samisami223?

The first thing you notice when you open the café door is him.

He’s tucked into the corner, like he always used to, back straight but shoulders rounded in that quiet, thoughtful way that said he was both present and somewhere else entirely. His blond hair is longer now since he cut it, brushing past his ears, and his fingers tap nervously against his cup. He looks up the moment the bell jingles, and those blue eyes lock onto you.

It takes you a second to breathe.

You hadn’t seen him in months. Not since the breakup that left your chest raw and aching. You told yourself you were done. You’d walked away. You wouldn’t answer his messages. You’d delete the drafts of texts you wrote at 3 a.m. when the ache of missing him felt unbearable. You had promised yourself that.

And yet, here he was.

“Y/N,” he says, your name soft but trembling, like he’s been practicing it in his head for weeks and still doesn’t trust his own voice.

Your instinct is to turn around and leave. Run. But his hand lifts halfway, as if to stop you, and there’s something in his face, something wrecked and desperate, that roots your feet in place.

You sit across from him. Not because you want to. But because your heart is weak when it comes to him, and you always knew it.

“Why am I here?” you ask, sharper than intended, crossing your arms.

Armin swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He looks down at his coffee, untouched, like he hasn’t had the nerve to drink it. “Because I… I need one more chance.”

The silence that follows nearly crushes you.

“Armin.” Your voice cracks despite yourself. “We’ve been over this. We—”

“No,” he interrupts, quickly, softly, his hands gripping the cup like it’s the only thing anchoring him. “I know we have. I know I ruined everything. I overthought, I pulled away, I left you feeling like you were never enough when you… you were the only person who ever was. I can’t take back the way I left. I can’t erase the nights I chose silence instead of fighting for us. But I can’t…” His voice wavers, then breaks. “I can’t live like you’re gone.”

You stare at him. This man—this boy you once loved so deeply your bones ached with it—was unraveling in front of you. His usual eloquence is fractured, spilling into messy confessions.

“You think one dinner fixes everything?” you whisper.

“No,” he says, almost immediately, shaking his head. His hair falls into his eyes, and you hate how badly you want to reach across the table and brush it away. “Not one dinner. Not one apology. I just… I just need one chance. To prove I’ve changed. To prove I’ll fight this time. Just—just let me take you out. One night. If it doesn’t mean anything, if you feel nothing… I’ll never ask again.”

You should say no.

You should stand up, tell him that you can’t keep letting him reopen wounds you’ve worked so hard to heal. You should protect yourself.

But when his hand inches across the table, trembling, stopping just shy of yours, like he’s scared he’s not allowed anymore, you feel that magnetic pull. The one that’s always been there.

“Armin…” you whisper, but your voice falters.

He looks at you then, really looks, like you’re both the answer to every prayer and the punishment for every mistake. His blue eyes shimmer under the dim café lights. “Please. Just one more chance.”

The weight of the moment settles heavy between you.

You don’t answer right away. You make him sit in the silence, make him feel the sting of what he’s asking for. Because it isn’t small. He isn’t just asking for a dinner, he’s asking for your heart, the one you barely managed to piece back together after he broke it.

Finally, you whisper, “One chance. That’s it.”

Armin exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the day you walked away. He nods quickly, eyes shining, relief spilling into every line of his face. “That’s all I need.”

And you know, deep down, it won’t just be one.

The clock on your nightstand flickered past 3:47 a.m. The rain outside had turned gentle, a slow hush brushing against the windows of the little cottage you and Armin called home.

He hadn’t meant to wake.

But he had.

It was the way your fingers gripped the fabric of his shirt in your sleep. Tight. Tighter than usual. Like he’d vanish if you let go. Like you were holding on for dear life.

His breath caught.

This wasn’t the first time.

And Armin, being Armin, remembered every single one.

The nights when your brows were furrowed even in sleep. The way your legs would inch closer to his, your body curling inward like you were protecting yourself from a world only you could see.

He never asked.

Not because he didn’t care—god, he cared too much—but because he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. You were private about your pain, like it was something shameful. You smiled so brightly in the morning he sometimes wondered if he’d imagined the way you shook in your dreams.

