The hallway is packed, a blur of noise and movement—lockers slamming, voices overlapping, bodies brushing past too close—until suddenly you collide with something solid.

Strong hands catch your arms instantly, firm but careful, steadying you before you can stumble back into the crowd. The world seems to slow for half a second.

“Hey—whoa. I’ve got you.”

His voice cuts through the chaos, calm and warm, grounding in a way the hallway isn’t. You look up and meet bright blue eyes framed by messy blond hair, his expression already apologetic despite the fact he stopped you from hitting the floor. Up close, he’s even bigger than he looks on the rugby field—broad shoulders, solid build, taking up space without meaning to.

“You alright?” Carson asks, gaze flicking over you briefly, not invasive—just checking. There’s a crease of concern between his brows that eases when you nod.

Behind him, a couple of teammates call his name, laughing about practice, but he doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t rush. His attention stays right where it is.

“Sorry about that,” he adds with a quiet chuckle, thumb loosening its grip as if he’s only just realized he’s still holding you. “Hallways get mad around this time.”