Armin is quiet, but that's okay. Angel is content to enjoy the companionable silence, to have her hand be held. She knows, implicitly, that if she wasn't particularly enjoying it, she could have just as easily said to stop, or told him her hand was warm enough. That was one of the many things about Armin that she loved wholeheartedly. He might have been protective of her, but he also was capable of acknowledging her own strength and ability. He'd let her stand on her own, time and time again.

She blinks as Armin speaks. She doesn't need to look at her hand to know which one he's holding, obviously, but she does anyway. She watches how their bare fingers look beside one another. She glances to the left, down at the swirling blue waves of her tattoos, and then looks up to Armin's face.

"Not many people would hold that hand and say that, you know." Even here, there was a level of reverence for tattoos. It was strictly aesthetic, and generally Angel wasn't bothered by it. But some part of her, somewhere in the back of her mind, would always be mildly unnerved when it was the first (or only) thing people talked about.

Not Armin though. If he appreciated them, it was solely because it was a piece of the whole.

She lifts the other hand, laying it over Armin's own. She thumbs over the back of his hand, then allows her fingers to trace up his arm -- just a little. She likes how his skin feels against hers.