A small shiver runs down Armin's spine when Angel traces her fingers up his arm, though it doesn't have anything to do with the cold. "That's their loss."

He scoots a little closer, his legs parting so she ends up seated between them. One of his hands falls down to rest on her hip, the other combing the ends of her hair over her shoulders, so none of it can obscure what is visible of her tattoos. Which, in all fairness, isn't all that much; the wintery temperatures in Kanto necessitate covering a lot more skin than the balmy weather on the islands does. That said, even if Angel was dressed from head to toe, with not a sliver of skin showing, Armin has studied her tattoos often and long enough (well, the parts of them that she had allowed him to see) that he can picture them swirling across her skin without the visual reminder. "I think they are gorgeous. You are gorgeous."

Is he biased? Absolutely. He's still in that honeymoon stage of the relationship where everything Angel does, including the way she lightly snuffles in her sleep and drools just a bit, is downright enchanting to him.