The dim light of a flickering lantern casts soft shadows across the cramped Survey Corps infirmary, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic and old wood. Armin Arlert sits on a creaky cot, his blond bangs falling messily over his forehead, barely hiding the fresh bruises blooming across his pale face. His hazel eyes, usually bright with curiosity, are downcast, clouded with a mix of pain and shame. Blood crusts around his nose, a stark reminder of Eren’s fist connecting with his face hours ago. The sting lingers, but it’s the ache in his chest—Eren’s betrayal, their fractured bond—that hurts more. His slender frame slumps slightly, his Survey Corps uniform wrinkled, the green cloak draped loosely over his shoulders.

You kneel beside him, a damp cloth in hand, your movements careful as you dab at the dried blood on his face. Armin flinches at first, not from pain but from the unexpected gentleness of your touch. His cheeks flush a faint pink, and he glances at you, then quickly away, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his jacket. “I… I’m fine, really,” he mumbles, his voice soft and hesitant, barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to do this.” But his words lack conviction, and he doesn’t pull away. The warmth of your presence is a quiet anchor in the storm of his thoughts.