Mikasa

There's no way this is the right apartment, yet the number on the door matches the information on my lease forms. I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again. I don't wear contacts or glasses, but could I be coming down with a case of nearsightedness? Or maybe the coffee I grabbed en route hasn't kicked in just yet. I compare the address once more. Sure enough, this is my apartment. I had literally done an enormous U-turn this morning, bolting from a hook-up, grabbing my bags, and returning to the exact location of last night's debauchery.

"Um, hey, good morning," my roommate manages to say, running a hand through his bedhead. Not too long ago, I was pulling on that hair as he kissed my breasts—I shake my head furiously, urging my memory to purge itself of these images

"Rise and shine!" I squeak out lamely, and internally, I kick myself.

"Mikasa, right?" he says. There's toothpaste smeared across the front of his gray Yankees T-shirt, and he's missing a sock.

I nod my head vigorously, and I let out a garbled-sounding laugh—a ploy to buy enough time to glance down at the documents clenched in my first because, for the life of me, I can't seem to recall—

"It's Eren, in case you forgot," Eren says, opening the door wider and reaching for my suitcase. He wheels it inside, leaving me gaping like a trout in the doorway. "Wanna come in?" he offers, looking over his shoulder. "I mean, you technically live here too now."

"You and I…" I take two shaky steps forward, but I'm frozen to the spot. Just hours ago, I was crouched right here, by the shoe rack, frantically searching for a pair of open-toed strappy heels—only to find them scattered about in the kitchen.

"Yep," he sighs, sinking into his secondhand couch with a dead expression. "I'm fully aware. Just as shook as you are."

This can't be happening. Coincidences like these happen only in rom-coms. The likelihood of anything like this taking place has got to be one-in-a-million. I scan my ten-month lease, searching for an escape hatch, but my signature, Shadis's scrawl, and Eren's chicken scratch are etched into the document, immortalizing this sheet of paper into a legal contract. And even if I somehow swindle our landlord into terminating this lease, there's no way I can find a place with better rent. I'd have to couch surf for a couple weeks, waiting for a miracle to present itself. Knowing my luck, in a month's time, I'll have to concede defeat, taking an Northeast Corridor train back to suburban New Jersey, where Levi will be standing on the front porch, ready to rub in the fact that, no, I'm not ready to leave the nest, after all. I can hear his sneer in my head: "Back so soon, Princess?"

"I really need this place," I blurt out, trying my hardest to look Eren square in the eye.

Puzzled, he tips his head to the side the way a golden retriever would. "You're saying that as if you're expecting me to send you packing," he replies. "Which I can't exactly do because, well, only Keith can do that."

"But otherwise, you would, wouldn't you?" Uneasily, I close the door behind me, walking past the compact kitchen and into the living room space. There's a motley mix of furniture. I figured Eren collected these one by one from a string of thrift stores and yard sales. There's a small table for meals, the longer couch he's currently sitting on, a plushy recliner, and a coffee table piled high with medical textbooks.

"I would what?" Eren asks, confused.

"Kick me out?" I slump into one of the mismatched kitchen chairs.

To my surprise, he scowls. "Seriously, Mikasa? Now you're just making things unnecessarily dramatic now."

"Eren, in case you forgot, we had a one-night stand! And now, by some really unfortunate twist of fate, we're stuck living with each other for ten months in cramped quarters!" I flap the lease papers in his direction. "This is going to crash and burn. You're not supposed to hook-up with your roommate."

"Look," he says, leaning forward in his seat. "I get it. This is not ideal at all."

"Way to state the obvious."

"Can I finish my point? Okay, so we met at a bar, and we some pretty damn good sex, if I say so myself—"

"You're belaboring the point," I grit out.

He smirks. "Admit it. It was hot."

"Shut up," I mutter, flushing. I threaten to chuck a salt shaker in his direction.

"Cool it, will you?" he snaps. "Anyways, we hooked up, and now we're in this pickle. But if I'm being dead honest with you, at the end of the day, who the hell cares? We're grown-ass adults, and we both wanna live in this apartment. With that said, we'll deal with it. Easy as that." He shrugs, looking triumphant, as if he's just solved world hunger.

"I really hope that's not what you'll tell your patients when you graduate medical school." I bury my face in my palms. "Deal with it. Easy as that. Ingenious, truly."

"Well, no shit," Eren growls. "That wouldn't fly in the ER, of course. But for us, let's just acknowledge it happened, put it behind us, and move on. And if there are any bumps in the road ahead of us, we'll work it out."

