ash! ᡣ𐭩

— Carlos was knocking again.

Slow, deliberate taps — not urgent enough to seem desperate, but not casual enough to be friendly either.

She’d told him to stop doing that weeks ago. Not just the knocking. The whole showing up like he had a claim there thing.

They weren’t even dating, but somehow he was still the one who called, texted, and parked outside her building like the laws of gravity worked differently when it came to her.

“Go home!”

Her forehead rested against the inside of the door. She didn’t bother opening it.

Through the wood, his voice came low, warm, and maddeningly calm.

“You say that, princesa, but you’re standing real close to the doorknob.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re seriously annoying.”

“And yet,” he started, smug as if he could see the way she was biting back a smile, “I’m the one you accidentally FaceTimed at midnight last Friday.”

“It was a misclick.”

“I said, ‘want me to come over?’ and you said, ‘please hurry.’”

“I was drinking.”

“You were also wearing my hoodie. And playing my playlist in the background.”

That part, unfortunately, was true. She still denied it, though. “Carlos, we are not doing this again.”

“Then open the door and say it to my face,” he inquired, quieter this time — dangerous in that familiar way she hated herself for missing. “Promise I won’t even try anything. PG-only visit.”

She hesitated initially, but then — because she was tired, because curiosity was a disease, and because it was him — she turned the handle.

Carlos stood there like temptation in its most lived-in form: messy locks, chain glinting at his collarbone, skin kissed bronze by the sun, and a smirk curving his mouth.

“You’ve never kept anything PG in your life,” she muttered, scoffing.

He stepped inside like he had every right, brushing past her without breaking eye contact. “Maybe not,” he replied, shrugging, “but you never seemed to mind the R-rated scenes.”

“I liked the quiet after,” she shot back.

That earned a faint curve of his lips. “So did I, especially when you started mumbling in your sleep. You say the sweetest things when you think I’m not listening.”

She picked up the throw pillow from the armchair and tossed it at him. He caught it one-handed, without even glancing down.

“I’m serious,” she said, trying to inject more steel into her voice. “This is stupid. We’re stupid.”

He dropped onto her couch like it belonged to him, sprawling in that loose-limbed, infuriating way. “Maybe, but we’re stupid with chemistry. The good kind. Dangerous levels.”

“That’s not a real reason to keep hooking up.”

“I’d argue it’s a top reason,” he insisted, leaning forward, eyes catching the light in a way that made them burn gold. “Science would back me up.”

“You ghosted me for a week,” she reminded him.

“I was at training camp.”

“You liked my story.”

He frowned. “Wait– that is why you’re mad?”

“You left me on read, but proceeded to like a mirror selfie,” she remarked flatly.

“That was me showing support.”

She glared at him. “You called me hot and then disappeared.”

“I was showing respectful lust.”

Another pillow flew toward him. He ducked, laughing. “Okay, okay. Maybe I suck at emotional communication.”

“Maybe you just suck.”

And yet — when he stood, closing the space between them until she could feel the heat radiating off of him — her breath betrayed her.

His voice dropped to something softer, almost tender.

“Then why haven’t you blocked me?”

She opened her mouth, closed it. Because there wasn’t a good answer.

Because when he touched her, her body remembered before her mind could protest.

Because every fight ended the same way — hands gripping, mouths finding, sheets twisted, and the air heavy with all the things they didn’t say out loud.

Carlos’s knuckle brushed along her jaw, and she hated how instinctively she leaned into it. “We’ve got terrible logic, princesa,” he murmured. “But in bed? We’re genius level.”

“That’s not enough,” she grumbled.

“No,” he agreed. “But it’s what keeps bringing us back.”

Her eyes fell shut for half a second — just long enough to remember the way his hand had once rested on her back during a panic attack, steady as an anchor, saying nothing because words would’ve been too much.

Long enough to remember he kept her charger in his gym bag.

Long enough to remember that maybe she’d stopped pretending it was only about the physical aspect a long time ago.

But when his palm slid beneath the hem of her oversized sleep shirt — his, still carrying the faint smell of his laundry detergent — and his mouth found her ear with a low, “Just five minutes, baby…” she didn’t push him away.

Because her bed remembered him.

And her heart hadn’t forgotten a damn thing.

— The morning after was always the worst part.

Not because of regret. Not even because she was sore in places that confirmed Carlos had been showing off last night — and she’d let him, willingly, shamelessly.

It was because of the strange, slow-moving limbo where nothing was defined, but everything felt like it was.

