Armin's willful gaze never faltered.

He simply looked on, big blue eyes glimmering with the prospect of you actually agreeing to the suggestion of staying with him at his house. With his parents handling business overseas, it left an entire mansion at his disposal and an empty feeling inside his chest; he had become impeccably lonely, especially since Eren had been spending most of his time with you lately. He couldn't help but feel a bit left out... but maybe you could change that.

"I could also help you study, if you want."

He adds that bit as a last ditch effort to sway your decision. He could tell you were thinking it over a little too hard, but why, he wasn't sure. You said you needed a place to stay, you said you were falling behind in your courses— he was the perfect one to help you with both of those things. The answer was staring you right in the face, one that was pretty and blonde and oh so fucking cunning.

You were hesitant.

You knew Armin could help you, but at what cost? Was he offering for your benefit, or his own? Both?

It pained you to realize that after everything you've experienced with Armin, you still couldn't trust him. Not completely, anyways. The connection you had with him was nothing compared to the one you had with Eren. It was different— more lustfully charged and vapid as your desire for his touch was very much apparent, but that's where things ran short. Maybe it was your weariness that kept him at arms length, or maybe it was the way that Armin reminded you too much of yourself.

Quite, seemingly innocent, but capable of destruction if you so willed it.

You couldn't deny it any further, you had become the villian in your own story— even if you weren't the only one, even if you hadn't set out to become this person— the fact remains that you were responsible for breaking someone's heart. You were deceptive;

duplicitous.

And while you may not have known much about Armin, you knew Eren seemed awfully fond of him (in more ways than one,) and that made you curious about him. Intrigued by the way he so effortlessly seems to puppeteer the world around him— so mysterious and calculating, yet sweet and tender— completely opposite of his more abrasive, impulsive, emotionally driven companion who wore his heart on his sleeve.

So, despite your better judgment...

"Okay, I'll stay with you."

His lips curve into a soft smile, the excitement is shown through his fingertips as he tightly squeezes your thigh in response, just as Mr. Ackerman begins his lecture. You expect him to move his hand, but he doesn't. Although his grip loosens, his heated palm lays heavy in your lap as he begins to take notes— typing away at his laptop with the hand that isn't otherwise occupied by the plush of your soft skin.

You begin to take notes of your own, trying your hardest to pay attention to what your professor says but with the way Armin's long, slender fingers creep their way further upward— slipping underneath the hem of your skirt that you're beginning to regret wearing this morning— it's growing increasingly difficult to think about anything other than the heat igniting between your legs.

The tips of his fingers tease the fabric of your undergarments, but he doesn't go further than that— opting to carefully tease your center with delicate, fleeting detail. Would you come to regret this arrangement? You certainly hoped not, but the hesitation in your decision didn't stop you from instinctively opening your legs just a little bit wider.

And if nothing else, the sinful smirk that played on his lips told you that you just might.

Couch hopping wasn't exactly the life you imagined for yourself when you first started your journey into adulthood, but it's the bed you made for yourself and you were ready to lay in it— at least until you were able to find an apartment of your own. Thankfully you had a decent amount of savings courtesy of an inheritance your parents left for you upon their death, which was practically the reason you were even able to afford your college funds. Still, you needed to be smart with your finances all while being able to find a safe place to live in the mean time.

Adulting is hard work and quite frankly, you were doing a terrible job at it so far.

With plans to meet up at Armin's place later, you had already cleared out your things from Mr. Ackerman's condo, cleaning up every nook and cranny to make sure everything was spotlessly clean. All you had to do now was head back to your old apartment and grab a few more items, like fresh clothing and anything else you may need. You'd been lucky enough so far to avoid Jean, hopefully it would continue to remain that way.

Well, luck was not on your side this time.

Unlocking the door with your key proved to be pointless, as the door swings open before you can properly slot it into the handle. Jean's cold, voided gaze meets your eyes as he gives you a once over, examining your form as if you were a stranger he hardly recognized.

"Jean," you breathe— your voice cracking as his name gets stuck in your throat.

He doesn't say anything at first, truthfully it takes a moment for his brain to catch up with his eyes, not having anticipated running into you so abruptly and unexpectedly. Once he realizes it's you standing there before him, his brows furrow, not in anger but relief? Almost as if he was hoping for the chance to see your face again, so that he can commit to the memory of you even for a little while longer.

It had been only but a few days without you, but despite how much his heart ached at the thought of your infidelity, it ached even more over the fact that he actually fucking missed you, even though he knew that he shouldn't.

Didn't you miss him too?

He was too afraid to ask.

"I'm just here to grab some things, I'll be quick."

The coldness in your voice shocks him.

He doesn't respond, or even say anything for a good while. He can't, truthfully— he's worried that his emotions will get the best of him if he does so. The last thing he wants to do is show you how much this is affecting him. You don't deserve it, even if you do look so pretty today— dressed up in your cutest outfit. Did you dress up for Eren? He hardly remembered a time that you made such an effort in your appearance unless it was a special occasion.

Not that he minded, you always looked gorgeous to him no matter how you were dressed.

Maybe he should have told you that more often.

"Jean... can I pass through?"

He hadn't realized he was so lost in thought— he's been so foggy lately. As much as he wanted to curse at you, make some bitter, snarky comment... he just can't. Not this time. Instead, he simply apologizes and moves to the side, making room for you come through the door. It strikes you as odd, seeing him so compliant. You decide not to question it, taking this opportunity to finish what you set out to do without much of a hassle.

