The bass in Jean’s apartment is loud enough to make your teeth rattle, and the "college party" scent of cheap beer and vanilla body spray is reaching its peak.

You’re leaning against the kitchen counter, trying to look busy with your drink, when you see a flash of blonde hair tied back in a messy, effortless half-bun.

It’s Armin. But he looks... lethal.

The oversized sweaters are gone. Instead, he’s wearing a black vintage baby tee that shows off the lean muscle of his arms, and when the strobe light hits him, you see the glint of silver—three rings in one ear, two in the other. He weaves through the crowd with a quiet confidence that definitely wasn't there in your 8:00 AM lecture.

"I had a feeling I’d find you hiding in the kitchen," he says, appearing right beside you.

His voice is steady and melodic, missing the rough edge that Jean usually has, but there’s a new weight to it. When he talks, you catch the unmistakable flash of a silver barbell on his tongue. It’s incredibly distracting.

"Armin?" you breathe out, eyes scanning the new piercings. "You look... different." He leans a hand on the counter next to yours, closing the distance just enough to make your heart hammer against your ribs.

"Different is good, isn't it? Stagnation is boring."

He tilts his head, a stray blonde strand falling over his eye. "I figured if I was going to show up to one of Jean’s chaotic little social experiments, I might as well look the part of someone you shouldn't entirely count on."

He gestures vaguely toward the speakers, where the 3OH!3 track is just hitting the chorus. Don't trust me.

"Should I not count on you then?" you ask, trying to match his playful tone even though your brain is short-circuiting.

Armin hums, a low sound that vibrates in the small space between you. He leans in closer—close enough that you can smell his sea-salt hair spray and a hint of something spicy.

"That depends," he says, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before locking back onto your eyes. "I think people are usually pretty bad at reading intentions, don't you? They see a 'nerd' and assume they know exactly how the night ends."

He lets out a small, almost private laugh. "But I’ve always been more interested in the things people don't see coming. The things they probably shouldn't trust, even if they really want to."

He straightens up, but his eyes stay heavy on yours, a look that feels far more intimate than anything a "friend" would give.

"I'm heading to the balcony to get away from the 'social decay' in here," he says, his voice dropping to a low, suggestive murmur.

"You’re welcome to join me. I’d love to see if you’re as good at reading between the lines as I think you are."

He doesn't wait for an answer. He just turns and walks away, leaving you standing there absolutely spiraling over whether he just asked you to talk or... something else entirely.