She stood in the kitchen doorway wearing his hoodie — oversized enough to swallow her whole, still faintly warm from his body, carrying the ghost of his cologne and the imprint of a night she shouldn’t be replaying in such detail.

Across the room, he was shirtless — moving around her kitchen with the easy familiarity of someone who’d done it a hundred times — one hand on her favorite mug and the other braced casually against the counter as if it was just another morning.

As if it were normal. As if they were something.

They weren’t. Not officially. Not technically.

“You used the last oat milk.” she stated, leaning her shoulder into the fridge, voice flat but eyes fixed on him.

Carlos looked over, the corner of his mouth curving upward. “And?”

“I was saving it.”

“You were hoarding it.”

“I live here, Carlos.”

“And I slept here.” He lifted the mug in a little salute, as though it were proof of some unspoken law. “That gives me temporary milk rights.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.” He took a sip from the mug, unhurried, wearing the kind of expression that implied he was winning something — even if she hadn’t realized there was a competition in the first place.

She exhaled sharply through her nose. “God, you’re infuriating.”

“Good morning to you too, princesa.”

She turned away before her mouth got ahead of her better judgment — before words like stay or I missed you last week or, God forbid, do you want to leave a toothbrush here? slipped out.

But of course, he followed her. Carlos always followed.

“Why do you always get so grumpy after sex?” he teased.

“I’m not grumpy.” She poured herself black coffee, bitter enough to scrape the back of her tongue.

“You’re glaring at the spoon.”

“I’m contemplating stabbing you with it.”

His grin was quick, bright — irritatingly golden in the soft spill of morning light. “Still sweet of you to wear my hoodie, though.”

Her hands stilled on the counter. She glanced down at herself, only now noticing the obvious: the sleeves draping over her palms, the shoulders too wide, and the hem nearly brushing her knees. She hadn’t even thought about it when she’d pulled it on — it had been instinct.

Carlos stepped closer, tugging lightly at the sleeve so his fingers brushed her skin. “You like being wrapped in me,” he noted, quiet and sure. “Just admit it.”

“I like not being cold.”

His gaze held hers, steady, as the morning sunlight caught in the darker flecks of his irises. “You like me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Do not say that like it’s a mic drop.”

“I’ll say it however I want.” His voice was softer now, without the usual cocky edge. “Because it’s true.”

Something in her faltered. The air shifted — less playful now, more fragile.

“You gonna keep pretending this is just sex?” he asked.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

“I know I’ve been–” he rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting away briefly. “–shit at consistency. At showing up in ways that matter. But I keep coming back. And you keep letting me.”

His gaze flicked to where his hoodie bunched around her hands, then returned to her face. “Doesn’t that mean something?”

Her heartbeat was a hammer in her chest.

They were not good at that — not at honesty, not at stability. They were built on tension and stubborn attraction, stitched together by late nights and bad timing. A beautiful, slow-motion disaster.

And yet, there was comfort there — familiarity. That bone-deep knowing that comes from letting someone see you unguarded — ugly, messy, small — and finding they still step closer.

“We’re not good at serious.” she finally mentioned.

Carlos let out a breath, something between a sigh and a laugh. Then he shrugged, lopsided and boyish. “So let’s do serious our way.”

She lifted a brow. “And what way is that?”

His grin tilted. “With sass, coffee wars, and maybe some handcuffs.”

Her jaw dropped. “Carlos!”

“Just saying,” His voice dipped as he leaned in. “We’re both a little obsessed. Might as well tie each other down, literally and emotionally.”

She laughed — unwilling, startled, but undeniably fond. “That’s the stupidest love confession I’ve ever heard.”

“Wasn’t a confession,” he replied easily. Then, almost under his breath, “That’s coming next.”

Before she could ask what on earth he possibly meant, Carlos kissed her — unhurried, his mouth lingering like he wasn’t ready to let her go.

One hand slid underneath the hem of the hoodie, palm warm against her skin, grounding her. He hummed softly, almost like he was memorizing the feel of her all over again — as though that, right there, was all he ever wanted to wake up to.

When they finally pulled back, his lips brushed against hers as he whispered, “You gonna let me stick around this time?”

She took a look at him — the sleep-creased eyes, unruly locks, and ridiculous coffee mug still in his hand — and for the first time, the fear that whatever they had going on couldn’t last loosened its grip on her, just a little.

“Only if you replace the oat milk.” she offered, voice lighter than she expected.

His grin returned, slow and certain. “Deal.”

In the end, maybe that wouldn’t just be another morning after.

