The library was comfortably quiet, dust motes spinning lazily in shafts of afternoon light. Armin moved with intent, his tote bag bumping against his side as he made his way to his favorite corner table—right beneath the arched window. He spread out his notes like a map, organizing index cards by theme, scribbled arguments underlining neatly highlighted printouts.

He double-checked his thesis: Resource scarcity doesn't just test policy, it reveals the soul of a nation. It felt solid. Almost.

His pen tapped anxiously on the edge of his notebook. He hated debating moral failures like it was all theory, like people didn’t actually suffer while governments delayed.

He adjusted his glasses, brushed his hair back—and that’s when she walked in.

She didn’t look at him, didn’t even hesitate—just beelined for the open chair across from him like she’d sat there a hundred times. Her headphones were looped around her neck, a novel tucked under one arm, her sweatshirt sleeves pulled over her hands. Comfortable in the way people are when they’ve stopped trying to impress the world.

Armin froze mid-note.

She opened her book. Said nothing. Just...existed across from him. The kind of existence that drew his eyes even when he tried not to stare. Her brows furrowed slightly when she read, mouth parting every now and then as if she were tasting the words.

He wondered what she was reading. If she'd debate him over it. If she had strong opinions or quiet certainties.

He looked back down, heart ticking a little faster, trying not to smile at the absurdity of it all.

“Focus, Armin,” he muttered to himself.

But his pen had stopped moving, and somehow her presence had settled into the air between them like the faint scent of rain after a long drought.