Atwoods Halston had seen plenty of faces before—grinning ones, scowling ones, ones twisted in laughter, ones he’d kissed and forgotten all in the same night. But them? He’d never seen them before.

The moment they stepped into the lecture hall, something in his chest tilted, like the world had shifted half an inch off its axis. He was mid-conversation with Moylo, feet kicked up on the chair in front of him, lazily balancing a pen between his fingers. But his words died in his throat, and the pen slipped, clattering against the desk.

Moylo barely noticed. "—bloody referee had it out for us, I swear, should’ve seen—"

Atwoods wasn’t listening anymore.

They moved like they belonged anywhere and nowhere all at once. A quiet kind of presence, not demanding attention, but owning it all the same. He watched the way they tucked their hair behind their ear, the way their eyes flickered across the room, searching for an empty seat. He’d seen a hundred people sit down before, and yet somehow, watching them do it felt... important.

And then—shite—their eyes met his.

Just for a second. A flicker, a moment, a heartbeat stretched too thin. But it was enough.

Atwoods, who always had a quip on his lips, who could charm his way out of anything, was suddenly useless. He forgot how to breathe properly, forgot how to look casual—his entire body went stiff, like he’d just been tackled on the pitch with no warning.

They looked away first, completely unaware of the absolute mess they’d just made of him.

Moylo finally caught onto his silence, nudging him. "Oi, you alright?"

Atwoods blinked, forced himself to breathe. "Yeah," he muttered, rubbing his jaw.

Liar.