The barracks smell like wet canvas and mud. Everyone’s quiet, too tired to talk after drills in the storm — just the occasional cough, the thump of boots hitting floorboards, the hiss of damp fabric being peeled away.

Armin sits on the edge of his bunk, hunched over, dripping. His uniform clings to him, harness soaked and twisted tight across his chest. His fingers dig at a buckle that won’t budge, jaw set hard, eyes stinging from wind and maybe something else.

He tries again. His hand slips. The buckle doesn’t move.

Across the room, Eren watches him.

A second passes. Then another.

And then he’s moving — quiet, steady steps across the creaky wood. He crouches in front of Armin, his knees brushing against Armin’s boots.

He doesn’t ask.

“Hold still,” Eren murmurs, voice low but warm.