From the desk to the kitchen, from the couch to the closet. He sits on countertops while Jean answers work calls, flips through scripts while Jean emails back Hange, sprawls across the bed dramatically every time Jean walks by like he’s auditioning for Romeo & Juliet.

Jean doesn’t shave. He doesn’t manage to work either.

He’s just… vaguely turned on and very annoyed.

And somehow? That’s worse.

***

Three weeks pass, quietly, stupidly, like time doesn’t know how to move properly anymore. Jean works. Eren works. Jean sends emails, takes calls, reviews event schedules, edits client portfolios, fights Floch over digital access rights and loses every single time. Eren shoots half a campaign in Berlin, drops by Cannes for a weekend, returns with a new pair of sunglasses and a bag of groceries like he never left.

It’s absurd.

It’s dangerous.

It’s—

“You know,” Jean says one evening, leaning against the kitchen counter, watching Eren put oat milk in his fridge like it’s normal. “Your place is, like. Three times the size of this.”

Eren doesn’t look up. “Yours has better lighting.”

Jean snorts. “Bullshit.”

Eren shrugs. “Better vibes, then.”

Jean squints. “You’re not seriously telling me you prefer this rat box over your full-glass penthouse?”

Eren turns, holding up a bruised apple. “This rat box has you. ”

Jean stares. Eren throws the apple in the air, catches it, bites in.

“Besides,” he adds, mouth full, “here feels like home. So what’s the point.”

Jean doesn’t answer. Because what’s he supposed to say? That his throat is suddenly dry? That his heart just fumbled like a skipped beat? That Eren’s gym bag now lives by the door, his cologne sits on Jean’s sink, his socks keep ending up in Jean’s laundry?

They haven’t talked about any of it. Not one thing. Not the sex. Not the almost-fights. Not the resigned letter still stuffed in Jean’s desk drawer. Not this quiet… thing that has settled between them like warm static.

It’s easier this way, Jean tells himself. No labels, no talk. Just comfort. Just routine. Just two idiots too stubborn to say what they want out loud.

So he looks away.

Laughs it off.

“You’re a weirdo.”

Eren shrugs again. “Takes one to let one move in without saying anything.”

Jean opens his mouth. Closes it. Then turns to the sink and mumbles something about the dishes like that’ll save him.

But later — much later — when they’re both in bed and Eren is snoring way too close to his pillow, Jean rolls over just enough to watch him in the dark.

He whispers, barely audible, “This was never supposed to happen.”

Eren doesn’t stir.

Jean reaches across the bed and switches off the light.

***

Jean looks like hell.

Like absolute, undeniable hell.

His tie’s crooked. His shirt’s still crumpled from yesterday. His eyes are sunken, skin pale, jaw shadowed with stubble he didn’t bother shaving (because “you look hotter like this”, Eren had said). His coffee’s cold and untouched. And there’s a very inappropriate  photo sitting unopened on his locked phone screen — which he shoved under a file the second Hange walked in.

“Jesus, Kirstein,” they mutter, tossing a folder onto his desk. “You look like you just clawed your way out of a grave.”

Jean grunts. “Feels about right.”

They tilt their head. “Insomnia? Flu? Existential crisis?”

Jean blinks at her, deadpan. “Long-distance dick appointment.”

Hange raises both brows, intrigued. “Oho. You’re finally getting laid. That would explain the gaunt aura. Didn’t take you for the late-night video call type.”

“I’m not,” Jean lies through gritted teeth.

His face is on fire.

His dick is still kinda hard.

He hasn’t slept.

They shrug, amused, and hand him a new schedule for Cannes. He tries to focus, tries to concentrate on anything other than the lingering sound of Eren’s voice in his ear last night, the low moan he let out as he came with his forehead pressed to his camera, whispering Jean’s name like a goddamn confession.

Jean shifts in his chair.

Later, he gets cornered.

Not by Eren — who is still in Berlin and clearly on a mission to destroy Jean’s sanity one teasing message at a time — but by Hitch , who shows up unannounced in the middle of the afternoon with mascara running down her face and a half-empty iced matcha in one hand.