One kiss, then another, and another… each one slower, lower than the last, until his face is resting fully against your stomach. He breathes there for a moment, like he’s listening, like he’s waiting…

This room—his childhood bedroom—is still half-lit by the greyish morning, quiet except for the sounds of footsteps and talking from downstairs.

However, up here, you curl up in your quiet and warm bubble.

Jannik’s voice is barely more than a whisper, “Ciao, piccolina,” his lips pressed to the curve of your belly. “Spero che tu abbia dormito bene.”

(“Hi, little one. I hope you slept well.”)

His hand slides under the hem of your —his— t-shirt, the one you started using as a pyjama.

He gives your bump the lightest squeeze, barely any pressure. “Ti senti più grande oggi.”

(“You feel bigger today.”)

You finally open your eyes, blinking against the filtered light. For a second, everything feels like a dream—the weight of the covers, the unfamiliar ceiling, scent of the man you fell in love with and the way your body no longer feels like only your own.

“Are you bonding without me again?” you murmur, voice still raspy from sleep.

Your fingers find his hair, gently massaging through the ginger strands. He’s still got the bedhead. It suits him, you thought.

He grins against your stomach. “Oh no, we’re caught.”

“What were you saying to her?” you ask, shifting your pillow a little so you can see his face better.

“Nothing important,” he murmurs, kissing the bump again, more slowly this time. “Just that she feels bigger today.”

“She’s an avocado now, thank you very much.” you snort.

He looks up at you, mock-serious. “Isn’t she still too little to look this big?”

“Wow,” you gasp dramatically. “Don’t body shame our unborn child, Sinner. She’s doing her best.”

“You’ve been stealing all my hoodies to hide her. I think she wants to be seen now.” he reasons.

“First off, don’t call her big again. She’s still growing. And second—Nike sends you thousands of clothes every year. You don’t need them anymore, they’re mine.”

“If you say so,” he says with a shrug, completely unbothered.

Before you can sass him again, he’s stretching across you toward the nightstand and grabs something small and orange—the fox plushie you found in the back of his wardrobe the first night you arrived here.

“Piccolina,” he says gently, making the fox sit upright on your bump like a tiny guard. “We have to tell them about you. You don’t want to be our little secret anymore, do you?”

He lies back beside you, one arm tucked behind his head, the other playing with the plushie, making him ‘kiss’ your belly.

You run your palm lightly over your stomach. The bump is definitely visible now—especially in this position, where you’re flat on your back. You’ve been hiding it under oversized jumpers and dresses for almost two weeks now. At first it was kind of fun, only a secret you two know, then it became suspicious because who would wear sweaters in summer?

“Preferably today,” you mutter. “Because every time I say no to espresso, your mom looks at me like I just committed a crime.”

He grins, then leans over to kiss you, “You sort of did.”

“Your mother is one more espresso offer away from figuring it out herself. She also told me I look different but you know, suspiciously.” You scowl.

“Then we tell them after breakfast?” he says, kissing you again, lips soft against your cheek. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah.” You nod, the word catching a little in your throat. “It’s time.”

He smiles gently and brushes the plushie across your nose.

“Oh. Okay. So I don’t get your kisses anymore?” you tease. “Now I only get Mr. Foxy’s attention?”

“Seems like he likes you,” Jannik says seriously, still trailing the toy up toward your hairline.

“Jan,” you start laughing, trying to grab the toy from him. “Don’t you dare—”

But he’s already tickling you with it, brushing it along your jaw and neck while you squirm.

“Jannik!” you shriek.

“Don’t yell in front of our child,” he says calmly, adjusting the fox’s head like it’s watching you both.

You bury your face in the pillow. “I cannot believe I’m having a baby with you.”

“Neither can I,” he says, kissing you again. This time, more slowly, more deliberately. “But look where we are!”

His hand moves carefully over your stomach again, thumb brushing the curve that can be seen now. You can feel the weight of his body hovering just above yours, carefully not to give his weight over you.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down into a kiss. Soft at first but shortly turn into longer and deeper. His fingers make their way to your hips—

KNOCK KNOCK.

“Guys come on!” Marc’s voice comes from the other side of the door, “Stop eating each other! I heard Y/N screaming again!”

You both go completely still, your eyes snap open as Jannik lifts his head from yours.

“Did he just—?” you whisper. “Yeah.”

“He thinks we’re—” you add, still mouth wide open. “Yeah.”

You cover your face with your hands. “I hate your brother.”

