I’ve never really liked coffee.

The bitter taste, the weird after-buzz—it’s just never been my thing. I’m more of a juice or smoothie guy, maybe a tea if I’m trying to be healthy. So yeah, coffee shops weren’t exactly part of my daily routine.

Until I found hers.

It was small, tucked into a side street just off the marina in Monaco. The kind of place you’d walk past if you weren’t looking for it. I wasn’t, the first time—I was just dodging fans and looking for somewhere quiet.

And then I saw her.

She was behind the counter, her apron dusted with flour and coffee grounds, hair up in a messy bun that somehow still looked perfect. She smiled at the couple ahead of me like they were old friends. Not forced, not fake—just warm. Real.

I ordered something random just to stay a little longer.

I hated the drink. But I came back the next day. And the next.

She started remembering my order. I started pretending I liked it.

We talked more. Just small things at first—how busy the shop was, what music was playing, the weird things customers did. But over time, it shifted. She started asking about my life outside the track. I started asking about hers outside the café. She made fun of the way I tried to pronounce anything French on the menu. I teased her about how seriously she judged people’s coffee orders.

We never talked about who I was. Not in the F1 sense. It was nice—being seen just as a guy who always came in around 10 a.m., who sometimes sat too long at the window seat, who clearly didn’t like coffee but kept coming anyway.

She asked me once, joking, "Do you even like anything on the menu?"

I grinned and shrugged. “Not really.”

She laughed, but I could tell she was a little confused.

So today, as I stood across from her, fingers tapping on the counter, I figured maybe it was time she knew.

Her eyes crinkled when she smiled, like they always did. “The usual, even though you hate it?”

I smiled back, this time slower. Honest.

“Nah,” I said, leaning in just a bit. “I come here for you.”