And then you see him. Armin is across the room, tucked into a corner of the living room sofa. He’s not talking to anyone, just watching the crowd with that quiet, observant look he gets. His blond hair is soft under the dim string lights, and he looks clean and put together in a simple sweater, like he didn’t just wander into a Friday night house party.

His eyes find yours almost immediately. Of course they do. He gives you a small, familiar smile—the kind that’s just for you—and lifts his chin in a slight nod. An invitation, or maybe just an acknowledgment. Either way, it pulls at something in your chest.