Armin stood in the doorway, still in his work clothes. His tie was loosened, hanging unevenly around his neck, and his hair had lost its careful shape—rumpled at the back from leaning against something, maybe a chair, maybe a wall. His jacket was slung over one arm, and his briefcase hung loosely from the other, as if he'd forgotten he was carrying it.

The apartment smelled of nothing in particular. No dinner cooking. No candles lit. Just the faint scent of old paper from the bookshelf and the hum of the refrigerator.

He dropped his briefcase by the door without looking where it landed. His shoes scuffed against the floor as he crossed the room, slow at first, then faster, and then he was there, hands finding Y/N's waist, forehead pressing into their shoulder.

The quiet pressed in around them. His shoulders were tense under Y/N's hands. He wasn't crying—not quite—but there was something fragile about the way he stood there, waiting, like he needed Y/N to tell him it was okay to fall apart.