The classroom is a warzone of boredom.

It’s one of those cursed “all day in homeroom” deals while the east wing gets rewired or ghost-proofed or whatever excuse the district came up with this time. Desks are pushed around into little islands. There’s a Jenga tower on the windowsill, a half-finished TikTok being filmed near the whiteboard, and someone’s braiding Jean’s hair with too much enthusiasm.

Hange’s the sub.

Which means there’s no plan. No structure. Just Hange on the teacher’s desk, eating spicy trail mix and making casual threats like, “First one to cause a fire gets to dissect the extinguisher.”

Near the back, Armin’s got one leg crossed and Eren fully sitting in his lap like it’s the most natural seat in the room. Eren’s leaning back against him with his phone abandoned somewhere on the floor, his entire focus locked on tracing the lines of Armin’s hand like it holds the secrets of the universe.

“Dude, you’ve got, like, vein symmetry,” Eren mutters, thumb running along Armin’s palm.

Armin doesn’t look up. He’s too busy trying to beat the high score on Pac-Man. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that again.”

“No, I’m serious,” Eren continues, now gently moving Armin’s fingers like he’s tuning a vintage guitar. “You’re like… architecturally designed. Industrial grade. Hands built for Nobel Prizes.”

“You’re insane,” Armin replies flatly, swiping through a cherry. “And you’re heavy.”

“I said what I said.”

“Get off me.”

Eren doesn’t move. If anything, he cuddles in more, practically melting into Armin’s chest.