How many times had Armin passed this shop window? Yet it was the first time that the bell rang as he entered the shop. A woman behind the counter gave him a friendly smile that he returned before turning to face the rows of flowers.

Red roses were front and center, but something about them did not feel quite right. He moved on to a half-full display of daffodils, pale yellow and misty from a recent watering when it occurred to him that he was not limited to merely guessing at this. He tapped Historia's name into the screen and pulled the phone to his ear just as she picked up.

"I have a favor to ask."

"Ok?" Historia said quizzically.

"Does–" This was silly. He pursed his lips. "Does Eren know what flowers Mikasa likes?"

The gasp on the other line was enough to make him pinch his brow in embarrassment.

"That's so cute," she gushed.

He stared out the window.

"I doubt he does," Historia continued, her amusement not hidden in the least, "But I do. Although, it might cost you."

"Cost me?"

"Tell me what they're for."

He rolled his eyes.

"I'm going to her show tonight."

"To the Nutcracker? And you're bringing flowers?" Historia had that gushing voice again.

"Are you going to tell me?" He asked.

"Ok, ok. I don't know if they're her favorite, but she likes daisies. They were in my bouquet at the wedding. She told me how much she likes them."

He commented only with a hum, busy now appraising the selection at hand. He brushed his thumb lightly over a white petal.

"Color?" He plied, hopefully.

"Mine were blue," Historia offered.

"Oh. Ok, thanks."

He was regaled with a fresh round of excitement at the other end of the line before he could say goodbye and hang up. She had always been supportive, but he still had to wonder why exactly she seemed so invested in his newfound… Relationship?

Armin shook the thought from his head. It could do nothing but derail him if he thought too hard about it, and he was determined to make it to the ballet without getting himself worked up. He needed to remain calm. And, considering that he would not be plagued by a pushy donor all night, he thought it might just be doable to spend a normal evening with Mikasa.

He focused his energy on looking over the small selection of daisies and plucking out the best of them.

"Do you want to write a card?" the shopkeeper said innocently as they rang him up, with not a clue that they were throwing an entirely new conundrum at Armin. He bit his lip.

Would she want a card? What would he say?

He shook his head tersely. Better to be safe. He already feared this was a step too far as it was.

Florally armed, he made his way to the ballet hall.

The performance was equally as enjoyable to watch as the last and it dawned on him that he really did enjoy watching the ballet, and not only for the fact of Mikasa's being involved. Though he wished she were there. He imagined her beside him, able to tell him all about the story and behind-the-scenes. As it was, he relied on the printed program to better understand the Nutcracker ballet. For Mikasa's personal insights, he would have to wait.

After the show, he mulled awkwardly in the hall outside of the backstage entrance. Dancers shuffled around him as he waited for a glimpse of anyone he might know, when a tall figure, still in full costume, came to a stop in front of him.

"Hey, Armin," Marco said brightly.

Armin smiled and returned the greeting, grateful to have his anxious waiting period come to an end. Marco grinned widely when he spied the bouquet in Armin's arms.

"Mikasa's in her dressing room," Marco offered, motioning down the hall. "Here– C'mon."

Armin followed dutifully down a small side hallway to a door with a small window on top and three names printed neatly on a sheet of paper that was slipped into a plastic cover sheet and tacked beside the door jamb.

Ackerman, M., Blouse, S., Leonhart, A.

Marco rapped out a jaunty knock on the door and called out,

"Mikasa!"

Armin watched through the little bit of glass as Mikasa's head snapped toward the door. She fell out of sight as the door cracked open. Annie and Sasha slipped out of the room, catching sight of Armin at once.

Annie smirked at the bouquet in his hands before glancing at Sasha. Sasha grinned and called out a brief hello as she pulled Annie toward the main hall. But before Armin could clarify whether he ought to wait outside, Marco had already said goodbye and now jogged down the hall to catch up with the other two. Armin swallowed and tapped on the door before easing it open.