Men are so simple-minded. My head spins with what if's. What if we relapse and hook up again? And God forbid, what if one of us catches feelings? And if things take a turn for the worse, there's no escape from one another, thanks to this ten-month binding contract. I lift my head up, and I look at my roommate. He peers back, and he smiles at me.

"Stop that," I say sharply.

"What did I do?!" he protests.

"You're making weird eyes at me—"

"I'm not allowed to look at you?"

"You're picturing me naked, aren't you?"

"Am not!" He turns up his nose in an almost immature fashion, but his ears are bright red.

"I knew it! This is not going to work!" I groan.

"Okay, fine," he concedes, throwing up his hands. "There's a shitload of sexual tension here. You've got a point."

"It's a problem," I state firmly.

"I still think it'll be fine—"

"How, though? We can't live together if we're both constantly imagining each other—forget it, whatever." I twist away from him, stomping towards the window. Our apartment has a fire escape, but it's coated in bird droppings. And there's a dead pigeon shoved between the railing and the wall.

"Jesus, I was just picturing you naked. What are you imagining?" Eren dares to ask.

"I plead the Fifth," I grumble, hugging my arms tightly. "You know what, let's just bite the bullet and renegotiate the lease with Keith."

"Oh..." Eren rubs the back of his neck uneasily. "Soooo that's not gonna work… you see, Keith's letting me crash here on cheap rent as a nice favor for my mom. They go way back, and I don't know if renegotiating is gonna go over so well. I mean, that would basically be like looking a gift horse in the mouth. How did you get set up with this place?"

"Keith Shadis owes my uncle," I answer.

"For what?"

"Levi never wanted to elaborate further."

Eren shudders. "That's ominous."

"And you're calling me the dramatic one," I snort. "It's probably an old gambling debt or something."

"Wouldn't he have just told you that, then?"

"You watch way too many films." I pace back and forth in front of his television. There's a soccer game playing on ESPN at low volume. "Shadis thinks he's settled his debts with my uncle, and if I go back on this lease, he's going to fight me tooth-and-nail, probably even bring a lawyer into all this. I can't afford that. So there we have it," I sigh, leaning my forehead against the glass of the window. "We're stuck together."

"Hey, I'm not all that bad to live with," Eren argues back. He crosses into the kitchen and pulls open the refrigerator. "Catch."

A chilly beer bottle rockets through the air, and I narrowly catch it in my outstretched hands. "Eren, this thing could've shattered everywhere!" I protest.

"I don't get why you're so worked up. You caught it, didn't you?" He comes back into the living room with a bottle opener, and we both try hard not to make eye contact as I hand him my beer. His fingers brush against mine during the transfer, and I almost let go of the bottle too soon. He pops off the metal cap, and it falls to the ground. Eren hands me the beer, and when he bends over to scoop the cap off of the floor, I watch his back muscles shift beneath his shirt. I wonder if my nails have left any lingering marks across his shoulder blades.

"Cheers," he says after he opens his own beer.

"What is there to celebrate?" I say glumly.

"Oh, come on. Quit being such a downer. Didn't you tell me last night how about wanting to be a… what was the phrase you used? A 'budding optimist,' right? So let's toast to being roommates, yeah?"

He smiles again at me, and to his credit, he's right. I can't afford to let my innate pessimism weigh me down like a ball-and-chain. Reluctantly, I clink my beer against his, and we sip at our foamy IPA's, ignoring the glaring fact that A) it's only 10AM, and B) we're very much day-drinking during the work week.

My suitcase contains two weeks' worth of clothes, a laptop, basic toiletries, a set of bedsheets, a comforter, and a couple of wall posters. Two bedrooms straddle the living room. Mine faces east, which means I'll wake up to glaring sunlight every morning. Within an hour, I've moved my clothes into the plain dresser, set up my bed, and tidied up my room, more or less.

Thankfully, Eren already took care of the living room furniture, and the apartment comes with a refrigerator and microwave. I scan through the kitchen with the Notes app open on my phone, crossing off items one by one. I fully intend on mooching off of Eren's toaster, blender, and vacuum cleaner.

