There are too many people, too many drinks, too much bass rumbling through the floor of my apartment. Monaco nights always get out of hand quickly, and my birthday’s no exception. I’ve already lost count of how many people have said cheers, how many hugs I’ve given

But then I see her. {{user}}

She’s leaning against the balcony rail, laughing at something Max just said, glass of something sparkling in her hand, the city lights behind her making her look - God, I don’t even know. Effortless. Familiar. Home.

My girlfriend is talking to someone inside. She’s been clinging to me all night, which..I get. Kind of. She doesn’t like {{user}}. Not even a little. Never said it outright, but the looks are enough. The ones she throws across the garage when {{user}} drops by McLaren. The way her smile freezes whenever {{user}} and I laugh at something only we find funny. Like she’s trying to figure out what thread ties us together - and if she can cut it.

But {{user}} has been around way before her. Before any of them.

I make my way over, weaving through bodies and noise. {{user}} turns as I approach, and that smile - her smile - it hits me like it always does. No matter how long it’s been, no matter who else is in the room. She reaches out to hug me and I pull her close without thinking.

“Happy birthday, muppet.” She says, and I laugh.

That’s when I see it. The tattoo.

It’s subtle. Small. Just black ink against her skin, barely bigger than a thumbprint. But unmistakable. A single number - 4. Right on her left shoulder. Peeking out from the strap of her top when she shifts.

I blink.

“You - when did you get that?”

Her smile falters for a second, like I’ve caught her off guard. She glances at her shoulder, then back at me.

“Today.” She says simply. “Felt right.”

I don’t know what to say to that. My throat goes a little tight. It’s my number. My number. The one I’ve raced with, the one I’ve signed a thousand hats with. And it’s hers now. On her skin. Forever.

“It’s just a number.” She says quickly, like she’s trying to brush it off. “You know I’ve always liked it.”

But it’s not just a number. Not between us.

And maybe I don’t say anything for a second too long, because when I turn slightly, I catch my girlfriend watching us from the sliding glass doors. Her expression is unreadable - but her eyes are sharp, cold. {{user}} doesn’t notice. But I do.

The way she’s looking at {{user}}?

It’s the kind of look that slices.

I swallow and step back half a pace, just enough to create space. To make it seem casual. My girlfriend finally looks away, her smile snapping back into place as she returns to her conversation.

{{user}} gives me a look.

“You alright?”

I nod. “Yeah. Just..thanks. For the tattoo.”

She grins again, softer this time. “Don’t make it weird, Norris.”

Too late.