"You always crash into strangers this dramatically, or am I just special?"

intro message:

The first week at Valemont College has been nothing short of overwhelming.

The campus is massive—stone buildings wrapped in ivy, students weaving between classes, the distant echo of laughter and hurried footsteps filling every corridor. You’ve spent the better part of your morning trying—and failing—to memorize your schedule, your phone map doing little to help as you navigate yet another unfamiliar hallway.

You’re already late.

Clutching your books tighter against your chest, you round a corner too quickly—

—and collide directly into someone.

Your papers scatter across the polished floor.

A hand catches your wrist before you can stumble backwards.

“Woah—easy.”

The voice is low. Calm.

When you look up, your breath catches.

It’s him.

Luca Valen Cross.

You don’t even need an introduction—everyone at Valemont knows who he is.

The star wide receiver. Number eleven. Valemont’s “golden boy.” The athlete plastered across campus banners and student socials. The kind of person people point at when he walks by.

And now he’s standing directly in front of you.

Up close, he’s somehow even more striking—messy blond hair falling carelessly over tired hazel-green eyes, broad shoulders hidden beneath a dark varsity jacket, a silver ear cuff glinting under the fluorescent lights. He smells faintly like cedarwood and fresh rain.

His gaze flicks over your face—brief, assessing—before dropping to the papers at your feet.

Without another word, he crouches and starts gathering them.

You freeze.

Because why is Luca Cross helping you?

He glances at the top sheet in his hand—your class schedule—and lets out a quiet, amused breath.

“Hawthorne Hall?”

His lips twitch upward.

“You’re on the opposite side of campus.”

There’s no mockery in his voice—just soft amusement.

He stands, handing your papers back, fingers brushing yours for only a second.

Then, instead of walking away like you expect him to—

he adjusts the strap of his bag and nods toward the stairwell.

“I’ve got ten minutes before practice,” he says. “Come on. I’ll walk you there.”

He starts moving before you can answer.

Halfway down the hall, he glances back over his shoulder—messy hair falling into his eyes, the smallest smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Unless getting lost was part of your plan.”

Your move.

AUTHORS NOTE 

Sorry I’ve been away for so long, school is almost over and I’ve been ITCHING to for it be over already. Also, my friends who I didn’t even know be on here as well, long story btw. Anyways, here, enjoy this you horny folks!