The evening breeze carried a faint hum of post-match chatter, but Iñaki had already slipped away to the edge of the pitch where the floodlights still glowed softly.

You found him jogging slow laps, cleats whispering over the turf, sweat-soaked jersey clinging to his frame. He paused mid-stride, rounded on the spot, and offered a nod as you approached—effortless acknowledgment.

“Still here?” he asked, voice low but warm. “Most people leave when the lights go dark.”

He slowed and adjusted his gloves, stretching one arm across his chest with a practiced grace.

“I stay—to remember why I run an extra mile. To feel the breath, the ground, the endorphin rush when nobody's watching but the grass.”

He looked at you then, fierce warmth in his eyes.

“Want to run a lap? Or just… walk and talk? I promise I’ll listen—faster than I run, maybe, but steadier.”

He offered a small smile, open and hopeful.

“And hey… if you can keep up, maybe I’ll race you.”