-

After the talk, you don’t bother hiding the bump anymore.

Seventeen weeks in, and it’s definitely there. Still small enough to hide if you really tried, but you don’t want to. Not when you came here to give the news anyways.

So you pull on one of your softest shirts, brush your hair back, and meet the rest of the family downstairs.

The kitchen is already buzzing when you walk in, cheeks flushed, hand still linked with Jannik’s. His parents are bustling with coffee and plates. His brother Marc is already seated, looking suspiciously smug.

He sees both of you walk in and grins. “You’re late.”

Your stomach drops at his words. “Wait—what?”

“To breakfast?” Marc replies with a shrug.

Jannik chokes on air, while his mom turns around, staring back and forth between the two of you as if she’s piecing something together.

“Oh,” you mutter, then add with a laugh, “Right, breakfast! Sorry.”

Marc raises an eyebrow but shrugs again, reaching for more bread.

You sit, Jannik’s hand finds yours under the table. His thumb strokes your palm slowly.

“Espresso, tesoro?” his mom asks, already reaching for the cups.

You shake your head. “No, thank you.”

She freezes, giving her husband a look. Then slowly—very slowly—puts the cup down. “Okay.”

Jannik clears his throat, nudging his knee against yours under the table, alerting it’s time.

“Actually,” he starts, “we… have something to tell you.”

“We— Y/N actually, she’s pregnant,” Jannik says plainly.

“Seventeen weeks,” you add, voice softer. “That’s why we came. We wanted to tell you in person.”

For a second, everyone stays silent, even giving each other looks that gives you anxiety.

And then: chaos.

“Oddio!!” his mom gasps, hands flying to her mouth before rushing toward you. “Un bambino!”

She hugs you so tightly you barely have time to react before her hands find your belly and her eyes fill with tears.

“I knew something was different!” she exclaims. “You glow, tesoro!”

Jannik leans back in his chair, mock-offended. “Do I get a hug or…”

“Later,” she waves him off. “She’s carrying my grandchild.”

“So…” Marc says, blinking. “you guys are actually having a baby?”

“Yep,” Jannik replies, grinning. “You’re gonna be an uncle.”

Marc blinks again. “Wow. You’re… ahead of schedule.”

“We didn’t plan to,” you say, rolling your eyes.

“You should at least propose,” his mom says brightly, her eyes still wet with tears.

“Mamma.”

“What? You should! You live together, you cook together, you sleep in the same bed—now a baby? You’re practically married!”

Marc shrugs. “She’s not wrong.”

You nudge him under the table, and he smiles wider.

-

After breakfast, she insists you rest. You barely sit down in the living room when she returns with a thick red photo album.

“You’ll want to see this,” she says, setting it beside you with a wink.

“Oh no,” Jannik groans from the kitchen. “Not the album.”

“Yes, the album,” she says sweetly, already flipping it open.

The first few pages are harmless—baby Jannik swaddled in pale blankets, sleeping with one tiny fist curled under his chin.

“He was such a soft baby,” she says proudly. “Always smiling— look at this!”

You flip a page. He’s in a high chair, covered in probably some tomato sauce. Another page— Jannik in a sunhat three sizes too big, proudly holding a melting cone of ice-cream.

“He ate more than any child I’ve ever known,” his mom says fondly.

Then you flip again.

“Oh my God,” you say, biting back a laugh.

There he is—completely naked in a tiny plastic tub, sitting upright like he owns the world, clutching a yellow rubber duck with a grin that could blind the sun.

“Mamma, no,” Jannik says from the doorway. “Don’t—”

“She’s already seen you naked, Jannik,” his mom says without missing a beat. “She’s growing your child!”

You burst out laughing, hand flying to your mouth.

“I’m leaving,” Jannik mutters, already halfway toward the hallway.

“No you’re not,” you call after him. “You’re going to sit here while I soak in every chubby, naked baby photo your mother ever printed.”

“I can’t believe you’re enjoying this.”

“Look at your tummy!” you show another bath picture before flipping the page. “Look at this one. Is that Mr. Foxy?”

“Yup.” he proudly responds.

“It’s in his bedroom!” she says, not knowing the morning kisses you got from him. “You can take it for her.”

“Oh, we saw him! And we definitely will take him!” you confirm.

You lean back into the couch, the album resting on your knees, your hand curled over your bump. For the first time, you don’t feel the need to hide. You’re finally letting her be seen.

And somehow, with his baby photos spread across your lap and his mother humming in the kitchen.

Everything feels exactly as it should.

