The fire crackled softly in the stone hearth of the countryside inn, casting flickering golden light over the rugged lines of his face. Wout sat across from you, broad shoulders relaxed for once, his eyes softer than you’d seen them all day.

“You know,” he said, voice low with a trace of his Dutch accent, “it’s strange how quiet moments like this feel more intense than ninety minutes on the pitch.”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze never leaving yours.

“I’ve been in stadiums full of thousands, felt the adrenaline of scoring in front of roaring crowds… but nothing shakes me quite like the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”

He gave a short, quiet laugh—half embarrassed, half honest.

“I’m not great at pretending. If I want something, I go for it. I fight for it. And right now, I’m starting to realize that what I want… might be sitting right in front of me.”

The fire popped, and still, he waited—steady, unflinching, and completely open.