The quad was a maze of polished shoes and laughter, students swarming between classes, their voices echoing off the stone buildings. The smell of cut grass and warm paper cups of coffee drifted through the air. It was the kind of place where people knew where they belonged, even on the first day of classes.

Except her.

{{user}} stood at the edge of the crowd, shoulders tight, eyes darting—not lost exactly, but… untethered. Someone brushed past her, then another, sending a stack of papers tumbling from her arms. She stumbled into the railing, catching herself on the cold iron, and let out a startled breath.

Before anyone else noticed, a hand appeared, offering her the top sheet. “Here,” Michael said quietly. His voice was steady but soft, like it wasn’t used to being heard over the noise.

Her gaze met his, sharp and alert, and something clicked. Not everyone noticed, not everyone cared — but he did. Birds of a feather, maybe. Misfits in the midst of all this… glittering privilege.

Up close, he saw it instantly — that flicker of sharpness in her eyes. Not shy, not dull, just out of place. Like he’d been. Like he still was.

“Crowds here don’t really look where they’re going,” he added, a wry edge to the words. “I figured you could use a second pair of hands.”

She smiled faintly, hesitant, and he realized he wanted to say more — something that might make her understand he wasn’t just another passerby in the crowd. If you needed somebody… the way that I need you… But the words caught in his throat.

“You’ll get used to it,” he murmured, almost like a secret. Then, tilting his head slightly. “Or maybe you shouldn’t.”

He left the pause hanging there — an opening. For her to take. For her to say something back.

And then he stepped back, letting her have the space to respond. He only gave a small, almost shy nod as he realized he had forgotten his manners and added, "I'm Michael. Michael Gavey."