Mikasa looked surprised at first. Then her lips curved into a soft smile. He had not seen her in person since the night of the gala, and his pulse reflected the growing anticipation he felt.

"I brought these," he said nervously as she glanced furtively between him and the daisies.

She moved closer with caution. When she was as close as she could be without touching him, he pressed the bouquet into her arms.

Mikasa bent her head as Armin tipped his face to hers. He felt the tickle of hair on his cheek when she kissed him. His fingers remained on top of her hands, where she clasped the bouquet. He parted his lips, lost in the unexpected pleasure of her gentleness. The plastic wrapping around the flowers crinkled between them when he leaned into her.

She broke away, cradling her flowers protectively.

"You like them?" He said, smiling shyly.

"I like them. Was–"

She toed the ground. Her feet were still clad in her pointe shoes.

"Armin?"

"Yeah?"

"Is there anywhere else?"

"I don't know. I didn't know about–"

He touched his cheek again, seeing now how obvious it seemed. He could not even remember the feeling of Mikasa's fingers on his face, only the other memories that were held there.

"I'm sorry," he finished.

"You don't have to be sorry," she murmured.

She met his eyes.

"Was that ok?"

"Yes," he said, not able to hold back the grin that surfaced.

"What's funny?" She asked, reflecting his smile.

He shook his head.

"Sorry, it's just," he bit his lip. "It was more than ok."

She nodded slowly.

"Ok," she said quietly. Soft as it was, her voice had a new lift to it.

"Actually, I– I have something else," he admitted.

Mikasa pulled her flowers closer before stealing a glance at the blooms.

"Something else?" She said as if she could not even imagine it.

Armin blushed at the fear that he had overdone it, but then she smiled.

"I have something for you, too," she said quickly.

She turned suddenly to the countertop at the back of the room. It was full to the edge with stage makeup mostly, accented here and there by a stray ribbon or a spool of pink thread— both the same color as the pointe shoes that Mikasa was stripping off now. As she stuffed them into a well-used duffel bag, she in turn withdrew a small box that she brought right to his hands. He did not think he was imagining that she seemed shy when she wished him a quiet 'Merry Christmas.'

And then she stuttered and blushed and her voice tightened even more.

"Can you?" She paused. "Sorry, can you help with this? Usually, Sasha helps, but—" Mikasa trailed off. Her eyes were on the floor, but her fingers toyed at the hem of the tutu of the costume that still adorned her.

"I mean, this part is easy," she stammered. He did not even know she could stammer like this. "But the bodice is tricky."

Armin did not need to see in the mirror to know how stricken he must look.

"Or I can go get one of them," she suggested nervously, glancing at the door.

"I can help," he barely managed to say, setting the perfectly wrapped box she had given him on a nearby bench.

"Thanks. Sorry," she rushed out all at once, turning her back slowly to him.

A field of crisscrossed laces presented themselves down her back, and he now understood why it might present a challenge, even for her.

"I should've had wardrobe take it off backstage," she said. Her voice had resumed its usual matter of fact-ness, but she could not completely hide the faint quiver beneath her words.

"It's ok. I don't mind," he murmured.

He loosened the first set of ribbons at her lower back, though he accidentally tugged too hard at first and felt the resistance of her body. But she was clearly used to the process and barely moved in response.

As he worked his way up, it was so tight that he could feel each breath she took. And when he reached the middle of her back, he paused. His eyes caught on the pale triangle of skin that was beginning to reveal itself beneath the strands of ties that he had already loosened. Mikasa's head turned not even an inch; just enough that he knew she had taken notice of his stopping. He blinked away the haze and resumed.

By the time he reached the top, she had to hold the front of the bodice to keep it from falling forward. For a moment, he thought she was about to let it go.

A stab of embarrassment interrupted the warmth that had begun to spread from his core. He was staring at her, he realized, before quickly looking away.

"Thanks," she said softly.

They stood a moment, and he contemplated that she was either about to ask him to leave, or about to begin undressing.

