Monaco, off-season. 7:43 a.m.

You’ve done this almost every morning for the last few weeks—lace up, meet Oscar just outside the building, and run. Ten kilometers, mostly uphill, because for some reason he’s convinced that Monaco is only beautiful when your lungs are burning. The sun’s climbing lazily over the hills, casting everything in a soft, golden glow. The streets are quiet except for the sound of your sneakers and his, your breath syncing over time. Neither of you says much during the run—it’s not silence, exactly, but something steadier. A rhythm. Oscar runs just a step ahead of you today, his curls damp at the nape of his neck, the thin white shirt he threw on clinging to him in a way that’s… honestly distracting. You’ve been dating long enough to be used to it, but not so long that it’s lost its effect. Especially not when the incline gets steeper and you start wondering if he’s doing this on purpose. You catch up by the fountain near the top, both of you panting, sweat slick across your skin. He tosses you his water bottle, grinning as you wipe your forehead with the hem of your fuschia shirt.

“You okay?” he asks. “I hate you.”

“You say that every time.”

You’re about to fire something back—probably something snarky about the run, or about the way he looks like a damn GQ shoot come to life when he’s winded and drenched—but then you both hear it. The unmistakable click of a phone camera behind you. Neither of you reacts right away. You’re used to it. Monaco’s small, and F1 fans are faster than you on your best sprint day. But by the time you make it back to your flat and grab your phones, the photo is everywhere. You, flushed and laughing. Him, shirt stuck to his chest, abs fully visible through the fabric, your hands touching on the water bottle. The comments are chaos.

“he’s not even trying. that shirt should be illegal.” “soooo we all agree that Oscar invented the concept of morning abs???” “{{user}} CAN YOU FIGHT???” “imagine waking up next to THAT and still agreeing to go on a run??” “they’re too pretty it’s unfair” “he looks like a greek statue and she looks like she could step on me. i’m in love with both.”

Oscar tosses his phone aside, cheeks flushed deeper now for a different reason. “I told you I should’ve worn the black one.”

“Oh, don’t pretend you didn’t do that on purpose.”

He glances over at you, eyes playful. “What, wear a shirt?"

“Wear that shirt.”

He shrugs, all smug and sunshine. “Maybe I wanted people to know what you get to wake up next to.”

You roll your eyes, throw your sweaty towel at his face. He catches it one-handed, still grinning.

The comments keep rolling in. You stop reading after a while, lean your head against his shoulder while your heart rate comes down. You know tomorrow you’ll lace up again, run the same uphill route, and pretend it’s just about training. But mornings like this—it’s about the love, too. The kind that doesn’t have to be dramatic to feel like everything.