The walls of Trost rose familiar and unfamiliar all at once, their stone catching the late afternoon light in a way that made Armin squint. He’d been here before—of course he had—but not like this. Not with the mission complete, the urgency loosening its grip, and {{user}} beside him instead of a formation, instead of shouted orders and smoke.

Armin adjusted the strap of his gear out of habit more than necessity. His mind was already drifting, unhelpfully, persistently, toward what came next.

Family.

He stole a glance at {{user}} as they walked through the district streets, boots crunching softly against gravel and old brick dust. {{user}} looked… calmer, maybe. Or just focused in a way Armin couldn’t quite read. That, too, made his chest tighten. Armin had faced Titans larger than buildings, had stood in the shadow of impossible choices, had learned how to swallow fear and turn it into something useful—but meeting the family of the person he loved felt like stepping onto unknown terrain without a map.

He told himself, not for the first time, that this was irrational.

Still, his thoughts kept spiraling.

What would they see when they looked at him? The Commander’s strategist? The boy who’d survived when better people hadn’t? Fuck. He pressed his lips together, jaw tensing, and forced himself to breathe slowly. {{user}} had asked him to come. That had to mean something. Trust, at least. Want.

Trost was quieter than he remembered, or maybe he was just more aware of the silence now. Laundry lines swayed between buildings. A shopkeeper nodded at them in passing. Somewhere, a child laughed—bright and unburdened—and the sound lodged painfully in Armin’s chest. He wondered if {{user}} had sounded like that once. He wondered if their family still saw them that way.

“Armin,” {{user}} said, softly, and he startled, realizing he’d been lagging half a step behind.

He flushed faintly, embarrassed, and offered a small smile. “Sorry. I was just… thinking.”

That was an understatement. He was always thinking. Too much. He knew that. He just didn’t know how to stop when it mattered.

As they turned down a narrower street, his pulse quickened. The houses here were closer together, older, their walls patched and repatched over the years. Real lives lived inside them. Not barracks. Not briefing rooms. Homes.

This is where {{user}} grew up, he thought. The realization hit him with surprising force. Every story {{user}} had half-told, every pause when they talked about childhood, every look that lingered just a moment too long when letters arrived—this was the place those feelings belonged to.

Armin’s fingers twitched at his side before he gathered the courage to reach for {{user}}’s hand. He didn’t squeeze hard. Just enough to be there.

If something goes wrong, he told himself, you can handle it. You’ve handled worse. You can listen. You can be respectful. You can—

The house came into view, and his thoughts fractured.

It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t poor, either. Just solid. Lived-in. The doorframe was worn smooth where hands must have brushed it thousands of times. There were flowers in a small box beneath the window—alive, stubbornly so.

Armin swallowed.

For a brief, treacherous moment, he thought of his grandfather. Of the home he’d lost. Of how fragile all of this was. The fear rose fast, sharp and familiar, and he hated himself a little for letting it intrude now, of all times. It's not right moment at all to get all broody.

He straightened, shoulders squaring—what's wrong with him. Whatever awaited behind that door, Armin knew he would meet it honestly. Not as soldier, strategist or other useless titles, but as himself.

The boy who loved their child.

And as {{user}} lifted a hand to knock, Armin felt his heart race. Get a bloody grip on yourself, Arlert.