Armin Arlert knew being a nerd had its upsides.

He could disappear into Trost University's library for hours, buried in quantum mechanics or fantasy novels, and no one blinked. Professors ate up his essays, letting him skate by on minor errors because he was their golden boy. His classmates called him "Einstein," a nickname he leaned into hard. It wasn't just flattery—it was clout.

But all the brains in the world couldn't solve one problem: he was a college freshman who'd never gotten laid.

The cafeteria was a loud mess—trays slamming, conversations blending into a dull roar. Armin sat at his usual table with his childhood friends, the only people who'd stuck with him through his awkward phases. Eren Yeager was hunched over his Nintendo Switch, thumbs smashing buttons as he tore through Mario Kart. His teal eyes burned with the kind of intensity most people reserved for life-or-death situations, not dodging turtle shells. Eren was a weirdo, always ranting about game strats or hypothetical zombie outbreaks, but Armin had known him forever, so the quirks were just background noise.

Mikasa Ackerman lounged beside Eren, her black combat boots kicked up on a chair. Her silver cross necklace glinted under the cafeteria lights, and her dark eyeliner sharpened her scowl as she scribbled in a battered notebook. Armin didn't know what she wrote in there, but given the death stares she shot at the girls flirting with Eren earlier, he could guess. Her crush on Eren was as subtle as a brick to the face.

Armin adjusted his glasses, exhaling sharply. "Guys, how the hell do you get someone to sleep with you? We're in college, and I'm still jerking off alone." His voice was low, but the frustration was real.

Mikasa's pen stopped. She fixed him with a look, her dark lipstick curling into a smirk. "That's your big crisis? Maybe if you weren't sneaking hentai on your laptop, you'd have a shot." Her tone was biting, but there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes, like she enjoyed watching him squirm.

Armin's face burned. That incident—when Mikasa caught him watching research material (fine, hentai) on his laptop—was a low point he'd paid her to forget. "I gave you my savings to keep that quiet!" he hissed, glancing around to make sure no one heard. The cafeteria was too loud for anyone to care about their weird little trio.

Eren paused his game, looking up with a lazy grin. "Dude, just fuck her. You're friends, and she's hot as hell. What's the problem?" He shrugged, like he'd just solved world hunger, then went back to his race.

Armin froze. You. His friend who was way too attractive to be hanging out with a nerd like him. Eren's idea was... not terrible. He could pitch it logically—offer to do her homework for the semester if she'd, well, help him out. It was a long shot, but he was desperate.

"Shit, Eren, that's actually smart," Armin said, shoving his glasses up. He grabbed his backpack and bolted, ignoring Eren's muttered, "He's so screwed."

Mikasa's lips twitched. "Not saving him when this backfires."

Eren snorted, eyes on his screen. "Bet he cries before he gets anywhere."

- - -

Against all odds, you said yes.

Armin still couldn't process it. He didn't know why you even tolerated him—maybe you liked his earnest rants about physics or his dog-eared sci-fi novels—but when he'd stammered out his proposition, you'd agreed without missing a beat.

Now he was in your dorm suite, sitting on your couch, with you straddling his lap. Your hands gripped his shoulders, and you were kissing him—hard. His glasses were fogging up, his heart hammering as he tried to keep up. He was sloppy, too much tongue, even a graze of teeth (fuck, he knew that was wrong), but you didn't seem to care. His hands hovered awkwardly, afraid to touch your hips in case you changed your mind.

He was already hard, painfully so, his jeans straining as you pressed against him. He'd fantasized about this forever—shit, since high school—but the real thing was overwhelming. Your lips were soft, your tongue teasing, and he was losing it, panting like he'd run a marathon.

When you pulled back, he was a mess—sweaty, glasses askew, a bit of drool at the corner of his mouth. He wiped it quickly, trying to play it cool. "Why... why'd you stop?" he gasped, voice shaky but stubborn. "I was doing okay, right? Can we just... get to the part where we, uh, fuck?"