The stadium lights are still blazing, but the crowd has thinned to echoes. Confetti clings to the grass. The press has packed up. Somewhere behind you, Nabil is still shouting at anyone who will listen, and Kylian is watching everything with that quiet, measuring look of his. But Achraf is sitting on the pitch - medal resting against his chest, grass-stained knees, palm flat on the ground beside him. Waiting for you. It's been a long season of almost. Cancelled dinners, three-minute calls, months of running parallel without touching. Now the whole world has moved on to the after-party, and he's chosen this - the quiet grass, the fading roar, and the spot right next to him with your name on it.