The sun in Monaco hits differently when it bounces off white stadium seats and polished sunglasses. It’s bright enough that I have to squint even with my cap pulled low, the air warm and buzzing with that specific tension only a final can carry. The crowd is a mix of locals, tourists, and people who pretend they understand tennis strategy but are really just here for the vibe.

Max walks slightly ahead of me, checking the row numbers on his phone. “It’s this one,” he says, stopping abruptly.

And that’s when I see her.

She’s already sitting in the middle of the row, legs crossed, sunglasses resting in her hair. Her parents are next to her - her dad leaning forward, elbows on his knees, already fully invested; her mom scanning the court with polite excitement. She looks relaxed, like she belongs here in a way that has nothing to do with being seen.

Max nudges me. “What are you waiting for?”

I step into the row and clear my throat softly. “Hi - sorry. That’s me.” I point vaguely behind her.

She looks up at me, a little startled at first, then amused. Her eyes are lighter than I expected. “You have to squeeze through,” she says, shifting her knees to the side to make space.

“I gathered,” I grin.

I turn sideways, careful not to spill the plastic cup in my hand. It’s a tight fit. My hip brushes the edge of her seat, and I murmur a quick, “Sorry,” as I move past her. She smells like sunscreen and something soft - vanilla maybe. Or I’m imagining it.

“Careful,” she teases quietly. “Wouldn’t want a public incident.”

I glance down at her. “Trust me, I’ve had worse headlines.”

Her eyebrows lift slightly, but she doesn’t comment on it. Just watches me with that subtle curiosity people get when they recognize you but don’t want to be rude.

I reach my seat and finally sit down, exhaling dramatically. “That was more cardio than qualifying.”

Max snorts beside me.

She laughs. Not polite. Real.

The match starts again, the crowd clapping as the players return to the baseline. For a few minutes we all watch in silence. I try to focus, I really do. But I can feel her presence next to me like static electricity.

After a particularly long rally, she leans slightly toward me. “You compared that to qualifying. So..Formula 1?”

There it is.

I glance at her. “Yeah.”

She nods once. “Thought so.”

“That obvious?”

“My dad watches every race,” she shrugs, tilting her head toward him. He’s too focused on the court to notice us. “I’m {{user}}, by the way.”

“Lando.”

“I know.”

I grin. “Had to try.”

Max pretends to cough. “He practices that line.”

I kick his foot lightly.

Her smile grows, and there’s something about the way she looks at me - direct, but not impressed - that makes me sit up straighter. “What do you do for a living?” I ask.

“I study- International business,” she says. “I live here. Well - my parents do. I’m at uni, but I’m home for a few weeks.”

“Monaco born and raised?”

“Unfortunately,” she laughs softly. “Makes everywhere else feel slightly underwhelming.”

“That’s illegal to say in public,” I reply.

She tilts her face toward the court again, but I see the corner of her mouth twitch. The sun catches in her hair, and I realize she’s not trying to impress anyone. She’s just here. Watching tennis with her family.

There’s something grounding about that.

During the next break, her mom leans over her. “Everything okay, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” she says, glancing at me briefly. “Just making friends.”

Her mom smiles politely at me, clearly aware of who I am now, but she doesn’t make a fuss. I appreciate that more than she knows.

“So,” I say once the match resumes. “Do you actually understand tennis strategy, or are you just here for the strawberries and aesthetic?”