But tonight… tonight, it was too much.

He gently lifted himself, shifting until he was facing you, brushing your hair from your face with a touch softer than a whisper. Your lips were slightly parted as you breathed. And your eyes, even closed, were holding unshed tears already on your eyelashes.

He pressed his forehead to yours.

“You’re holding on so tight again,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “What are you dreaming about, love?”

Your hand twitched, still fisted in the fabric of his shirt.

That did it.

Armin slowly slid his arms around you, pulling you against his chest until your body melted into him. He kissed the top of your head. Once. Twice. His thumb stroked your back, slow, patient. Like he was learning how to soothe a frightened creature.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he breathed. “I’ll never leave you. Not even in your dreams. I don’t care what you saw, or what your mind tries to make you feel... I’m right here. Okay?”

A shaky breath escaped you.

Your arms wrapped tighter around him, unconsciously.

And then, soft as the rain…

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I just… I always think you’ll stop loving me someday.”

Armin’s heart cracked clean in half.

“Stop—?” His voice broke. He pulled back just enough to look at you. “Y/N. Look at me.”

Your eyes blinked open. Sleepy, vulnerable, teary.

He cupped your face, eyes glowing like the ocean in moonlight. Full of you.

“I’ve loved you since the moment you looked at me like I was worth something,” he said. “Since you defended me before I even knew how to defend myself. Since you made me laugh when I forgot how to feel human. And every day since.”

You sniffled.

He smiled softly. “You hold onto me like that because you think I’ll disappear. But I hold you like this,”—he pressed your body flush to his—“because you’re the only thing that’s real to me.”

Silence.

Warm.

Heavy.

Healing.

Then, your voice—barely audible:

“Will you still hold me even if I never stop being scared?”

He didn’t answer with words.

He just kissed your forehead, kissed your nose, kissed your eyelids.

And he whispered, “Even if the whole world forgets you... I won’t. I’ll always hold you. Forever.”

You buried your face in his chest, let the tears fall.

And he held you.

You weren’t sure when mornings became your favorite time of day.

It used to be the worst—dragging yourself out of bed, cold floors, rushed routines, alarm clocks that made you groan. But now? Now mornings felt like warmth before the sun even reached the sky.

Because now… Armin was part of them.

A soft hand brushed a few curls from your forehead, gentle as a whisper.

“Time to wake up, angel,” Armin murmured, voice hoarse with sleep and thick with affection. You could feel his breath ghosting against your skin as he leaned over you, the faint smell of chamomile tea and honey clinging to his hoodie.

You hummed sleepily and burrowed deeper into the warmth of the blanket. “Too early…”

Armin chuckled—a low, sleepy sound you’d come to adore. “I let you snooze for fifteen extra minutes. If you sleep any longer, you’ll miss your train, remember?”

He always did that. Let you sleep in, but not enough to ruin your day. He'd time it perfectly, even if it meant getting up first just to make things easier for you.

Your eyelids fluttered open, greeted by soft golden morning light peeking through the curtains... and Armin’s face above you, bathed in it.

His eyes were impossibly blue this close. Like the sea. Like peace.

“Good morning,” he whispered, brushing the tip of his nose against yours. “I made you tea. And toast. And those strawberries you like are cut up in a little bowl. The sweet ones.”

Your heart ached in the way it only could when someone loved you that gently.

You stretched your arm out from under the blanket, eyes half-lidded, and lazily wrapped it around his neck, pulling him closer. “Just one more minute… Stay.”

He hesitated for only a second before sighing with a smile and crawling under the covers next to you. “One minute,” he agreed, laying on his side to face you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “But if we both fall asleep again, I’m not taking the blame when you miss your train.”

“Deal,” you whispered against his chest, heart slow and safe and full.

The clock ticked somewhere in the background, but it didn't matter. Not right now.

All that mattered was the way Armin held you in the quiet warmth of a morning meant just for the two of you—gentle, soft, and so full of love it made you wonder how you ever lived without this.

