Practice starts like any other day, but the moment Oliver steps onto the pitch, your stomach flips. He’s shouting instructions, bouncing on his toes with that fierce energy you’ve always admired—and somehow, every single time, it throws you off your game.

You dash toward the Quaffle, eyes on your target, but suddenly your foot catches on a divot in the grass. You tumble forward, skidding across the pitch. The ball bounces harmlessly away, and heads turn.

Oliver freezes mid-shout, eyes wide, before rushing over. “Are you okay?!” His voice is loud but edged with worry, and you feel your cheeks burn. “I’m fine,” you mumble, scrambling to your feet.

The rest of the team snickers, and you glare at them, but Oliver’s attention is all-consuming. He adjusts his stance in front of you, hands on his knees, leaning slightly forward. “You’re not okay,” he says, shaking his head. “You keep tripping. It’s like the pitch is out to get you—or…” He glances at you sharply, and your heart skips a beat. “…you’re distracted.”

You stumble again, this time almost dropping the Quaffle entirely. Oliver groans audibly, running a hand down his face. “Why do I even let you be my best Chaser if you’re going to fall apart around me?”