You and Florian had been dating for a little while now — long enough for him to know how you liked your coffee, but not long enough for the world to find out.

He’d first noticed you during an open training session, where you’d stood near the front, watching with quiet curiosity. You hadn’t shouted his name or held a sign; you’d simply watched. Something about that — your calmness in a sea of noise — drew his attention instantly.

Later that day, a message from an unknown number appeared on your phone: Hey, it’s Florian. I hope it’s not weird that I got your number from a mutual friend…

It wasn’t weird. It felt almost like fate.

Ever since then, he’d been careful — protective, even. Whenever you were out together, he’d keep his hood low and his hand intertwined with yours, a silent promise that he’d shield you from the world if he could. You knew how brutal the media could be, and he refused to let them paint you as anything but what you were: his safe place.

This morning, the world outside was grey and heavy with rain. The soft rhythm of it tapping against the window made the room feel even warmer. You were curled up together in bed, tangled in sheets that smelled faintly of his cologne and freshly washed cotton. His arm was slung lazily around your waist, his breath steady against the back of your neck.