The world felt a little less daunting whenever Armin Arlert was near. It was as if the sun itself leaned down to kiss the crown of his golden hair, illuminating every strand like threads of spun sunlight. You swore you could stare at him forever, tracing every gentle curve of his soft features, the way his brows furrowed in concentration when he read, or the way his eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled. Those eyes, ocean blue and deep as the endless sea — you could drown in them and thank the tide for pulling you under.

You were hopelessly in love with him. Everyone knew it.

It wasn’t as if you kept it a secret. Whenever you were with your friends, Armin’s name slipped from your lips more often than your own. You talked about how he was always the first to help anyone in need, how he’d stay up late tutoring you for that history test when he could barely keep his eyes open himself. You’d gush about how gentle he was, how he always spoke so softly, as if afraid his words might shatter in the air.

And when you were alone, it was worse.

In the privacy of your room, Armin filled the silence. You would lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling, and whisper his name just to hear how it sounded in the quiet. You’d replay every conversation, every stolen glance, every moment he laughed at one of your jokes like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. You memorized the way he said your name, the way his lips shaped the syllables like a secret he was too shy to reveal.

And the way he looked at you — oh, it drove you mad.

Armin had a habit of staring at you when he thought you weren’t looking. You’d catch him, sometimes, blue eyes soft and wide, as if he couldn’t quite believe you were real. And then he’d blink, cheeks flushing a delicate pink, and turn back to his book, pretending he hadn’t been looking at all.

You ached to tell him how much you loved him. But how could you? How could you possibly put into words the way your heart beat a little faster when he was near, how your chest tightened every time he said your name? How could you explain that whenever he touched you — even something as simple as a hand on your shoulder or a brush of fingers when handing you a pencil — it felt like sparks shooting down your spine, like fireworks bursting under your skin?

You couldn’t. So you kept it to yourself, clinging to every little moment as if they were lifelines keeping you afloat in a sea of unspoken feelings.

But sometimes, it felt like the universe was conspiring against you.

One day, you and Armin were sitting together in the library, a thick history book spread between you. You were supposed to be studying, but Armin’s proximity was making it impossible to concentrate. He was leaning close, head tilted toward you as he read aloud, his soft voice lulling you into a dreamy haze.

“… and then the first battle of…”

You weren’t listening. You couldn’t. Not when you were so close to him, close enough to count every tiny freckle dusted across his cheeks. Close enough to smell the faint scent of lavender soap clinging to his skin. Close enough to see the way his lashes cast delicate shadows under his eyes.

“… hey, are you even listening?”

You snapped back to reality, heat flooding your cheeks. Armin was staring at you, head tilted, a slight pout on his lips.

“Uh — yeah!” you said quickly, forcing a smile. “First battle. Got it.”

Armin squinted at you, unconvinced. “You look… flustered.”

“Me? Flustered? No way.”

Armin smiled, soft and sweet, and your heart did a somersault in your chest. “You’re cute when you’re flustered,” he said, almost shyly.

Your brain short-circuited. Did he just — did Armin Arlert just call you cute?

You felt your face burn, and suddenly the room felt too hot, too small. “I — I need some air,” you said, standing up so quickly that your chair screeched against the floor. “Be right back!”

You practically sprinted out of the library, heart pounding like a drum against your ribcage. Outside, you leaned against the cool stone wall, clutching your chest as if that would keep your heart from bursting right out of you.

Cute. He called you cute.

You were hopeless. Completely, utterly hopeless.

Back inside, Armin watched you go, his eyes lingering on the door long after you’d disappeared. His fingers drummed nervously against the table, and he swallowed, eyes lowering to the table as he remembered the look on your face.

Jean Kirstein x Reader | Enemies to Lovers | Roommate AU | Slow Burn | Angst | Fluff | Tension | Drunken Kiss

You knew it would be hell the moment you saw his name on the rooming list.

Jean Kirstein.

You could already picture it: his smug face, his cocky tone, the endless sarcastic comments he’d toss your way like darts just to see you flinch. The universe had to be laughing when it paired you with him—of all people. Not Connie, not Sasha, not even Reiner. Jean. The walking embodiment of your last nerve.