“I can’t believe it,” she whines, flopping onto the little couch in Jean’s office. “I can’t believe he dumped me. Me. Again. ”

Jean winces. “Is it… is it the poet guy or the hot swimmer?”

“The poet ,” she spits. “He said I didn’t inspire him anymore.”

Jean sighs, gets her tissues, and does his best to stay three inches out of sob-range. But eventually, she leans against his shoulder and he’s forced to accept his fate as a human emotional support pillow.

“Do you think you’ve ever been in love, Jean?” she asks, voice small, eyes glassy.

Jean tenses. Then, after a beat: “I… don’t think I’m supposed to talk about that with you.”

She pulls back, frowning. “Why not?”

“Because I’m your agent?”

“That’s a bullshit excuse and you know it.”

Jean runs a hand down his face. “…I don’t know. I’ve never really had the time to think about it, I guess.”

Hitch stares at him. “Then let me describe it for you.”

He gives her a look. “Please don’t.”

But she does. Of course she does. Hitch talks through her tears, gesturing wildly, describing all the worst parts — the panic, the obsession, the way you hate someone for having such a hold over you — before she hits the softer things. The joy. The spark. The way even silence feels loud around them. How love feels like someone seeing you even when you’re doing everything to stay invisible.

Jean doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move.

Because every word out of her mouth is a perfect mirror.

To Eren.

To the way Jean thinks about him.

To the way Jean wants him — not just in bed, not just on camera — but in the mundane, annoying, horrifying, beautiful, real moments of everyday life.

He swallows hard.

“Shit,” he whispers.

Hitch leans back and eyes him.

“…So?” she asks softly.

Jean stares at the wall, expression blank.

“I think I’m fucked. ”

***

The apartment is dark when Eren comes back.

He drops his bag by the door, slips off his shoes, and pads inside, hair still a little damp from the rain outside. Berlin was brutal — the photoshoot ran over by two days, the hotel bed was garbage, and the stylists made him wear leather pants three days in a row — but now he’s back in New York and there’s only one thing on his mind.

Jean.

Eren walks into the living room.

Jean’s there, sprawled on the couch like a corpse, eyes glassy, wrapped in a blanket he clearly didn’t even bother unfolding properly. One sock on. Hair a mess. Shirt inside out. Remote in one hand, phone in the other, a half-eaten croissant on the floor next to him like it tried to escape and failed.

He blinks slowly when he sees Eren. “You’re back.”

“Yeah,” Eren says. “You good?”

Jean nods once. “No.”

Eren raises a brow. “You look like someone died.”

“ I died,” Jean mutters. “From shame. From internal bleeding. From realizing things. ”

Eren tosses his coat over the back of the chair, a bit wary. “Okay… do I need to sit for this?”

Jean groans and throws an arm over his face. “No. I just need you to not be hot for five fucking seconds. I need your face to be hideous. I need your jawline to be blurry. I need you to not come home looking like a goddamn GQ spread.”

Eren blinks. “…I came home in sweatpants.”

“Exactly. You’re sick. You’re a sick man.”

Eren laughs — but he moves closer, sitting on the edge of the couch. Jean peeks at him from under his arm, eyes heavy-lidded and full of dread.

Eren frowns. “Did something happen?”

Jean stares at him. Long. Too long.

“…Don’t say anything sexy,” he mumbles. “Don’t wink. Don’t moan. Don’t lick your lips. Don’t even breathe weirdly. If you say one thing even remotely horny to me right now, I might— I might actually propose.”

Eren stills. Then his lips twitch. “Oh?”

Jean glares. “I mean it. ”

Eren tries not to smirk but fails. “Okay. I’ll just sit here. Totally normal. No sex. Zero sex. Not a single sex.”

“Thank you.”

A long pause.

Then Jean adds, voice barely above a whisper, “I talked to Hitch today.”

Eren nods. “Yeah? I know her, we’ve worked on a set two years ago. Fun gal that one.”

“She asked me if I’ve ever been in love.”

Silence.

Eren watches him. “What did you say?”

Jean exhales, slow. “I said I didn’t know.”

