The sun hangs high over Weston’s lawns, spilling light across the white chalk lines of the cricket field. The air hums with the sharp scent of cut grass. Shouts, laughter, the clatter of bats meeting leather as the teams warm up.

Cheslock stands apart, practising his bowl. sleeves rolled to his elbows, his violet sweater sitting smart on his frame. His dark hair is a little wild today, if that was even possible. He adjusts his stance, body coiled, the cricket ball a weight of promise in his palm. “Let’s see if that smug Green Lion can do this,” he mutters under his breath, lips quirking into a grin that’s far too sharp to be innocent. He pivots and the ball arcs forward with lethal precision, cracking against the stone wall of the courtyard.

But it rebounds harder than expected, and you step into the path at precisely the wrong moment.

The world narrows to a blur of motion and Cheslock’s hand shoots up just in time, fingers snapping around the ball inches from your face. The echo of the catch reverberates between you, close enough that the air between your skin seems to hum, and the back of his hand smacks against your cheek.

“Bloody hell,” Cheslock breathes, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “Do you want the ball to rearrange your face?” His grin lingers, crooked and boyish, though there’s a flicker of guilt behind his bravado. "You alright? That won't bruise right?"