three, when the smoke clears

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ARMIN'S POV

𝗟𝗔𝗖𝗜𝗡𝗚 my fingers together, I rest my hands on the old, rickety table, careful not to let its splintered edges bite into my skin. Across from me, Eren shifts constantly - every twitch of his fingers, the impatient scrape of his shoe against the floor, all small betrayals of his thinning restraint.

His hunger festers, his patience rots. The closeness of her and her best friend feeds into that gnawing ache, twisting something primal inside him. He wants more than just glimpses -wants a taste, wants possession.

But this is a game of strategy, not impulse. Every move is deliberate, methodical. To rush would be reckless.

She's still fragile, still navigating through wreckage, grasping onto borrowed moments of peace like they might save her from drowning. She needs time, time to heal. Time to enjoy whatever bits of autonomy she has.

Soon enough, the fleeting comfort of those lingering touches and soft embraces will vanish. Eren will make sure of it.

Tonight was the closest I allowed him to get. Watching her sleep, breathing in the quiet rise and fall of her body as the night stretched between them. But touch? Forbidden. She's too attuned - even unconscious, she senses what lingers in the dark. It's unnerving. Fascinating.

We barely slip back into the shadows before she stirs, lashes fluttering, brows knitting together. Even in sleep, her instincts whisper warnings. She doesn't see us. Doesn't hear us. But she knows.

It breaks my heart to see her in so much pain - to see her cry when she thinks no one's watching. To see her clutch the frame beside her like a lifeline. His ghost still lingers in the small, faded photograph she refuses to let go of. Her fingers tremble, curling tighter. She loves him. Loves whatever remnants she has left of him.

A dull, stinging heat blooms in my chest at the thought. Expected. Inevitable.

That's why I knew if we took it, she'd notice immediately. Of course, we often moved some of her stuff around, just 'cause it was interesting to see her confused expression as she questioned herself. And her sanity.

Eren exhales sharply, agitation rolling off him like smoke.

"She's too comfortable," he mutters. Pacing, pacing, pacing. As if movement alone will temper the storm in his blood.

"She's healing," I counter, but it feels hollow because comfort is dangerous. Comfort makes her stray farther away from us. I can't have that.

Eren scoffs, running a hand through his hair, the strands falling messily across his eyes.

"She needs to remember."

I glance at him, then down at the typewriter in front of me, fingers hovering over the keys. The first message. The first one she'll truly remember.

His stare is unyielding as I type out the word.

MINE.

He exhales, satisfied. Checks his phone - coast is clear. Dawn approaches, and soon, she'll wake. We should be out of here before then.

Still, keeping an eye on her is mandatory. And seeing her reaction to the note we'll leave her will help mollify the anticipation of officially meeting her.

Which will be soon.

Very soon.

Y/N'S POV

You're a tangled heap of limbs sprawled across your king-sized mattress, sheets and blankets coiled around you like restraints. When your eyes finally flutter open, the morning feels incomplete, as if something's missing.

Sleep has been unsatisfying lately, leaving behind a dull exhaustion that lingers when you wake.

Yesterday, after finding your picture, (which now rests on your nightstand, you make sure of it), you sent Jean a string of frantic messages - demanding answers, grasping at logic. Had he left it there as some twisted joke? A surprise? Anything that might contradict the other possibility.

That your house is haunted.

You've always believed in ghosts, and given the way things mysteriously shift, disappear, reappear - it's hard to argue otherwise. This old place has too much history, too many shadows clinging to its bones.

But Jean was adamant. He hadn't taken the picture, hadn't found it, and hadn't placed it there - hadn't touched it at all.

"I swear," he had sent. "I wouldn't take it. And I would tell you if I found it."

And Jean doesn't lie. He even scoured your room with you, checking every corner, every possible hiding place, searching for some thread of rationality. The bed, though... that was the part neither of you could explain. The picture had been on top of the blankets - visible, obvious. One of you would have seen it.

You're either completely sane or you're both losing it.

But you trust Jean's sanity more than your own. He's always been stronger, not because he doesn't feel what you feel. Rather, he knows how to keep moving forward when you stop, when you give up.

And like you weren't paranoid enough already, last night, half-submerged in sleep, you could've sworn you heard something. A whisper? A footstep? The creak of something shifting just outside your dreams?

You sit up. The cool air bites at your bare legs as you swing them over the edge of the bed.

Your body is sluggish, but your pulse is alive, thrumming beneath your skin like a warning.

Walking out, a shiver snakes down your spine as a cold current of air casts over you - an eerie sensation triggered by your swift movement down the stairs. Instinctively, you head for the bathroom, as you always do. But something makes you glance down the hall, where the corridor plunges into another living space, dark and undisturbed. That whole section of the house has remained untouched for... what? A year now? Maybe longer.

Not intentionally, of course. You merely have no use for it.

The poolroom is down there, too. You're sure it needs freshening up. Having a pool in your house sounds luxurious, but in reality? You barely use it. You haven't swum in it - hardly at all.

Dust. Layers of dust, thick and untouched. You imagine the scent of stagnant water, the way it must cling to the air down there, but the thought doesn't linger long. Your attention shifts, and with a simple twist of the doorknob, you push into the bathroom.

A yawn overtakes you, mouth stretching, eyes clenching shut, and in the brief haze of grogginess, nothing seems amiss. But as your vision clears...

You freeze.

Something in the mirror- no, on- snatches your breath, grips your muscles in a paralyzing shock. Wide-eyed, you press a trembling hand to your head as an onslaught of memories crashes over you, nearly knocking you off balance.

