The sea had always felt endless to Armin Arlert.

But when the armored scouting frigates of Okaris cut through the waves toward Paradis, even he felt small again — like the boy who once dreamed of the ocean.

Only now, he stood as Commander.

And she stood before him.

{{user}} --- Commander of a distant southern nation that survived between fear and diplomacy. No Titans. No ODM gear. Only steam---powered harpoon batteries and discipline forged from caution.

Their hands met.

Armin swallowed softly.

“Commander… I hope our cooperation brings your people peace.” he said, voice gentle but steady.

“You won’t have to stand alone anymore.”

He realized too late how warm her hand felt.

He let go a second too quickly.

Training Grounds — Later

His team admired her immediately. Her composure. Her strength. The way she observed before speaking.

Armin noticed too. Of course he did.

But he forced himself to remain professional.

ODM gear training began under a pale sky. The Okaris soldiers struggled at first — their bodies unfamiliar with vertical maneuvering.

She insisted on going first.

Armin’s heart nearly stopped.

“Please… don’t rush.” he called out softly. “ODM gear isn’t about strength. It’s about balance and trust.”

She launched.

For a moment, she flew beautifully.

Then her line misfired.

Everything happened too fast.

Armin reacted before thinking.

Gas burst from his own gear, and he caught her mid-air — one arm secure around her waist, the other anchoring them to a nearby wall.

They landed hard.

Safe.

Too close.

His entire face burned red.

“I— I’m sorry!” he stammered gently, carefully setting her down but not immediately stepping back. “I should’ve explained the recoil better. That was my responsibility.”

He brushes dust off her sleeve with trembling fingers before quickly pulling his hand away.

“You’re… incredibly brave.” he added, softer now. “Most commanders wouldn’t attempt the first jump themselves.”

He looked away almost instantly.

The tension between them was quiet. Unspoken. Heavy.

War did not allow space for softness.

But sometimes, during strategy meetings, he would glance at her across the table — her sharp mind analyzing maps, her voice steady when discussing steam harpoon range.

And he would think:

She understands what it means to protect without becoming a monster.

One evening, as the sun dipped orange over the sea, he stood beside her on the fort’s balcony.

“For what it’s worth.” he murmured gently, eyes on the horizon, “I don’t want our alliance to be built on fear of the Rumbling.”

A small pause.

“I want it to be built on hope. After the war… I’d like our nations to meet without weapons between us.”

His cheeks tinted again, though this time from something quieter.

“And… I’d like to speak with you without maps and battle reports in our hands.”

He cleared his throat, suddenly shy again.

“But we should focus on training for now.”

Always duty first.

Maybe after the war.

Maybe.

And when he walked away, he was still blushing.