My move-in plan spans several weeks, and it's largely improvisational, based on what deals pop up on Facebook marketplace and what gems I find in secondhand shops. I still need a bookshelf, as well as a lamp, desk, and chair. I'm also on the hunt for a rice cooker and a wok, which I can probably find in an Asian supermarket somewhere near Canal Street. And before the summer heat dissipates into autumn, I'll invite Levi over for a "housewarming party," cajoling him into throwing the rest of my closet—my sweaters, winter jacket, and other cold weather essentials—into the trunk of his car. If he's in a good mood, I might be able to finagle my blender. And, if it's still alive, maybe my favorite plant too, but this hinges on Levi dutifully following my watering instructions.

However, there's one key factor I didn't quite consider: how to grocery shop in a city. I'm still in the suburban mindset of stocking up on things, throwing two huge sacks of rice into my shopping cart, along with a mountain of fruits and vegetables—only to realize at checkout that I no longer have a car. There's no way I can haul all of this home. Embarrassed, I ask a cranky cashier to return almost two-thirds of my groceries before hobbling back to the apartment with a single sack rice slung over my shoulder and three plastic bags of produce swinging from my other hand (as opposed to the original ten).

I'm heaving by the time I get up to the seventh floor. Eren's napping on the couch with a textbook splayed across his stomach, and he stirs when I dump the rice onto the ground before him.

"Jeez, you're so loud," he mumbles, stretching his toned arms over his head. "Why'd you get so much crap?"

"What do you mean?" I reply, putting the groceries on the kitchen counter. I take out a glass container of oyster sauce. "This is a third of what I usually buy at home."

"There's no way that's gonna fit in the fridge because my shit's in there too." Eren walks over and leans his forearms over the counter, inspecting the bags. "Tofu? Don't tell me you're one of those health freaks."

"You're studying to become a doctor. Shouldn't you be encouraging this kind of lifestyle?" I open the refrigerator door. And to my dismay, the shelves are crammed with leftovers, along with aging takeout cartons, expired milk, and apples that have taken on a terrifying color.

"Told ya," Eren yawns.

"Half of this stuff has gone bad!" I exclaim, pulling out one spoiled dish after the other. "If you're not going to eat your leftovers, you should at least throw them away!"

"That would be wasting. We're all about sustainability here."

"You've practically wasted a week's worth of food by letting it all rot here!"

"You brought your groceries home in plastic bags," he retorts, gesturing at my groceries. "Who's the real villain now?"

This argument grows new heads when we squirm around each other, trying to prepare our respective dinners in this tight kitchen. He hogs the stovetop to make himself eggs, and after I finally get to start on my stir-fry, I'm horrified to find that the sink is already brimming with his dirty dishes. He complains about how I waste water when I wash the plates, and I shoot back with a comment on how disorganized the cupboards are. He reminds me that he's letting me borrow his pots and pans. I inform him that his skillet is still encrusted with the remains of his previous meal. I eat at the table, while he eats on the couch. We're both winded, sick and tired of exchanging blows, so he puts on CNN to fill in the silence.

"Listen," I say, putting down my chopsticks when a commercial break comes on. "If this is going to work, we need some house rules. Boundaries."

"I agree," Eren says. He made himself three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner, with four eggs, sunny-side-up. He eats like a child, abandoning the crusts on the edges of his plate. "State your terms."

He sits across from me at the table, producing a sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen. I write the words, HOUSE RULES, along the top margin in huge letters.

"I think it goes without saying," I begin, tapping the pen against the table firmly. "That everything that happened last night can't happen again if we're going to be living together for the foreseeable future."

"Fair enough," he answers. "No hooking up each other, ever again. Point, blank, period. Despite how fun last night was."

I kick his shin under the table, and he recoils, yelping.

"I'm not kidding around, Eren," I intone. "Things are going to get awfully messy if there's even a hint of funny business between us."

"You're completely right."

"Number two," I continue after I jot down our first rule. "No more flirting. We need to start treating each other like normal people. Platonic roommates. And that includes whatever goes on in here." I point at my skull.

"Okay, how the fuck are we supposed to police what goes on in our heads?" Eren replies, scowling. "This is starting to give me some real 1984 vibes."

"I don't know! I just can't keep walking past your room, thinking about how we—you get what I'm trying to say, right?"

"For a writer, you can be really inarticulate sometimes—"

"This is why we need the rule about flirting!"

"Making fun of you does not equate to flirting with you, just so you know," Eren counters. "Mikasa, let's face it. We can make all the rules we want about dishes and chores and laundry and all that shit. And sure, we can make a 'no flirting' rule, but at the end of the day, we're going to have to take a leap of faith. I'm gonna trust that you'll try your best here, and I do hope you'll trust that I'll do the same. It's gonna take time for us to get used to each other, but I really think it's gonna be okay."