"I'll let you change," he stammered, deciding for himself. He did not want to cross that bridge yet; not like this.

Armin reclaimed his gift from the bench and escaped to the hallway. The usual buzz of the back halls was mostly dissipated and it was thankfully quieter now. He turned the box over in his hands.

It was wrapped with precision and adorned with a small golden bow. His name was written out in a neat script. He considered the box that was tucked beneath the seat of his car for Mikasa. His wrapping job was not bad by any means (having had many years of practice helping wrap gifts after his early discovery of the ruse that was Santa Claus), but it seemed lackluster now.

The door clicked open to the left of where he stood, back against the wall. Mikasa emerged with the bouquet cradled close to her chest in one arm. Her bag was slung over the other shoulder.

"Ready?"

"Yeah," he said, a smile escaping him. "Do you want me to carry something?"

"That's ok. Thanks."

He followed her lead as she headed away from the little dressing room, still fiddling with the box in his hands. It was light and evenly-weighted and he hadn't the faintest idea what it could be.

"Do you want to come over?" She glanced at him, but her eyes quickly returned to focusing straight ahead. "I have coffee."

"Oh. Actually, I'm trying to drink less coffee."

The eyebrow raise she sent him said all she needed to say.

"Well, at night," he clarified.

It was true. He had set a cutoff time for himself. Perhaps 6:00 p.m. was still fairly late, but it had to be an improvement over drinking it past midnight.

Mikasa pushed the metal door to the outside open with her back before Armin could even reach it, leaving him to parade through with his nearly unencumbered hands. She waited until they were a few feet more from the door before asking,

"So are you sleeping better?"

He nodded slowly.

"I think so."

Her shoulder brushed his. He had a sudden urge to lean into her.

"I have tea," she offered next, her lips curling into a tentative smile.

He accepted right away.

However, as Armin soon discovered, Mikasa's apartment had tea and not much else to speak of, as physical possessions went. From the moment he walked in, the starkness of it hit him. He set down the two boxes he had carried up from the car: Mikasa's immaculately wrapped gift, and his less-perfect one for her.

Her kitchen counter bore only an electric kettle and the two mugs she had just pulled out. The cabinet that she had taken them from looked almost bare.

"Did you just move in?" He asked, trying to remember if she had mentioned anything on the subject.

Mikasa paused.

"Two years ago," she said quietly.

Armin looked back at the single chair in the living room with a lone table beside it. There was a TV, too, and in a nook near the kitchen sat a neatly staged dining table with four chairs and an empty vase that she was now pulling from the surface and carrying back to the kitchen sink. He thought he caught a glimpse of a frown.

"I'm sorry," he said right away, meeting her at the sink. "I was just surprised. You've seen how messy my place is."

He had not meant to judge. It was only that he was shocked. He had taken her for a more social person— at least, more social than him. There were so many questions already rising to mind, but he let them fall away when he felt how she leaned into where his palm met her arm. His chest tightened when she responded with a real smile.

"Your place isn't messy." She said it fondly, then pulled the plastic wrapping from the bouquet in the sink. "It looks like you live there," she added.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that," he said quickly.

She shook her head.

"No, it's true. I'm not here much, I guess, anyway."

As she said it she snipped with precision at the flower stems, cutting each one to size. To Armin's surprise, she continued unprompted.

"When Levi was living with us, that was my favorite time. After he went to that summer program. The one I told you about?"

He nodded. She pushed the faucet over the vase.

"He used to play his violin all the time. It was nice having someone else there. I had always wanted a sibling and even though we didn't talk much, it was like I had a brother for a year."

Armin leaned his back into the counter. The kettle hissed.

"Were you already dancing?" He asked, even though he was sure she must have been.

"Yes," she said warmly, "And then I met Eren. My mother was teaching for our age group when he started in her class. Then it really was like having a big brother. He's kind of," she trailed off.

"Protective?" Armin guessed.

He had seen how it came out here and there, especially now that Historia was expecting. Mikasa nodded with a small laugh.