20th week | New York, USA

“Jannik!” the interviewer cheers, voice rising over the crowd, “Another Grand Slam, another quarterfinal! This is becoming quite the tradition for you!”

He stands tall in the center of the court, fingers anxiously threading through the damp curls, a shy smile appearing on his lips—like he wasn’t just battling an exhausting four-set match for nearly three hours.

“Hopefully,” he responds with a quiet chuckle. “Last year, I was lucky to win here.”

“Well, we’ll see how that plays out in a couple of days,” the interviewer grins widely, “but before we dive deeper into your performance—if you’ll allow me—I think there’s someone we have to mention… Someone who’s been watching you closely tonight.”

He gestures up toward the player box, driving all the attention there.

The camera finds you instantly, sitting between his team and close friends. You flash a smile, a little uncertain yet warm one. This is your first match back in the box since your baby bump started showing.

You wanted to show up, to support him as you always do in person, but the thought that people will be invested in the baby, raining questions all over you, made you hesitate. You wanted to wait until you felt completely safe and okay with the baby's presence.

And this morning he asked, softly and without any pressure, “If you feel okay, I want to see you there tonight.”

And so here you are.

“Is it safe to say,” the interviewer beams, “that another Grand Slam champion is already on the way?”

Laughter and cheers explode from the stands as Jannik grins widely, his hand instinctively rising to scratch the back of his neck– a telltale sign of flusher that he tries to hide.

His eyes flicker up toward you, there's a playful sparkle in them. “Yeah,” he replies, “If she wants to be.”

You look at him with those ‘lovey-dovey’ eyes Darren once teasingly described, filled with affection and admiration.

“Have you bought her any rackets yet? Tennis balls?”

“Nah,” he laughs again, a hint of sheepishness creeping into his tone. “Y/N—my girlfriend—doesn’t let me yet.”

The interviewer laughs with his answer and adds, “Well, I’m sure you’ll be getting plenty of nursery gear after tonight!”

“Probably,” Jannik shrugs, smiling again. “We’ll need more space.”

—

You’re already sitting on the bench eating some snacks when he walks in, a towel casually slung around his neck and a bottle of water in one hand. His match kit is gone—replaced by a soft green hoodie and black shorts—but his curls are still damp from the shower, clinging to his forehead.

The moment he spots you, it’s like something in him releases. He exhales through his nose like he’s been holding his breath since the court.

The moment his eyes find you, it’s as if a weight lifts from his shoulders. He exhales through his nose, a deep, relieved breath as though he’s been holding it in since the match ended.

“You okay?” he asks softly, stepping closer and reaching out to cradle the back of your head as he leans down to capture your lips in a gentle kiss—just one, slow and grounding.

You hum against his mouth, feeling the warmth radiating off him. “Are you okay?”

He sinks down beside you, elbows resting on his knees, a contemplative look crossing his face. “Yeah. Just… a bit surreal. They kept me longer for more questions.”

“Assuming that the little one got all the attention.” You rest your palm over your stomach with a grin.

He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head with disbelief. “Didn’t realize I was gonna get upstaged by someone who hasn’t even been born yet.”

“You’re just jealous.” you reply playfully, teasing him.

“A little,” he admits. “I mean, I won a quarterfinal at another Grand Slam, and all anyone wants to talk about is the bump.”

You tilt your head with an amused expression. “Sorry. She’s kind of a star like her daddy.”

He laughs quietly, gaze dropping for a moment. “Some guy in the tunnel stopped me to say congratulations. I said ‘thanks,’ and he said, ‘Oh, also the match was good too.’”

“No way.” Your eyes widen in disbelief.

“I swear.”

“For what it’s worth,” You reach out and place your hand on his. “I’d still watch you play even if people only come to see our baby.” You struggle to hold back the smile.

“I know.” He leans in and kisses your palm, “And I’d still play for you.”

“Also, I got congratulated five times while waiting for you, and one security guard said, ‘Hope she plays like him but looks like you.’ I didn’t know what to say at first.”

“I don’t know if I should be offended or not.” He leans back, finally letting his body rest. You shuffle closer, resting your head against his shoulder. “At least they still appreciate me a bit.”

“Tiny bit.” you correct him with a playful tone.

“I liked seeing you out there,” he adds after a moment, his voice is softer now. “I looked up and there you were and… I don’t know. Everything got easier.”

“You always say that,” you murmur.

“Because it’s always true.”

You rest your head on his shoulder, the comfort of his warmth and smell hugs you.

