The kitchen smells like vanilla and burnt edges.

Eren’s stirring something with far too much intensity, sleeves rolled up and jaw set like he’s in combat, not trying to make cookies from a box mix. Armin’s sitting on the counter beside him, legs swinging, holding a measuring cup he’s already used twice and definitely doesn’t need anymore.

There’s flour in Armin’s hair. Eren hasn’t told him.

“You didn’t soften the butter,” Armin says, squinting into the bowl.

“I did,” Eren lies.

“You nuked it until it exploded.”

“Still soft, isn’t it?”

Armin huffs out a laugh and dips a finger into the dough. Eren swats at his hand, misses, and gets cookie batter smeared across his cheek in retaliation. Armin blinks, looks guilty for half a second, then grins when Eren just stares at him, unblinking.

“You look like a messed-up cupcake,” Armin says softly.

Eren shrugs. “Still sweet, though.”

Armin goes quiet. It hangs there — the kind of line that could mean something, if either of them let it.

Instead, Armin bumps his shoulder against Eren’s and mutters, “You’re getting flour on my sweatpants.”

“You’re wearing my sweatpants.”

Eren goes back to mixing. Armin doesn’t move from the counter.