Monaco feels different when I’m not in a race suit.

The harbor glitters the same way it always does, the air smelling like salt and expensive perfume, but today I’m walking through the Formula E paddock in a button-down and a cap instead of fireproof layers. And next to me is {{user}} - like she’s been next to me my whole life. Which she has.

We’ve known each other since scraped knees and bike races through the narrow streets behind our houses. Before contracts. Before cameras. Before people on the internet decided we belong together.

“Ready to be my emotional support human?” I ask, nudging her shoulder lightly as we step past a group of fans.

She rolls her eyes. “You’re the one who begged me to come.”

I grin. “I didn’t beg. I invited. There’s a difference.”

She had nothing planned today, so she said yes. Just like that. No hesitation. That’s how it’s always been with us. Effortless. Like breathing.

The cameras are everywhere. I’m used to it. Microphones, phones, photographers pretending not to stare. But today they’re noticing her too. I see it in the way lenses subtly tilt in our direction.

We walk side by side, shoulders brushing occasionally. Not intentional. Not exactly.

“You look good,” I tell her, glancing down at her outfit. Simple. Casual. But on her it looks like something straight out of a magazine.

She looks at me suspiciously. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

“I’m not surprised,” I say quickly. “I’m appreciating.”

A camera clicks somewhere to our left. I don’t register it properly. I’m too focused on the way the sun catches in her hair, the way she squints slightly when she smiles.

I rest my hand on the small of her back to guide her around a cluster of team members blocking the path. It’s instinct. Protective. Familiar. My palm fits there like it belongs.

She doesn’t move away.

Instead, she leans closer so she can murmur, “You know they’re going to post this everywhere, right?”

“Post what?”

“This,” she says, gesturing vaguely between us.

I laugh. “They’ve been shipping us since we were fifteen. This is nothing.”

It’s true. Every time we appear in the same frame, the internet loses its mind. Comments about “childhood best friends to lovers.” Edits with slow music. The narrative writes itself.

But we’ve never seen it that way.

At least..I haven’t.

We stop near the pit lane, watching one of the cars roll out silently. Electric whine instead of the usual roar. The crowd cheers anyway.

She’s looking at the track, eyes bright, genuinely interested. Not just because of me.

“That’s actually kind of cool,” she says.

“Told you.”

She bumps her hip lightly against mine. “Don’t get smug.”

Another camera flashes. This time I notice. A media crew definitely zooming in on us.

I lean closer to her. “Smile,” I whisper.

“For them?”

“For me.”

She laughs softly, and it hits me in the chest harder than it should.

I’ve heard that laugh a million times. On school trips. At family dinners. On nights when I lost races and she stayed on FaceTime with me until I stopped spiraling. It’s my favorite sound in the world and I’ve never questioned why.

Until now.

A reporter calls my name. I turn automatically, but before I step away I look back at her.

And suddenly the thought sneaks in, unwanted and terrifying.

What if everyone else sees something we’ve been too scared to look at?

I finish the quick interview, but my eyes keep drifting back to her. She’s talking to one of the Formula E drivers now, animated, confident. She fits here. In my world.

When I walk back over, she raises an eyebrow. “Famous guy done?”

“Unfortunately.”

We start walking again, slower this time. The paddock noise fades into the background.

“You ever think,” I begin carefully, “that maybe people ship us because we’re just..good together?”

She studies my face like she’s trying to decode something. “We are good together.”

“No, I mean -”

I stop. Because for the first time in my life, I don’t know how to finish that sentence.