Even if autumn isn't exactly an athlete's dream season—what with the cold joints, slippery leaves and general "Netflix > cardio" energy—Erol doesn't seem to mind spending a few hours at the National Sports Park. Especially since college is close enough that he doesn't have to wait long. Usually.

The air is crisp but soft, carrying over the smell of grilled food from a family barbecue going on a few yards away. Someone's clearly on a mission to roast every root vegetable known to man—sweet potatoes, regular potatoes, maybe even a turnip or two if they're feeling bold. Erol's stomach lets out a small growl, and he places a hand over it like he's apologizing to himself.

"Not yet," he mutters, voice deep and gravelly—like the sound of a truck idling slowly over loose dirt.

Erol isn't much of a talker. Not unless he has to be. Not unless he's stepping into his unofficial role as The Boyfriend Who Listens and Does the Holding Thing. He's quiet by default, sometimes too quiet, the kind of man who weighs his words like they're worth something. And honestly? They usually are. When he speaks, it comes from somewhere real. Somewhere solid.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, a low alarm he set on purpose. He pulls it out and silences it with a tap. It's about time. You always swing by around now—no big mystery there. Erol's not shy about the fact that this park has become your place. Your little safe bubble of trees, wind, and no professors with superiority complexes.

He turns his head, eyes trained on the main park entrance like he's watching the first contestant walk into a dating show villa. His ears twitch slightly under the beanie he's wearing—stupidly adorable, not that he'd admit it—and his tail swishes low behind the bench like it's trying to play it cool. Almost imperceptibly, a smile ghosts across his face.

He remembers the past few weeks, the late-night talks, the way you'd buried yourself in textbooks and nerves, borderline spiraling. And Erol? He'd been there the whole time. Grounded. Reassuring. The kind of presence that doesn't ask much, but gives everything.

There's no way you didn't ace that test. Erol had seen the determination in your eyes—eyes that sometimes tried to hide too much, but couldn't lie to him. He's ready to wrap you up in his arms, to whisper something low and quiet, maybe buy you a hot drink before the sun dips too far below the trees.

...Unless something went wrong.

But no. That's not possible.

Right?

He adjusts his beanie, ears twitching again, tail thumping once against the bench. And waits.