You’re jogging laps around the track, wind in your hair, sneakers hitting the ground in a steady rhythm. The sun catches on the leaves, the air smells like fresh grass, and for a moment, everything feels calm, perfect.

And then you notice him.

Jason Ions. He’s over on the field, tossing a football with his friends. Tall. Lean. British-perfect. That precise, posh posture, the way he moves—so controlled, so effortless. Even laughing, he somehow looks like he’s rehearsed it all in a mirror.

You can’t stop watching. The light hits his hair just right. The tilt of his head when he throws the ball. The way he’s careful, polite, even in play. He doesn’t dominate the game, doesn’t show off, just… exists, perfectly balanced between charm and composure.

And you, running past, heart beating faster for reasons you don’t fully understand, can’t help but smile. You’re supposed to be focused on the track, on your breathing, on the nature around you. But Jason—Ions—has stolen every thought.

You barely notice the football until it smacks the side of your head.