“I’ll come to the next one too,” you promise. “If you’re not scared she’ll outshine you again.”

“I mean,” he sighs dramatically, even though you don't see his face, you can sense the smirk on his face. “Might as well get used to it.”

Before you can reply, the door opens—and the locker room fills with celebration and chatter.

“Oi, Sinner!” Darren’s voice cuts the others immediately, followed by the loud slap of a hand against Jannik’s back. “You absolute legend. Solid win.”

“Thanks,” Jannik replies, clearing his throat and straightening up just a little. “Finally focusing on my performance.”

“But I gotta say…” Darren turns, already grinning like a Cheshire Cat. “You were only the third-most interesting thing on court tonight.”

“Wait—third?” Jannik blinks.

“Yeah. One: the baby. Two: your girlfriend. Then you.” Darren explains with a laugh.

“That crowd screamed louder for her than for your passing shot.” a voice adds.

Jannik groans, flopping back against the wall. “This is bullying now.”

Darren shrugs, not even trying to hide his smile. “Sorry, mate, once you create another you, it’s game over. You’re just the plus-one now.”

Simone adds from across the room, “Better start learning how to change diapers. Your endorsement deals are switching from espressos to diapers.”

You grin, stretching out your legs as you steal Jannik’s water bottle again. “Personally, I’m aiming for a Gucci Baby collab.”

“Why are you like this?” he asks, rolling his eyes again.

“Because it’s fun watching you slowly realize you’re not the main character anymore!”

“I’m going to another semi-final." he mutters under his breath, still trying to remind people who he is.

“And yet,” you say, taking another sip from his bottle, “The baby has a better PR.”

He sighs, tipping his head back against the locker. “I’m going to lose my mind.”

“Good thing you love us,” you reply, getting another bite of your snack.

He turns to look at you again, quieter now. “I do.”

30th week | Monte Carlo, Monaco

You start by folding the tiniest clothes you’ve ever seen into your baby's wardrobe.

There’s something strangely calming about it—little cotton onesies, soft long-sleeved shirts, miniature pants that could fit in the palm of your hand. Everything smells new and clean.

You pause over a pair of socks no bigger than your thumb, then reach into the next box and pull out a white cotton shirt with glittery gold writing across the chest.

“Your sponsors are so subtle,” you call out with a smile.

From the other side of the room, Jannik grunts in response. He’s kneeling awkwardly on the rug in front of the half-assembled crib, surrounded by scattered wooden panels and a not-so-helpful instruction booklet. He’s already muttered the same curse four times in the last fifteen minutes.

“They sent more?” he asks, not looking up.

“Oh yeah.” You hold up the shirt so he can see the sparkly words—Future No. 1. “Look at this.”

Jannik turns just long enough to catch it, his face twists with mock horror. “She already has sponsorships.”

You search through the next box and hold it up like treasure. “See?”

“Oh God,” He squints,“A Gucci bib?”

“For her designer spits,” you say sweetly, barely holding back a laugh.

“If she stains that, I might cry,” he says dramatically.

“She will stain it,” you reply, voice cheerful. “That’s literally the point of a bib.”

“I could stain it now and save us the emotional torture.”

You giggle, folding it neatly and tucking it into the drawer beside the absurdly tiny sneakers. You swear, those shoes could fit on two fingers. You run a thumb along the edge of the fabric. “Some of this stuff is ridiculous,” you murmur under your breath, still smiling.

A few more boxes later, you spot something tucked deeper into one of the bags, wrapped in red and black tissue paper. Your hand stills.

“What’s this?” you ask aloud, tugging it free.

Jannik immediately perks up. “Oh, you found it!”

It’s a baby-sized AC Milan home jersey—soft, tiny, and so adorable that it almost doesn’t feel real. You hold it gently between your fingers, smoothing the fabric out. On the back, in white lettering, it says: SINNER 11.

Your chest tightens instantly, the kind of sudden emotion that catches in your throat. You stare at the little shirt and feel your eyes water.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “You got her a Milan jersey.”

“Of course I did,” he says, walking over like he’s proud of himself. “You’ve got to teach them early.”

You lift it higher, compare it against your belly. It’s so small, almost doll-sized. “Wait… Why eleven?”

“I’m ten,” he says with a shrug, like it’s obvious. “And she’s my plus one.”

Your eyes snap to his, and there it is—that stupid, sweet, earnest smile that always sneaks up on you when you least expect it. You blink quickly, pushing the emotion back. Pregnancy hormones are going crazy lately and you can't believe they made you almost cry over a jersey.