His eyes are intense, compelling me to believe him, and his irises are this brilliant, iridescent color. He's one of those guys blessed with long, dark lashes that effortlessly curve up like wings, whereas I need mascara to achieve the same effect.

But then, this portrait shatters when he rolls his eyes, huffing, "Jesus, you hypocrite."

"What?" I respond indignantly.

"You're the one making weird eyes now," he says, crossing his arms.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Our eyes are locked onto each other now. My hand slides forward along the surface of the table, until my thumb is hardly grazing across his pinky.

"We should do a jar," he says, withdrawing his hand and shaking his head.

"A what?"

He gets up and strides into the kitchen, looking through the cabinets. "Like a swear jar—but for sexual tension. Let's see… ah, here we go." He comes back with an empty Smucker's grape jelly container. It's surprisingly clean. He puts it down on the table between us and tips his chin towards it. "Go on, pay up. A buck each time something weird happens, okay?"

"This is ridiculous." I reach for my purse, rifling around for change. Four quarters clatter into the jar.

"A rule is useless if we're just gonna keep breaking it. Like you just did," Eren retorts. "Trust me, these dollars will add up. That'll keep us in check, and before we know it, we'll be strictly platonic in a week's time."

"This is like… the opposite of a strip club," I remark. "We're paying… to not end up naked with each other."

"I personally never would've made that connection, but sure, yeah, I guess that makes sense," Eren says, shrugging. "But for some reason, that randomly gave me another idea." He reaches for our house rules draft and flips the page over. "Okay, so the baseline price for any awkward shit that happens is a dollar, right? That would be like weird looks, flirty comments, all that jazz. Relatively harmless stuff." Then he draws a diamond. At each point, he sketches a square, labeling them 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and HOME. "But should we do anything stupider, the stakes should be higher. If we end up kissing, let's make that a five-dollar fine. Second base touchy stuff, ten bucks. Oral sex, fifteen—"

"Make that twenty," I cut in. "And at that point, let's not try to pin the blame on any one person because it takes two to tango, so both parties have to pay up."

"I can roll with that," he says, scribbling on the drawing. "And if we happen to astronomically fuck up and slide into home base… let's put down twenty-five per person?"

"Thirty," I assert.

"Question," he says, putting down his pen. "Let's say we sleep together and do everything on this page, but it all starts with, I dunno, me kissing you. Would that mean that I would have to chip in a dollar for the flat rate, then five for first base, ten for second base, and then we both pay for the third and fourth base stuff, which means that…" He scratches out the arithmetic, carrying the one and pausing to double-check his math.

"This just got so complicated," I grumble.

"How fitting, seeing that things were complicated to begin with," he replies, circling two numbers on the page. He whistles. "Holy shit, so if we had full-blown sex, I'd have to fork out $66, and you're responsible for $50."

"Wow, these are steep penalties," I gulp. "But they're necessary. No offense, Eren, but I'd rather keep my fifty bucks and actually make rent each month than sleep with you."

This makes him laugh, and little wrinkles form over the bridge of his nose when he does. "None taken, Mikasa," he says, extending a hand. I shake it firmly. "No hard feelings, but I'm in the same boat."

Years back, Levi was in search of something to hold his fancy liquor, and he came home one day with a box from IKEA. The packaging on the front showcased an elegant bar cart basking in the morning light of a modern home. It had two shelves equipped with slots to hold Chardonnay bottles on their sides, as well as a rack from which wine glasses could hang upside-down.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, assembling the structure, glancing every so often at the manual to check his progress. And before we knew it, the bar cart had sprung to life, gleaming proudly beneath our kitchen light.

With a self-congratulatory smirk, Levi reached for a bottle of Johnnie Walker and gingerly set it on the top shelf—but suddenly, like a house of cards, the cart collapsed on itself, sending the bottle careening to the floor. The neck splintered, and within seconds, my uncle was kneeling in a pool of limited-edition Scotch. From that day, he swore that he'd boycott IKEA up until his last dying breath.

Later, we discovered that the box had come with the wrong kind of screws. Even though Levi had perfectly adhered to the instruction manual, the bar cart was doomed from the start.

And the same goes for this Sexual Tension Jar.

