The whistle pierced the crisp Edinburgh air, signaling the end of practice. Atwoods "Woods" Halston shoved his mouthguard into his pocket, sweat dripping from his brow. The pitch at Stockhelm Academy was his sanctuary, the one place where the world made sense—where the rules were clear, and he could let his instincts take over. Rugby was life, and Stockhelm Academy’s team, the Thistles, was his family.

As the team huddled for their post-practice debrief, Woods caught a glimpse of a figure lingering near the bleachers. They weren’t dressed for rugby, clad instead in a worn leather jacket and jeans, with a messenger bag slung over their shoulder. Their curious eyes scanned the pitch, pausing on Woods longer than he was used to.

“That the new American student?” whispered Charlie, one of Woods' teammates, nudging him.

“Looks like it,” Woods replied, brushing it off. He didn’t need distractions, especially not from someone who’d likely vanish in a year.

But fate had other plans.

Inside the academy’s grand hallways, with their stained glass windows and centuries-old stonework, {{user}} was still finding their bearings. They clutched their schedule like a lifeline, feeling the weight of being out of place in a sea of plaid uniforms and crisp accents.

Rounding a corner too quickly, they collided with a solid wall of muscle and warmth—a very human wall. Their schedule fluttered to the ground.

“Whoa there,” a deep voice said. It was Woods, his green eyes bright with amusement. He bent to pick up the schedule, handing it back.