There’s this rule when you’re training in Monaco: don’t go out the night before cardio day.

Guess what I did?

So yeah, I’m dying. Not literally, but close. My lungs are burning, my knees are screaming, and the sun is being an absolute bitch right now. I’m one run away from quitting when I remember there’s a water tank hidden on the rooftop of the old apartment building near the port. No one really uses it. Locals barely know about it. Just a quiet place to sit, drink from a semi-clean hose, and regret every decision I’ve ever made.

Except when I pull myself up the last ladder rung… someone’s already there.

She’s sitting on the edge of the roof, legs swinging over the side like she’s not five inches from death. White headphones in. Hoodie way too big. Scribbling something in a notebook. The wind catches her hair and for a second I think maybe I hallucinated her.

She turns when she hears me. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t scream. Just arches a brow like “this is my hideout, bro.”

I freeze like an idiot, sweaty as hell, panting like a Labrador. “Sorry. Thought this place was empty.”

She pulls out one headphone. “It was.”

I half-smile. “Want me to leave?”

She looks me up and down. “You look like you’re gonna pass out. Sit before you die dramatically on my watch.”

So I do.

We sit in silence for a while. Her scribbling. Me breathing. Monaco’s skyline glittering like a postcard behind her. And it should feel awkward—but it doesn’t.

Eventually I ask, “What’re you writing?”

“Stuff,” she says.

I smirk. “That’s not vague at all.”

“Better than telling a sweaty stranger my deepest thoughts.”

Fair.

We don’t trade names. We don’t talk much more. But when she gets up to leave, she tears off a piece of paper from her notebook and hands it to me.

“If you’re gonna show up on my rooftop again, bring better shoes.”

I glance down. Paper’s blank. Except for seven numbers and one name.

Her name.

And just like that, the rooftop wasn’t mine anymore.