"He still is. Backstage, with everyone, he's always looking out." Mikasa rolled her eyes, then shut off the faucet. "And the old director— Eren hated him."

Armin's pulse accelerated as he recalled the conversation that he had walked in on, in Eren and Historia's living room. Even the name had stuck in his memory.

"Zackly?"

"Yes," Mikasa confirmed, an edge entering her voice.

Did he really dare to ask?

"What did he do?"

She placed the first daisy in the vase.

"What didn't he do?" She began placing pairs and trios of stalks beside each other, methodical and careful with each motion. "I guess it depends on the person. But he was mean at best."

Armin could not help but think of Marco's discomfort when Zackly had been brought up. Or how he seemed, like him, so crowd-avoidant. Armin's heart dropped.

"Did he do something?"

He kept his tone calm and even, though whether for himself or for her he did not know.

But she shook her head. The arrangement was complete in the vase, and she walked it back to the bare dining table.

"Not to me."

She met his gaze, then. The guilt pricked at him and he swallowed thickly.

"About the other night," he began.

It stuck in his throat. He had imagined telling her, but now he balked. This was so much more than admitting to her about the nightmare. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, though she lowered her voice.

"Armin."

"I feel like I owe you an explanation," he said, eyes averted.

He half-expected she would come up to him next, and half-dreaded it suddenly. Would she insist that he could tell her? Tell him how much he should trust her.

She passed him by, with only a soft look directed at him, and reached for the steaming kettle.

"You don't owe me anything," she said, filling each cup to just below the brim. "Except, maybe, to open your present."

Mikasa pushed his mug down the counter before reaching for the two boxes and handing him his. He could not help but smile.

He carefully peeled back the paper along with the skillfully hidden pieces of tape that affixed it, slowly placing the wrapping on the counter beside his mug of brewing tea. Beneath the paper with tiny Christmas trees was a nondescript white box. He popped it open and pulled out the first glove. His brow knit together as he thumbed the soft, knitted fabric.

"You shouldn't have," he murmured.

When he looked up, his surprise was only extended by the wide-eyed expression she sported as she held up the small sealed box of wireless earbuds that he had picked up the day before. They hardly seemed like anything at all compared to hand-knitted gloves, much less deserving of her reaction.

"You said yours broke," he explained hastily. If anything, it had been very convenient for him. Until that happened earlier in the week, he had been trying desperately to figure out the right gift for her.

She bit her lip.

"Thank you," she said, emphasizing it.

"No, it's– It's nothing like—"

He held the gloves out as if to finish the sentence.

"Oh, no, I just knit at rehearsal breaks anyway," she said as if that was supposed to devalue them. "And your hands are always cold. Here, try them on. I had to guess your size."

Whatever her methods of guessing were, she had managed complete accuracy. He pulled on both gloves, balled his hands then opened them up again. They fit perfectly.

"You like them?" She asked in a small voice.

"Oh. Yes! Yes, I—" He felt the flush wash across his cheeks at the blatant enthusiasm, but her face was lighting up. "Thank you."

He slid them off carefully and placed them back into their box, then picked up the hot cup of tea. He was still grinning. Mikasa looked across her apartment.

"Sorry, I don't have many places to sit."

"Oh. I don't mind. I've been sitting all day, anyway. But— Aren't you tired?"

"A little. The Nutcracker always runs long since it's so popular, and I've been dancing a lot this month," she admitted.

"I can let you get to sleep," he offered, sipping on his tea.

It was not quite coffee, but he supposed it was worth the extra sleep he seemed to be getting lately.

"You can finish that first." But then she toed the floor and looked down suddenly before blurting out, "Are you free the Saturday after next?"

He quickly thought through the symphony concert schedule (the only schedule that had typically governed his life until now).

"I'm pretty sure I'm free," he said finally. "Did you have something in mind?" He asked, intrigued by her specificity.

A faint blush appeared on her cheeks.

"There's going to be a little party backstage." She looked up at him. "For my birthday."