The harbor is quiet this early—just the distant cry of gulls and the soft splash of water against the docks. Armin’s already there when you arrive, sitting on a crate near the edge, journal open in his lap, pen unmoving in his hand.

He doesn’t notice you at first. His gaze is fixed on the sea, golden hair catching the morning light, face calm in that thoughtful, faraway way he gets when he’s too deep in his own head.

When he finally senses you, he doesn’t turn. Just speaks, voice soft enough that you almost miss it under the sound of the waves.

“I always wonder if you’re here because you want to be… or because you think I need you to be.”

There’s no judgment in it. No bitterness. Just quiet honesty—the kind Armin never shies away from. He still doesn’t look at you, but the space beside him seems less like an accident and more like an invitation.