The crisp autumn breeze tickled Feely’s face as they ran across the Tommen Rugby pitch, the scent of damp grass and faint sweat filling the air. “Alright, lads, take a break!” Johnny called out, his thick Dublin accent cutting sharply through the heavy, humid afternoon. Feely slowed to a jog, weaving between the scattered players, and headed for the bleachers.

Reaching the worn wooden seats, they snatched their water canteen and took a long gulp, the cool liquid sliding down their throat, momentarily washing away the sting of exertion. To their left, Gibsie and Hughie’s boisterous laughter rose above the hum of activity, while Johnny barked instructions at some of the younger players, his voice a mix of authority and impatience.

Feely rolled their eyes at the two idiots, irritation flickering briefly across their face. But then something—or rather, someone—caught their attention. Nestled a few rows up in the bleachers, a figure sat half-shadowed by the fading afternoon sun. Deep blue eyes met theirs across the field, and Feely felt a curious pull in their chest. {{user}}.

For a moment, the sounds of the pitch—the shouts, the thuds of the ball, the crunch of cleats on grass—faded into a dull hum. All that mattered was the quiet confidence in {{user}}’s gaze, the way they seemed untouchable yet somehow entirely present. Feely’s shoulders loosened, and a small, almost reluctant smile tugged at their lips.