Something so simple. So... bland. Yet it sends a serrated blade of fear straight through your core.

It only means one thing.

Or two.

Your mind scrambles for logic, but with everything that's happened recently -especially with your picture- you can't convince yourself this is just a harmless prank.

You don't even want to think about it.

There, centered on your large mirror, a piece of blank paper stares back at you. By blank, you mean like... your sketch paper. Not notebook paper.

And in the center of it, scrawled in a single, chilling word -

Mine.

Mine?

A flash of memory. Fogged shower steam on the glass. Condensation melting beneath a crude, deliberate carving.

But this? This isn't ephemeral. This isn't a passing distortion in steam. It's real. Tangible. Something you can touch. Something you can't mistake, something you'll remember.

Your body moves before your mind catches up. You step forward, yank the paper from the mirror, crumpling it with a sharp squeeze - an instinctive reaction, pure shock overriding caution.

Jean wouldn't do this to you.

Not with your paranoia.

This isn't him.

This is something else.

Someone else.

Before panic sinks its claws in, a shrill blast erupts from upstairs -the alarm. The violent sound makes you stumble in surprise, and you rush back up, barely managing to grab your phone from the nightstand with trembling fingers. You swipe at the screen, silencing the blaring noise.

Your breath comes unevenly. Your chest rises and falls in a frantic rhythm. Eyes flutter closed for a mere moment - a desperate attempt to find one concrete thought in your jumbled brain.

What does this mean?

Are you in danger?

If you are, was Jean?

Should you cancel your therapy session?

You feel a strong sense of urgency - rushed, like there's no time to think. But you suppose you need time. Time to process this, time to talk.

You'll go through with the therapy session. You shouldn't be here alone, and Jean is at work, doing whatever Jean does on a typical Monday morning. You hope his day is going better than yours.

After freshening up and making yourself presentable, you prance to the kitchen to prepare some tea. You don't drink tea often, and when you do, it's usually cold, not too sweet, and never as good as your therapist makes it seem.

His obsession with tea seems... unorthodox. Maybe even unhealthy. But what do you know?

As if on cue, there's a knock at your door. You quickly prance over, peering through the peephole.

You open it and greet your therapist with a sheepish smile. His expression remains stoic, almost annoyed. He knows you fairly well, partly because he's perceptive, rather, he's guided you to a place where you feel comfortable around him.

Not necessarily a friend -you're not sure that term is allowed- but it's surely a unique dynamic. One-sided. Professional. Still, there's a connection. Something resembling mutual understanding. He may not say certain things outright, but he leaves them to be inferred.

Which is exactly how a relationship between a doctor and their patient should be.

He steps inside, sharp, dark eyes sweeping over the room as if he hasn't seen it a thousand times before. You close the door behind him, then slip past him into the kitchen for a moment. When you return, that infamous grin, just shy of genuine, rests on your lips.

You're holding something in your hands.

Something almost equivalent to a lifeline.

Freshly brewed.

"Tea?"

His expression doesn't change much, hardly at all. Maybe just the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips.

But that alone tells you you've just made Dr. Ackermann's day.

EREN'S POV

Kruger's bustles like any other lively club or bar.

Except this one's mine.

But it's not just me who makes this place what it is - it's the people here, the ones who shape Kruger's. None of us is exactly a stand-up citizen of society. Not at all. Far from it. But we're real. Authentic. I don't keep to myself; everything that happens here, I know about.

Nothing gets past my nose without me smelling it.

And everyone's happy as long as they follow the rules. This place isn't exclusive for no reason. The reputation I've built isn't based on false promises.

Having a business like mine requires structure. Without rules, things get sloppy. And I don't do messy, loose ends. Which is ironic, considering the number of laws I break daily. But hey, I didn't get this far by being a square and playing it safe.

I didn't become a man of rules by following them.

The law? That's not one of my rules. It's corrupt anyway - just like the shit-wads who enforce it.

That's exactly why I move to the beat of my own drum. Surround myself with people attuned to that same rhythm.

I reach for the cup of bourbon before me, fingers curling around the cool glass as I lift it to my lips. Across from me, Armin sits, gossiping with Mikasa. I watch him for a moment, tracking every movement - from the way he takes a sip of his girly drink to how he rests the glass on his thigh, fingers pressing into it to keep it secure.

I say gossiping because I know he's talking about me.

It's obvious, even with the music drowning out the words - his lips form the syllables of my name, and in turn, Mikasa rolls her eyes.

Typical. That's her usual reaction whenever I come up in conversation.

My veins pulse with urgency, impatience, as I try desperately to mellow out with the alcohol. I need to see Y/n. To taste her. But because of the circumstances, we wait in the shadows until the moment is just right.

Then... we'll pounce.

Jesus, to see her up close. To watch her eyes swirl with fear and uncertainty, her senses clouded by me. By Armin. So overwhelmed, the poor little thing will flush, maybe even get a little light-headed. And when the smoke clears -when all that's left is intrigue, arousal- it'll be that much sweeter when I finally get a taste.

When she realizes we're not dangerous in the way she assumes. In the way she's already assumed.

I'm not naïve. I know she'll fight it. Fight us.

Unfortunately for her, that only turns me on.

Resisting when deep down, she'll want it too.

Oh, Little Red.

My lips curl in amusement at the thought - the anticipation of what's to come.

Soon.

So very soon, Red.

LilReaper_

rewritten 5.15.25

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