Eren nods. Waits.

Jean glances over. “But then she talked about what it’s like, and I realized… I did know. I do.”

Eren’s eyes widen, but he stays still.

Jean finally turns to him, voice tight: “You made me forget who I was when I met you. You made me want to be someone else. Someone worse. Someone who says fuck it and throws his job away for a guy who drives him insane. But then you also made me laugh. You made me want to listen. To learn you. To be near you even when it made no sense. You made me care. And now I’m… terrified. Because it’s not just sex anymore, and it hasn’t been for a while, and I don’t know what the fuck we’re doing, but I can’t go back.”

Eren’s mouth parts slightly.

But he doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

He just reaches forward and cups the side of Jean’s face. Slow. Gentle.

“Remember when I said I was bad at talking?” Eren says softly.

Jean swallows. “Yeah.”

“I still am,” he murmurs. “But I wish I could’ve said this first. Because I feel the same.”

A beat. Then Eren leans in, forehead pressing against Jean’s.

And Jean lets out a shaky laugh. “I’m still not shaving.”

Eren smiles, eyes fluttering shut. “Good. It’s hot.”

***

The night stretches lazily around them.

Jean’s sprawled out on the bed in nothing but boxers and an old hoodie, feet tangled in the sheets, one arm over his stomach and the other tucked behind his head. He looks so disarmed, so content, that Eren almost doesn’t dare speak. But then again — he’s never really been the quiet type.

“I missed your stupid face,” Eren says from his side of the bed, chin propped on his hand as he stares.

Jean cracks an eye open. “You saw me on FaceTime two days ago.”

“Yeah, and you had your dick in your hand and no dignity left. It wasn’t exactly romantic. ”

Jean snorts, half a laugh, half a groan. “Remind me why I let you back in.”

“Because I’m cute,” Eren says, deadpan. “And I bring pastries.”

“You brought one stale croissant and then ate half of it before offering.”

“Sharing is caring.” Eren giggles.

Jean shakes his head but doesn’t argue. There’s a smile playing on his lips now — small, sleepy, but real. He shifts onto his side to face Eren, elbow sinking into the pillow.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Earlier, when you said you felt the same—”

“I meant it,” Eren cuts in. No hesitation. “Every word.”

Jean stares at him.

Eren continues, more sheepish now. “I just… I never knew how to say it. You always had this way with words — even when you were being a massive prick — you knew how to make things sound real. I just knew how to feel it.”

He hesitates. Then adds:

“I used to piss you off on purpose, you know. Not just for the fun of it. I liked how I could get under your skin. I liked that I mattered to you — even if it was just to ruin your day.”

Jean raises a brow. “You were proud of that first video, weren’t you?”

Eren grins. “Absolutely. I wish I could’ve seen your reaction through the screen. I would’ve savoured that panic.”

Jean groans. “You’re a demon.”

“And yet you still let me move in.”

Jean’s smile falters slightly, eyes softening. “I didn’t let you. You just never left.”

Eren shrugs. “Well, your apartment smells like you. And your pillows are better. And you hum when you brush your teeth and you don’t know you’re doing it.”

Jean blinks. “…That’s not a compliment.”

“It is to me.”

A pause.

Then Jean breathes out a laugh and rolls onto his back again, dragging a hand over his face. “Fuuuck. I’m really starting to like you.”

Eren smirks and flops over him like a starfish. “You liked me since the day you yelled at me on the roof.”

“I—no. No I didn’t.”

“You did. You totally did. You monologued like we were in a Shakespeare play. You literally said I got under your skin.”

“You do . Get under my skin. It’s exhausting.”

“Yeah,” Eren whispers, lips brushing his jaw. “I plan to stay there.”

Jean tilts his head, lets his fingers curl in Eren’s hair.

And for a while, neither of them says anything. They just lay there, chest to chest, breath to breath. Eren drapes a leg over Jean’s like he owns the place (he kinda does), and Jean closes his eyes, grounding himself in the warmth, the weight, the feeling of being chosen.

Finally, Eren murmurs:

“Don’t shave tomorrow.”

Jean cracks an eye. “Again with this?”