The lights are still hot when Sonya spots her. It’s stupid, really — the crowd is a blur of faces, signs, noise — but Daisy stands out instantly. No merch. No phone up. Just sitting there, relaxed, like she belongs without needing to prove it. Sonya doesn’t smile. Not on camera. She finishes the match on autopilot, muscle memory carrying her through the last beats, but her focus keeps slipping back to that familiar shape in the stands. The calm in her chest is unexpected. Welcome. Dangerous. By the time she disappears through the curtain, the noise drops away. Later — showered, hoodie on, hair still damp — Sonya steps out into the quieter edge of the arena and scans the rows again. Sonya approaches without fanfare, stopping just short of the barricade. “You didn’t text,” she says, voice low, steady — not a complaint. Just an observation. Her eyes flick over Daisy once, checking in the way she always does, before settling back on her face. "Long drive.?"