Eren and I arrive at this realization as we lay side-by-side in his bed, trying to catch our breath. Yet again, we're declothed. My head is resting on his bicep, and his hand is stroking my bare shoulder.

I wish the build-up to this involved something dreamier, with a more enchanting element. Maybe somewhat along the lines of this: I notice a lonesome figure hanging out on the fire escape railing. Crawling out through the window, I join Eren in watching the cars pass by in the street below us. Before us, Manhattan glitters in the night, and he points out the skyscrapers for me: the Chrysler Building, the One World Trade Center, Empire State. We talk about something that evokes nostalgia—our childhoods, maybe. We riff on each other for a bit, and when a silence falls between us, we lean towards each other and kiss.

But the reality is nowhere as glamorous.

After I explained at length the benefits of organized cabinets and drawers, Eren finally relented, letting me rearrange our nightmare of a kitchen. An hour later, I felt a wave of relief once I grouped the utensils together and reunited a matching set of bowls. As an added bonus, I discovered a colander that Eren didn't even realize he owned. The last out-of-place piece of kitchenware was a mug hiding out on the top shelf of a cupboard meant for plates. I stood on my tip-toes, but the mug remained inches out of grasp.

"Eren!" I called. I poked my head over the counter, but he seemed to have abandoned his studying.

"What?" he yelled back from his room.

"Can you come here and do me a favor?"

His footsteps padded out into the main area of our apartment. "What's up?" he asked.

I stopped scrubbing the countertop with Lysol spray, and I turned to face him—only to wrench my line of sight back to the countertop. "That mug up there," I said quickly, gesturing with my head. "Can you get it down for me?"

"Yeah, I gotcha," he replied.

I scooted several inches to the side, and Eren strolled into the kitchen, wearing nothing but a pair of checkered pajama pants. Desperately, I willed my eyes to stay anchored to the tiled floor, but my stubborn gaze wandered up to his body, tracing the clear-cut lines in his abdomen. Charge him a buck! the rational side of me screamed, pounding its fists against the interior of my cranium. This was, beyond the shadow of a doubt, fair-game for the Sexual Tension Jar. I watched the contours of his arms stretch and strain as he reached up, deftly grabbing the mug by its handle, fishing it back down. He offered it to me, and I gritted out a "thanks" through clenched teeth.

"All good, Mikasa?" Raising an eyebrow, he gave me a quizzical look as he redid his bun.

"Peachy!" I forced out, feeling a flush rush up my neck and into my cheeks.

"You look like you're gonna throw up," he remarked. "Are you sure?"

"Never better!"

His eyes studied me, unconvinced. Right then, I decided that I was to never make eye contact with Eren again, unless I wanted all of my savings to disappear into that godforsaken glass jar. I was captivated by how his irises caught the light, how their intense color stood in stark contrast to the soft arch of his brows. His eyes flickered up and down my face, and he took a step closer to me, leaving only several inches of space between us.

Tentatively, I lifted a hand up to cradle his cheek. He pressed his forehead against mine, and our noses brushed against each other. We hovered like that, locked in a stalemate position, neither party daring to budge another centimeter. My heart pounded in my chest, and I could hear his each and every breath of air.

I can't recall if I kissed him first. Or if he made the first move.

But I do remember stumbling back as we made out and almost knocking that sparkplug of a mug off the counter with my elbow. Eren somehow caught it before it hit the tile, hooking his index finger around the ceramic handle.

"Should we move this to somewhere with fewer fragile objects?" he suggested, pressing his lips to my jawline.

Next thing I knew, we were splayed across his mattress, our legs tangled together. My hands roamed the sinewy terrain of his back, while he kissed my neck, getting revenge for the hickeys I left him the first time. I gasped, scrunching up his hair in my fingers, as the edge of his teeth grazed my skin. His breath was hot against my collarbone as he eagerly pushed the bottom hem of my tank top up, exposing my midriff.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," he said, nibbling on my ear. "But if memory serves, you really seemed to like it when I did this." His hand moved further up my torso, and he slid my bra up until his thumb could draw circles around my nipple. His lips kissed my other breast, and his tongue mimicked the motion of his thumb. I closed my eyes, craning my head back against the pillows.

"Do you like that?" he asked, massaging my breasts with his hands.

I nodded, grinding my hips against his groin. Through his sweatpants, I could feel that he was hard.

"There was another spot, wasn't there?"

