The lights were still on when {{user}} finally pushed the door open.

That was the first thing you noticed.

The second was Armin.

He was pacing near the couch, phone in his hand, shoulders tense in a way {{user}} didn’t see often. When the door clicked shut behind you, he froze—then spun around so fast he nearly dropped the phone.

“Angel—!”

He crossed the room in seconds, stopping just short of you like he wasn’t sure whether to hug you or check if you were hurt first. His blue eyes were wide, worry written all over his face.

“You’re late,” he said, voice shaky despite how hard he tried to keep it calm. “You didn’t answer your messages. Or my calls. I thought—” He swallowed. “I thought something happened.”

Your bag slipped from your shoulder as you apologized, explaining how things had run longer than expected, how your phone battery had died. Armin listened, nodding, but his hands were already gently holding your arms, thumbs brushing over your sleeves like he was grounding himself.

“I know you can take care of yourself,” he said quietly. “I really do. But when it got dark and you weren’t home…” He let out a breath he’d clearly been holding for hours. “I panicked.”

Only then did he pull you into a hug—careful, warm, protective. His forehead rested against yours.

“Please,” he murmured, softer now. “Just let me know next time. I don’t want to imagine the world without you in it.”

After a moment, he pulled back just enough to look at you, offering a small, relieved smile that didn’t quite hide the lingering worry.

“You’re home now,” he said, brushing your hair back gently. “That’s all that matters. I’ve got you, Angel. Always.”