Chapter Text
Everyone on campus knows your name.
Not just because you were homecoming queen last year, or because you’ve managed to amass more Instagram followers than the official university page. No, your legend stretches further. You’re the girl with a Red Bull in one hand, lip gloss in the other, and a perpetual air of effortless confidence. Professors know your face even if you haven’t been in class for weeks. Some students worship you. Others hate how much they want to be you. But all of them know you.
You used to be the kind of girl who sat in the front row, every test returned with a perfect score and a smiley face. There was a time when you stayed up studying instead of partying, when late nights were for essays, not afters. But high school changed you. The first time you made people laugh instead of correcting them was a revelation. The moment you realized how much attention you could command with just a look, a laugh, a lilt in your voice it was game over.
And now, in college, you’ve perfected it.
You don’t need to be on time. You are the time.
You're not cruel. You’re just the storm everyone watches from the window, unsure whether to dance in the rain or seek shelter.
Which is why he catches you off guard.
The party is loud one of those sprawling off-campus affairs in a house that smells faintly of weed, cheap beer, and Febreze. You walk in draped in confidence and the lingering scent of expensive perfume, arm-in-arm with Mina, your favorite chaos companion. Jean trails close behind, already asking who brought the good liquor. Music pulses through the walls like a heartbeat, lights strobing in hues of violet and cherry red. There’s someone vaping in the kitchen, someone dancing on the counter, and someone getting their hair braided on the stairs.
You blend into it like glitter into sunlight.
You're mid-conversation with Mina, mocking Jean for spilling rum on his shirt, when you see him.
Corner of the room. By the bookshelf, of all places. Hoodie, glasses, posture tight like he’s unsure whether to sit or bolt. He’s got a cup in his hand he hasn’t touched, and his eyes sharp, analytical scan the room like he’s calculating the square root of chaos.
You recognize him instantly, though you can’t place why.
“Who’s that?” you ask Mina, nodding in his direction.
She turns, squints, and raises a brow. “Oh. That’s Armin Arlert.”
You blink. “That name sounds fake.”
“It’s not. Poli-sci genius. Erwin’s protégé or whatever. Kind of... elusive? Doesn’t party. Doesn’t date. Doesn’t... exist, basically.”
Jean whistles. “Guy’s spooky smart. Like, annoying smart. TA’s are scared of him.”
You watch Armin push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. There’s something strangely delicate about him like he’s built from thoughts rather than muscle. But there’s also an edge to him. Something unreadable.
“What’s he doing here?”
Mina shrugs. “No idea. Maybe he got lost on the way to the library.”
You laugh, toss your hair over your shoulder, and try not to look again.
You fail.
The night stretches, the way good parties do wild and slow, a honeyed blur of bodies and music and secondhand smoke. You end up playing flip cup with Reiner and Historia (they’re weirdly good), get tackled into a hug by Hange, and watch Sasha try to outshot Eren, who is already slurring his way into disaster.
You lose track of time.
You don’t see Armin again until the games start.
It’s always inevitable someone yells “spin the bottle” and suddenly you’re in high school again. But you're bored, buzzed, and far too fabulous to care.
You sit cross legged on the floor, still nursing a vodka-cran that tastes mostly like regret. The circle is a mess of familiar faces: Connie already laughing too loud, Mikasa curled coolly against the couch, Annie seated cross-legged like she’s seconds from leaving, and Eren grinning like a menace.
Then someone’s pushing Armin into the circle.
“C’mon, genius,” Sasha teases. “Don’t be lame.”
He doesn’t look thrilled, but he sits. Right across from you.
And you notice him again, really notice.
His glasses catch the light, and there's a faint bruise at the hollow of his throat. His hoodie’s sleeves are rolled up slightly, revealing lean forearms. His jaw is sharp, and even the way he sits feels... measured. Not shy. Not clumsy. Just controlled.
Interesting.
The bottle spins. Connie kisses Jean, to everyone’s horror. Historia pecks Ymir on the cheek and the group melts into applause. Then it’s your turn.
You spin.
The bottle clinks, whirs, and lands on—
Armin.
The circle goes dead silent.
Jean lets out a low, “Well, shit.”
Mina grins. “Ooooh this is gonna be good.”
Your gaze flicks to Armin. He stares at the bottle. Then at you. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.
“Seven minutes,” Sasha announces gleefully. “Closet. Now.”
You don’t hesitate. You never do.
You rise with your drink in hand and head toward the hallway closet. He follows. The door shuts behind you, sealing you in.
The space is dark. Warm. Smelling faintly of cologne and dust and last semester’s forgotten scarves.
You lean against the wall, arms crossed. “You don’t seem like the party type.”
“I’m not,” he says, tone level. “But I was curious.”
“About?”
“You,” he answers simply.
You blink. “Me?”
He nods, faint smile on his lips. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Let me guess. You thought I’d be loud and shallow and drunk off my ass?”
“No,” he says, voice soft but unwavering. “I thought you’d be bored.”
Your breath hitches, caught off guard by the accuracy.
He takes a step closer. Not aggressive. Just... sure.
“And?” you ask.
He tilts his head. “Are you?”
You open your mouth—but you don’t have an answer. Not a good one.
The air is thick with tension, something crackling just under the surface.
But he doesn’t kiss you.
He just looks at you like he sees right through every carefully constructed layer.
Before you can figure out what that means, Connie yells, “TIME’S UP!”
You step out first, flashing your usual grin, tossing a wink to Mina who’s already prying for details. You down the rest of your drink. Your heart is pounding.
You glance back at Armin.
He’s watching you.
Still.
And for the first time in a long time, you wonder who exactly is playing whose game.