He smells your perfume as you pass by— his heart palpates in his chest as the familiar scent fills his senses. He wants to hold you, breathe you in and feel the warmth of your body against his. He's fighting with himself, suppressing the urge to fold at your feet and beg for you to forgive him— as if he was the one who needed to in the first place.

Fuck, why was he acting like such a little bitch right now? He curses himself for his vulnerability, but that doesn't stop him from pathetically uttering three heavy-weighted words that he prays you didn't hear, escaping from his lips.

"I miss you."

Those three words halt you in your tracks. So pained, the way he sucks in an agonizing breath just before the dam breaks— a stream of tears rolling down his flushed cheeks, doing his best to wipe them away before they stain his t-shirt. He hated this, the way he could so easily crumble at just the sight of you— especially since he had done such a good job at faking it, his hatred for you wasn't anything but a cover for his underlying fear of losing you forever.

He could talk a big game in front of his friends, but here and now— with no one else around except for the girl who simultaneously makes his heart flutter and break all in the same breath— he just can't stop himself from becoming that of a demoralized man; his weakness, is you.

After all, isn't this what you always wanted from him? For him to bare it all to you— his emotions, his tears— instead of hiding them away until the two of you just decide to forget about it and move on. He wants you to know that he's heard you; reflected on the things you've said to him in previous conversations.

If only it wasn't too little too late.

The man standing before you is someone you hardly recognize. It's the same tall, broad body. The same messy ashen hair and striking almond eyes— but the expression on his face is something you've never seen before. It isn't one of anger or frustration, it's despair; ruin.

You've ruined him.

What's even worse, is that you can't even bring yourself to reciprocate his feelings. He says he misses you, but your own truth lies within a heart that's been beating for someone else lately, and a mind that hasn't even thought of Jean at all these past few days; not once.

What can you say to someone who's essentially poured their entire soul into three simple words?

You can't tell him the truth, not with the way he looks at you now. So, you lie.

One more time couldn't hurt, right?

"I miss you too."

His expression softens, briefly before shifting into bewilderment. He wasn't expecting you to say the same and he's not even sure if he actually believes it, but he's glad you chose this answer instead of the one he was anticipating. The shared gaze between you two is growing awkwardly uncomfortable, neither of you know what to say to each other anymore. You think about apologizing to him, but you weren't prepared to do this now. Still, you decide it's the appropriate thing to do, at least— especially now that the two of you are alone and Jean seems receptive to communicating with you, which is a rare occurrence.

"Jean, I'm sorry."

Your words flow effortlessly; it was much easier than you thought it would be, so you decide to continue.

"I messed up, I shouldn't have... done what I did. Despite our problems, you didn't deserve to be treated that way. I should have told you how I was feeling instead of—"

"No, it's not entirely your fault," he interrupts, ready to make his own form of an apology. "I shouldn't have treated you like I did. I wasn't the easiest to communicate with and I take full responsibility for that... I'm willing to work on our relationship— I forgive you for cheating, I just want to make things right between us."

"Jean, I— I don't think that's a good idea. With everything that's happened, isn't it obvious that we—"

"Please, y/n," his voice cracks, the tone of a man desperate for his heart to be mended, "I promise I'll do better... I'll find a new job, I won't bring up the cheating or anything else, won't hold it over your head— won't ask you to lift a finger around the apartment, just please... stay with me."

"It's not that simple! We can't just pretend none of this ever happened, Jean— as much as I hate how I've hurt you, we have to accept that we just aren't compatible anymore. Maybe we're just better off as friends."

Friends?

Friends?

There's no way you're trying to friend-zone him now, after years of being in a fucking relationship. How could you say that? How could you so easily dismiss him as if the two of you hadn't been together for most of your young lives? Everything the two of you felt, the love you were supposed to share for each other... was it all a lie? He couldn't believe that you didn't feel that for him anymore— it just didn't make any sense.

"Friends, y/n? Really? I can't— what are you even talking about?" He's trying his best not to let his emotions get the best of him this time. He doesn't want to go back on his word already after just moments of saying otherwise.

"I do care about you Jean, please don't think that I don't— I just... I want to be honest with you."

His heart drops into his stomach. He knows what you're about to say but he can't bring himself to hear it.

You're don't with the lies, you realize that continuing to tell Jean what he wants to hear is just as damaging as telling him how you really feel. One little lie turned into more than just that— it was your mistake for opening that door when you should have kept it closed. Now, though, you were ready to shut it, and lock it up tight.

"Jean, I—"

"Please, don't,"

he begs with his entire chest, wishing you'd grant him the opportunity to believe that of which he knows isn't true; because even if it isn't, he'll be okay with pretending that it is just for a little while longer.

You hear his pleas, but they go unanswered. For once, you decide to go with your own narrative— one that allows you to speak freely and openly without fear of the repercussions. You know what you say will hurt Jean, but you can't continue to lead him on, knowing that this is the best thing for the both of you to heal and move on.

Your voice shakes, realizing that actually saying it out loud is much more difficult than you anticipated. Still, you force them out— the words tumble from your lips quietly, in an attempt to soften the blow, if at all possible.

With a deep breath, you sigh,