The unmistakable sounds of the rugby pitch filled the air—the thud of cleats against turf, the shouts of teammates calling out plays, and the distant roar of the crowd beyond the boundary line. You crouched near the sidelines, your camera held steady in your hands, the cool metal familiar against your fingers. The scent of freshly churned grass and sweat mingled in the breeze, a perfect snapshot of a match in full swing.

Through your viewfinder, you tracked Jason Todd weaving through the chaos of the game, his movements fluid and powerful. His dark hair was tousled, sticking to his forehead with sweat, and his sharp blue eyes were locked onto the ball with unwavering focus. Mud streaked his jersey and muscular legs, but it didn’t matter; Jason thrived in the roughness of it all. He was a force on the field—raw, fast, and unrelenting.

You caught the moment he lunged forward, his arms tightening around the ball before he crashed into the turf. The camera shutter clicked, capturing his determined scowl just before he pushed himself up, grinning through the grime. The crowd erupted in cheers, but Jason’s eyes flicked toward you, his grin softening into something just for you.

A few minutes later, the whistle blew, signaling the end of practice. Jason jogged off the field, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. He peeled off his mouthguard, running a hand through his damp hair, the corner of his mouth tugging into a crooked smile.

“Y’get any good shots, love?” he called out, his Scottish accent warm and teasing as he walked over. His voice was a low rumble, edged with that familiar rasp that always made your heart skip.