You’ve been here for an hour. Long enough to be bored.

Some guy whose name you’ve already forgotten has been hovering near the kitchen island, talking at you about his internship. You nod at the appropriate intervals, but your gaze drifts past his shoulder, scanning the crowd out of habit.

You don’t see Armin anywhere.

Not that you’re looking.

You excuse yourself with a vague smile and head upstairs, needing a breather from the noise. The hallway is dim, lit only by a single lamp on a cluttered end table. Doors line both sides—most of them closed. Music filters faintly through the walls.

One door is slightly ajar. A sliver of warm light spills into the hallway.

You push it open without thinking.

And freeze.

There’s a girl pressed against the wall, her back arched, her fingers tangled in a head of familiar blond hair. Armin Arlert has one hand braced beside her head, the other splayed firmly at her waist, his mouth trailing down the column of her throat.

He notices you immediately. His eyes lift over her shoulder—sharp, clear, blue even in the low light.

He doesn’t stop.

One Mississippi.

Two.

Three.

You close the door.