“That’s actually disgustingly cute,” you mumble.

He leans in and kisses your cheek, light and sweet. “You love it.”

You don’t even hesitate. “I really do.”

You fold the jersey as carefully as if it were made of glass and place it right on top of the others. The drawer now officially contains: one Gucci bib, one Milan jersey, one very spoiled baby-to-be, and a totally unprepared pair of parents.

You reach for the next box and pull out something white and gold—and immediately freeze.

“…Wait a second,” you say, almost like a whisper.

“What?” Jannik asks, still crouched by the crib.

“A Real Madrid jersey.” You lift the new item higher. “I think you have an enemy.”

He turns his head so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t give himself whiplash. “No.”

“Yup,” you say with a sincere pout on your lips. “And it has a note.”

He practically lunges across the rug to grab it from your hands. You look up at him as he reads it aloud with all the drama in him:

“Figured someone should teach her how to win Champions Leagues. Hala Madrid. — Tio Carlitos.”

You don’t even try to hold it in, your laughter echoes off the walls as Jannik stares down at the white jersey like it just insulted his mother.

“He did not just—”

“Oh, he did, baby,” you say, almost crying from laughter.

“I’m going to use this as her bib.” he finally speaks with a very serious gesture.

“Jannik.” you scold.

“Or a burp cloth.”

“Be nice,” you reply while looking inside the box for something else.

“I am being nice. I’m not setting it on fire.”

“Carlos meant well.”

“Oh, he meant war,” he mutters, throwing the jersey aside.

You keep going, digging through the last bit of the packaging until your fingers wrap around something soft and plush. You pull it out—a bright orange fox with long limbs and a stitched smile. The fur is extra soft, the ears floppy.

“Oh, wait. This is actually cute.” you chant with a smile.

Jannik gives it a side-eye. “That better be a peace offering.”

“There’s another note,” you say, unfolding the tiny card stuck beneath it.

You read it aloud: “Something to hold on to when her dad is out there playing with me.’ Wow, it sounds like a mattress to me.”

“And you told me to be nice!” he laughs.

“Whatever,” you say, holding the toy up next to him for comparison. “At least it looks like you.”

“She’s gonna think we come from foxes.”

“Oh, she’s definitely gonna think you are one.”

You cross the room and kneel beside him at the crib, the pile of wood and screws still untouched since he got distracted by baby merch. You take the manual from his lap and frown.

“This screw doesn’t go here.”

“Yes, it does.” he insists.

“Babe,” you say patiently, “It’s literally labeled for the other panel.”

He gestures vaguely at the chaos. “That’s IKEA’s fault. Their instructions are so bad. It’s sabotage.”

You snort. “You picked this crib.”

“Well, I regret it.” He drops a tiny wrench like it offended him. “This whole design is too complicated. She can just sleep with us.”

“What?”

“She’s not gonna remember it anyway,” he says with complete conviction. “Crib? Useless. She’s gonna want to be close to us. Also, skin-to-skin contact is important.”

“Is this your official parenting stance?”

He shrugs, completely serious. “She’s my daughter. I can’t just put her in a box like a cat.”

You start laughing so hard you almost tip over the parts list. “It’s a crib, not a shoebox.”

“IKEA would like us to believe that.” he reasons.

“You are insane.”

“I’m just realistic,” he replies, stretching out beside the half-built crib. “We’re gonna co-sleep. It’s bonding.”

“Or maybe,” you counter, “When Marc visits us next week, we can just ask him to help us and actually finish this thing?”

He mulls it over, eyes narrowing at the instruction booklet like it personally betrayed him. “Fine. But I still think IKEA is part of the problem.”

You roll your eyes and push yourself up from the rug. “I’m going to go get us something to eat before one of us starts chewing on crib parts.”

“You’re abandoning me?” he says, flat on his back, one hand over his heart.

“I’m going for five minutes.” You toss a baby sock at his face, yet, he doesn’t even flinch. Just mutters, “This is exactly how IKEA wins.

-

You come back twenty-ish minutes later, balancing a bottle of water, a banana, and a granola bar under your arm.

The room is quiet– Suspiciously quiet.

You expect to find Jannik hammering the last piece into place, victory in his eyes. Instead, you walk in and stop short.

He’s stretched out on the nursery rug, completely sprawled on his stomach now, one cheek pressed to the soft floor, arms splayed out like he’s been defeated in battle. The half-assembled crib still stands crooked in the background, just like you left. A lone screw rests between his fingers. His eyes are closed as he’s breathing softly.