He wasn’t thrilled either. When he walked into the apartment and saw you standing there with your box of books and narrowed eyes, he stopped dead in the doorway and groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You scoffed, dragging your box toward the nearest bookshelf. “Trust me, I’m not exactly thrilled either, roomie.”

The first week was manageable. Barely. You split groceries like civil adults, took turns with the trash, and even shared the living room without trying to murder each other. But the truce crumbled over a single, unwashed dish.

“That’s been in the sink for three days,” you snapped, arms crossed as Jean slouched on the couch, phone in hand.

He didn’t even look up. “It’s your plate.”

“No, it’s your plate. I don’t even eat off those ugly blue ones.”

He turned, slow and infuriatingly relaxed. “Are you seriously cataloguing my dishes now?”

And that was how the war began. Over dishes.

From then on, it was a series of petty battles: passive-aggressive notes stuck to the fridge, towels mysteriously vanishing from the bathroom, the TV remote hidden in obscure places. Jean would smirk when he saw you searching for it, arms folded like he’d won something.

“You’re such a child,” you muttered more than once.

“You’re one to talk,” he’d always shoot back, with a grin that made you want to slap it—and maybe kiss it—off his face.

Because here was the worst part: you didn’t hate him.

You couldn’t.

For all his arrogance, Jean was surprisingly thoughtful sometimes. He refilled your tea when you were curled up on the couch with a cold. You caught him once folding your hoodie after laundry instead of just tossing it onto your bed. He’d pretend he didn’t do it, of course. Play it cool. But you saw. You noticed.

And it drove you insane.

Because under all the bickering, the banter, the eye rolls, there was something else—a spark, a weightless kind of tension that filled every quiet moment you shared. A stolen glance when your fingers brushed in the hallway. A pause too long when he’d say your name and forget what he was going to say.

You were both pretending not to notice.

Until that night.

It was Connie’s birthday. A night of laughter, loud music, drinks flowing too fast. You told yourself one more shot wouldn’t hurt. Jean was already tipsy, cheeks flushed, hair messier than usual as he leaned in to yell over the music. “You’re not as annoying when you’re drunk.”

“Neither are you,” you replied, dazed, warm, breathless from laughing too hard.

You stumbled into the apartment together at 2am, giggling like kids, arms brushing as you kicked off your shoes. The air between you felt thick, electric, like something waiting to snap.

He looked at you too long.

You looked back.

“Night,” you whispered, hand on your door.

“Wait,” he said, quiet.

You turned—and he was closer. Right there. Eyes darker, lashes casting shadows under the soft hallway light. You didn’t think. Or maybe you did, but the moment was louder than your thoughts.

He kissed you.

Desperate, uncoordinated, teeth knocking and lips too eager, tasting of whiskey and want and something buried for too long. His hands were in your hair. Yours clutched at his shirt like gravity itself depended on it. His breath hitched when you pulled him closer. Yours stuttered when he whispered your name between kisses.

You didn’t go further. You didn’t need to. The kiss said everything.

But the next morning?

Silence.

You both acted like it didn’t happen.

The apartment was full of quiet clinks and awkward glances. Jean made coffee like usual. You scrolled through your phone like you weren’t replaying every second of it. Neither of you spoke.

And that became the new game.

Pretending.

You still bickered. Still argued over dishes and towels. But something had shifted. Your banter felt heavier now. Every time you looked at him, you remembered how his lips felt on yours. He’d glance at your mouth mid-argument and forget what he was saying.

The tension became unbearable.

One night, you found him on the balcony, hoodie pulled tight, cigarette between his fingers. You stepped outside, drawn by something you couldn’t name. The city lights flickered below. Neither of you spoke for a long while.

He broke the silence.

“I didn’t mean to kiss you.”

Your chest clenched. “I know.”

A pause.

“I mean, I wanted to. But I didn’t plan it.”

You bit your lip, eyes on the street below. “Me neither.”

Another long silence.

“Do you regret it?” he asked, so soft it almost got lost in the wind.

You didn’t answer right away. “I regret pretending it didn’t happen.”

That made him look at you. Really look.

His voice was hoarse. “Then don’t.”

And you didn’t.