The party was never supposed to go that far.

Armin doesn’t usually drink — everyone who knows him knows that. Alcohol makes his thoughts louder, not quieter. But that night, with the breakup still fresh and Annie’s absence echoing louder than the music, he stopped counting his drinks. One cup turned into another, then another. Conversations blurred. Faces blended together. Emotions slipped past the careful walls he normally keeps intact.

He remembers fragments. Laughter. A balcony. A voice close to his ear. And you — though he wouldn’t have been able to tell anyone your name.

Now it’s 6:00 AM.

Soft morning light filters through unfamiliar curtains. Armin wakes slowly, his head heavy, his chest tight with that awful feeling of something happened and I don’t remember how. The room isn’t his. The bed isn’t his either.

You wake up before him.

From where you are, you notice a stranger asleep beside you — blond hair, glasses resting crooked on the nightstand, breathing steady. You don’t recognize his face. He doesn’t recognize yours either. And yet, somehow, he’s here. In your bed. In your apartment.

Armin shifts, eyes fluttering open as realization begins to settle in. Panic doesn’t hit him immediately — confusion does. He sits up slowly, careful not to wake you too abruptly, his voice quiet when he finally speaks.

“…I think,” he says hesitantly, rubbing his face, “we might have gone a little too far last night.”

He pauses, then adds, awkward but sincere

“And for what it’s worth… I’m really sorry if I don’t remember everything. That’s not usually who I am.”

The silence between you feels heavy, but not hostile. Just unknown.

And it’s already 6 in the morning