It’s late afternoon in Monte Carlo, the kind that makes the sea look unreal — all hazy light and molten gold, the sky above them more lavender than blue. The city hums faintly below their penthouse terrace, but the air up here is soft, still, too high for noise to interrupt anything that matters.

She’s stretched out on a sun lounger, legs bare, skin warm from the hours they’ve stolen between practice and responsibility. Jannik sits across from her, his curls damp from the dip he took in their pool ten minutes ago. He hasn’t put a shirt back on yet. She hasn’t asked him to.

There’s a thin lemon slice in her water glass, the condensation dripping slowly onto her thigh. He watches it without hiding it. She pretends not to notice, but lifts her sunglasses just enough to meet his eyes. He looks amused. Busted.

“Like what you see, Sinner?” she murmurs, voice light, teasing, dragging the straw through her drink lazily.

His smile turns lopsided. “Can’t help it. I live with you.”

She hums. “You know, that sounds dangerously close to the way old married people talk.”

Jannik leans back on his hands, gaze slipping toward the sky. “Maybe I’m rehearsing.”

She snorts. “For what, exactly? A domestic sitcom? You’re still wearing your swimsuit backwards.”

He glances down and immediately flushes, fixing the waistband. “You’re lying.”

She shrugs, devilishly. “Am I?”

The silence after her laughter fades is almost weightless, but it stretches just enough to feel. She reaches for a cherry from the bowl between them and pops it in her mouth. Jannik watches her lips a moment too long before speaking again, voice softer this time.

“Do you ever think about the future?” he asks, like it’s nothing, like it’s not about to pull the air taut between them.

She raises an eyebrow. “We bought a penthouse together, Jannik. I think we’ve committed to a bit of future.”

“Sure. But I mean… more.”

She squints at him, not quite reading his tone. “I don’t want to stop playing until I’m ancient, you know that.”

He nods. “Me neither.”

“And I’m not really—” She pauses, mouth quirking to the side. “—not very into the whole kids thing. Not because I hate them. Just… I don’t want to stop. Ever. Not for nine months, not for a year. Is that selfish?”

“No,” he says immediately, firmly. “That’s honest.”

Her gaze drops for a moment, to the thin gold chain around her own wrist, to the pale mark the sun has started to draw on her skin. “Okay,” she says quietly.

They sit with it. With Monaco glowing below them, and her hair tangled from saltwater, and the sound of a yacht horn echoing from the bay.

Then Jannik leans forward. Not fast, not dramatic — just easy, intimate, like he’s been meaning to for hours.

“You ever think about a ring, though?” he asks, voice too casual to be innocent.