He took off my running shorts and panties, while I pulled my top up over my head and unhooked my bra. I parted my legs for him, and he slipped a finger into me. "You're so wet right now," he says, breathlessly. His fingers migrated up to my clit, and I sighed as he slowly rubbed that electrifying spot, craning his neck forward to tease my breast with his tongue once more. He lifted his head to watch me squirm and writhe beneath his touch, smirking whenever I let out a moan. In the dim light of his room, his enviable lashes looked thicker, darker, only accentuating the vivid hue of his eyes. I had roughened up his hair, loosening a few strands from the elastic.

"Eren," I said, sitting up to kiss him. And he kissed me back, mashing his lips against mine, our teeth clashing together, and I sank my nails into his back, making him gasp.

"Yeah?" his lips mumbled against mine.

I leaned in close to his ear. "Fuck me," I whispered.

He pulled off his pants and boxers before reaching toward his nightstand for a condom. I watched how his brow focused with concentration as he put it on. Beneath the banter and the jokes, there was an intensity to him, as if a charged current constantly cycled through his veins. But as he positioned himself between my legs, his expression softened. "Ready?" he asked, the right corner of his mouth turned up in amusement.

"Yeah," I replied, smiling back.

We both sighed as he entered me. I clutched the comforter as he thrust into me, and I wrapped my legs around his waist to bring him in deeper. His hands gripped my hip bones, and slowly, he built up speed, bucking harder. Eren's built like a long-distance swimmer—broad shoulders, core built of cement, unshakable endurance—but I baited him into a kiss and managed to flip us around, until I was riding him.

"Jeez, Mikasa," he commented, through pants. He tried to sit up, but I pressed down against his chest with a firm hand, and he laughed, flopping back against the pillows. A part of me swelled as he watched me, his eyes hazy with desire, his lips parting as he groaned.

I made the mistake of bending forward to kiss him again because within moments, he gained the upper hand once more, and I let out a giggle as I capsized onto my side. We were laying facing each other. He was smiling his sly, obnoxious smile, and when I pressed my lips against his, his tongue enmeshed with mine, while he slowed the pace of his thrusting. He snickered when I gasped his name in exasperation.

"Trust me," he whispered, nudging me onto my back again. "I'm gonna make you come. Based on last night, I have a pretty good track record, after all." He planted a kiss on my collarbone before thrusting into me once more. One of his hands squeezed my breast, I draped my leg over his back, and neither of us could contain our shaky moans as he fucked me. A cup of water on his nightstand quivered, and the headboard of his bed rattled against the wall.

He delivered on his promise, causing me to crane my neck back, crying out as waves of pleasure pulsed through me. Shortly after, he had his own climax, collapsing next to me, and, well, here we are, regressing back to square one.

For a moment that feels like forever, no one says a single word. I can feel the rise and fall of his chest against my breasts, and my hand absently charts the bumps and grooves of his abdomen. I'm surprised that my mind isn't swirling with its usual flurry of concerns and trepidation. My rational side is trying to crank the ignition, hollering at me to snap out of it and see the big picture (re: this housing situation is destined to fail)—but another part of me hits the mute button on my nagging conscience. And we're just laying here, enveloped in a silence that should be nerve-wracking, but for some reason feels, if anything, warm, bubbly even.

Eren is the first to speak. "Hey," he says.

"Hi," I reply meekly.

"This sexual tension jar," he says. "We didn't exactly establish when this deal would kick off, right?"

"Not to my recollection."

"Okay, sweet," he replies. "How does tomorrow sound?"

"I've got no objections," I answer.

"What time is it right now?"

"Half past ten."

Kicking off a second round, Eren grins and kisses me.

A/N: I reaaaaaaaally need to quit avoiding this LSAT like it's the plague, but your encouraging comments are working their magic again, spurring within me the urge to write—UGH, you guys are really too kind to me. WUARD's over, but as some of you all have noticed, there's some echoes of that story embedded in this one. Guilty as charged! I have a soft spot for journalism (since that's what I'm studying in college hehe), and I thought I'd channel a bit of the fresh-outta-college, trying-not-to-get-eaten-alive, starving-artist struggle into Mikasa. And I'm just so obsessed with the idea of Levi serving as a guardian/mentor figure for Mikasa. Of course, that won't be the central focus of this story because I wouldn't wanna regurgitate WUARD, but this dynamic will forever be a modern AU headcanon for me 3

Lemme know what you guys thought about this chapter!