You were always the calm in the storm.

At Trost Senior High, being an Ackerman meant more than just top scores and silent stares—it meant being unshakable. And you were. Campus president, elite cadet, strategist, protector. You were the reason teachers smiled during inspections, why the student body stayed in line, and why even Eren—loud, reckless, impulsive Eren—sometimes shut up and listened.

Your uniform was always crisp. Your eyes never wandered. And your hands were always full—papers, plans, responsibilities. People leaned on you like pillars, never wondering if you ever leaned on anything yourself.

Then there was Armin.

The council secretary. The soft-spoken genius. The boy who knew the weight of things even if he didn’t carry them the same way you did. He was thoughtful, exact, and unnervingly observant. You’d often catch him glancing at you during meetings—not in a childish crush sort of way, but in that quiet analytical way he had. As if he was memorizing you. Mapping the edges no one else noticed.

He was your opposite, but you worked like a perfect equation.

So it almost didn’t feel real when you saw him that night—at the school’s annual night party. The gym was dim, filled with low lights and fog, the music pulsing through the walls like a heartbeat. You weren’t supposed to be there, but Hange had dragged you out—said you needed to “experience being seventeen.”

You stood by the edge of the dance floor when you saw him.

Armin.

His blond hair was tousled and his glasses were a little askew, catching the purple lights in sharp glints. His oversized shirt had a sarcastic emoticon plastered across it, and the way it hung on him made him look even more delicate under the neon haze. But what struck you was his expression—not just flushed and dazed, but searching.

He was walking toward you—stumbling a little, pupils dilated, a grin playing on his lips. Something about the way he smiled was different. Not his usual polite softness, but something tired and warm, like he’d stopped holding something in.

“Hey… Prez,” he called, voice a little off—slurred just enough to make you blink. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

You crossed your arms. “Are you drunk?”

He nodded, then shook his head. “Maybe. A bit. Don’t be mad. Not like I’m doing anything dumb.”

You were about to answer when he stepped closer—too close. His voice lowered into a murmur only you could hear.

“I’ve been watching you,” he said. “Not in a creepy way, just… You always look like you’re carrying everyone. The council. The school. Like it’s just you and your spine holding up the sky.”

Your chest tightened.

Armin’s eyes shimmered behind his glasses. “But it’s not fair. No one ever asks if you’re tired.”

His fingers reached for yours gently—hesitantly, like asking for permission. You didn’t pull away. His hand was cold, trembling slightly.

“I’ve always thought you were brilliant,” he whispered, looking down at your joined hands. “But tonight, you look… human. You look like you want to rest.”

You stared at him.

At the flush on his cheeks. The vulnerability he never let show in daylight. His voice cracked on the next words.

“I wanted to tell you sober. But sober me’s a coward. So I’m telling you now… I like you. Maybe a lot more than I should.”

His forehead dropped to yours. And for a moment, the crowd vanished—the noise, the pressure, the role you played. All that remained was him. Honest, warm, and drunk enough to be real.

You could’ve scolded him. Teased him. Stepped away and returned to being president.

But instead, your fingers tightened around his.

And that night, under violet lights and a hundred blurred voices, the girl who carried the whole school… let someone else carry her heart for a while.