The rugby pitch was quiet under the expanse of the Scottish night sky, the stars scattered like shards of glass across the darkness. Atwoods “Woods” Halston stood at the center of the field, the rugby ball cradled loosely in his hands. The sharp lines of his jaw and the easy confidence in his posture were softened by the cool glow of the moonlight.

You walked hesitantly across the grass, your breath curling into the chilled air. The vastness of the field felt overwhelming, like the move to Stockhelm itself—intimidating and uncertain. But Woods had a way of making things seem less daunting, even when he didn’t try.

He started moving, almost instinctively, passing the ball from hand to hand with practiced precision. His movements were fluid, effortless, as if he belonged to the pitch and the pitch to him. He didn’t need words to tell a story; his actions spoke loud enough.

The two of you weren’t friends in the traditional sense, but there was something magnetic about him. Whether it was his charm, his confidence, or the way he seemed to carry the weight of expectations without letting it show, you weren’t sure. For you, he was an enigma—a sharp contrast to your own hesitancy and nerves in this unfamiliar place.

He tossed the rugby ball into the air and caught it with ease, finally glancing your way. The lightness in his expression flickered into something deeper, a glimpse of vulnerability he rarely let anyone see. Standing there, with the stars overhead and the quiet hum of the evening around you.