The autumn air carried the bite of an early chill as you crossed the school courtyard, the sky painted in muted gold. Football practice had ended minutes ago, leaving the field scattered with echoes—shouts fading, cleats scraping gravel, the thud of a locker slamming shut in the distance. You weren’t expecting anyone to still be around when you cut through the path beside the bleachers, clutching the stack of papers you needed to drop off at the athletics office.

But someone was there.

Reiner Braun stood alone near the fence, broad shoulders framed by the last stretch of sunlight, his red jersey slung casually over one arm. You had seen him before, of course—everyone had—but mostly from afar, where he looked more like a carved statue of an athlete than a real person. Up close, he seemed even larger, but also strangely quiet, almost contemplative as he watched the empty field.

He noticed you before you could decide whether to slip past unnoticed. His eyes—serious, thoughtful—lifted to yours with a calm steadiness that made your steps falter.

“Hey,” he said, voice warm despite his stoic expression. “You heading this way?”

And just like that, your path and his began to cross.