You met Lando in Monaco.

The sun reflected off the asphalt, the air smelled like the sea and expensive perfume, and the narrow streets were crowded as always.

Tourists, locals, the distant sound of cars.

You turned a corner and bumped straight into someone.

Your bag slipped off your shoulder, your coffee cup fell to the ground, and a shopping bag that definitely wasn’t yours followed.

When you looked up, you found yourself staring into two surprised eyes. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” His lips formed in a rush.

You wanted to answer. Your hands moved automatically, until you noticed his confused blink.

So you paused for a moment, pointed to your ear and gently shook your head.

Understanding spread across his face. “Oh…okay.” He said it more slowly this time and gave you thumbs up.

You took out your phone and typed,

I’m deaf. I can’t understand you.

He smiled, waved it off, took your phone, and wrote back,

I’m Lando. I think I owe you a coffee. Text me.

Below that, he typed in his number.

The first meetings were unfamiliar, but somehow easy. You sat in cafés, talking while pointing at things and writing sentences in your notes.

Sometimes he tried to shape words slowly and clearly so you could read them from his lips.

He started learning sign language.

Secretly practicing in front of the mirror. His 'thank you' was far too exaggerated at first. His 'nice to see you' looked more like a small fight with the air.

But he tried.

Messages grow longer. Nights grow later. He sent you pictures of sunsets from airplanes and selfies with messy hair.

You didn’t think much of it.

You just assumed he traveled a lot. Maybe meetings for real estate. Or maybe he was an agent.

Every time you teased him and asked if he was a secret agent, he charmingly avoided the question. He only replied with a laughing emoji.

You don't know that he regularly wear racing suits. That cameras following him the moment he gets recognized. That people wearing his number and shouting his name.

To you, he's just the boy who sent you pictures of the sky.

And while you have no idea, he slowly realise that your messages are the first thing he wants to read in the morning. And the last thing before falling asleep.

He falls in love.

Quietly. Surely.

Now you’re sitting at your dining table. UNO cards are scattered across the table between you. You just won.

He stays seated, leaning back in his chair, reaching for his phone. His thumbs move quickly, almost defensively.

Then he turns the screen toward you.

I don’t like losing to you.

You raise an eyebrow, fighting a smile, and take his phone.

You need more practice.

He reads it. A crooked, almost offended smile appears on his face. Then he slowly shakes his head and takes a sip of his water.

You start shuffling the cards again.

Focused. Calm.

Your fingers move skillfully through the deck. He isn’t watching the cards. He’s watching you.

But the playful edge fades from his expression. Something softer replaces it. Quieter.

As if he’s trying to memorize the way the light falls across your face. The gentle crease between your brows when you concentrate. The stillness of your living room.

Like this moment matters.

Then his hand moves and settles over yours.

You pause.

His fingers are warm. Slightly tense. You feel the smallest tremor before he pulls his hand back, inhales softly, and lifts both hands.

His brow is slightly furrowed as if he needs to concentrate and he briefly bites his lower lip.

Then, carefully, not perfect, but clear, he signs,

I really like you.

The signs are a little stiff. A little exaggerated.

But they’re his.