You stare for a beat, then slowly lower the banana onto the changing table. “Oh, sweetheart,” you whisper, biting back a laugh. “You gave up.”

34th week | Monte Carlo, Monaco

It’s been a few days since he left for that one event in Milan — not long in the grand scheme of your lives, especially for two people used to airports and FaceTimes. But since the season ended, you've gotten used to falling asleep next to each other, to the luxury of each other’s presence.

He tiptoes through the front door now, suitcase dropped by the wall and coat shrugged off in the dark. The place smells faintly of baby shampoo and lavender detergent. The scent of his home.

God, he missed you.

He undresses quietly and slips under the duvet carefully, making his way behind you as his hand finds your belly instinctively. Warm and somehow bigger than even a few days ago.

“Mmh—Jan?” You stir at his touch, your voice still scratchy with sleep.

“It’s me,” he whispers through your neck, “I’m home.”

Your eyes flutter open, then turn towards him. You don’t say anything, just kiss him to welcome him.

It’s not slow or shy — it’s breathless, open-mouthed and desperate. Your fingers thread into his hair and pull him closer. His hands grip your hips, then your belly again, like he’s checking you’re real, you’re with him.

“I missed you,” you murmur between kisses. “So much.”

“I couldn’t think about anything else,” he breathes. “And it has been just three days.”

His mouth trails down your jaw, your neck, and the top of your chest. He pushes the strip of your tank top down until one of your breasts spills free for him.

“Oh god,” he whispers, cupping you reverently as his thumb brushes your sensitive nipple. “I love you.”

You smile and tug the top up yourself, exposing more of you. Bare skin warm and flushed in the dark with his hot kisses washing you all over. He kisses across your chest, sucking gently with an open mouth as his hand slides down your side to your inner thigh.

You’re already arching toward his touch, whimpering when his slim fingers find their way inside you.

“You're already ready for me, amore.” he says, his voice low and sweet, “Do you want me inside?”

“Maybe,” you whisper back teasingly.

Rocking your hips up against him and God—he’s already hard, almost throbbing against you.

“You can’t just grind on me,” he says, voice already breaking, “I’m gonna lose it.”

“I’m pregnant,” you say, kissing him again. “I’m allowed to be cruel.”

You grind again, but much slower this time as his hips buck up to your thigh without warning. “Baby—fuck—”

You giggle, lean down to kiss his reddened chest, and let your hand wander under the waistband of his boxers. He’s warm, leaking already. You stroke him once, then twice—slow, controlled, and devastating.

And then you stop.

He jerks like he’s been shocked. “Why did you stop?”

You sit up slightly, still breathless. “I gotta pee.”

There’s a pause, and you almost wanted to laugh at his expression.

“What?”

“I gotta pee,” you say again, slipping your legs out of the duvet like this isn’t the end of the world. “Like right now.”

“You’re joking.”

You slowly make your way toward the ensuite with a mutter, “Your daughter is literally tap-dancing on my bladder.”

He watches you go, absolutely wrecked. “I was about to make you see God.”

“I’m sure God will still be there when I get back,” you call from the bathroom.

He’s still lying there dramatically, half-hard and completely betrayed, when you come back a few minutes later— expression is sleepy and smug. You don’t say anything, just crawl right back into bed… and curl up to his warmth.

“No. No, you can’t do that,” he says, pulling away a bit to see your face. “Please. Are you gonna sleep now?”

“Yeah, apparently.” you giggle.

“We can do other stuff too!” he pleases.

You raise an eyebrow. “What other stuff?”

“Like…” He glances down at your mouth, and his thumb brushes your lower lip. “Your mouth?”

“I can’t even put a spoon in my mouth without gagging.” You roll your eyes.

He groans. “What about hand stuff?”

“What about you take a cold shower?” you grin, even though you do feel a little bad for him.

“Are you serious right now—?”

You lean in and kiss him again, something soft this time, and he moans into your mouth, full-body yearning.

“I’m going to cry,” he whispers against your lips.

“You’ll live,” you say, pulling the blanket over you.

You roll onto your back with a smile, and he collapses beside you, his arm wrapping dramatically across your belly.

“I hate you.”

“You said you’re in love with me like two minutes ago.” you mock him.

“That was before you tortured me. I’m in pain right now.”

“Yeah, I feel it.” You giggle, running your fingers through his curls again. His whole body softens at your touch. He turns his face and kisses your neck and chest gently, over and over.

“Sorry,” you whisper. “I really did miss you. I just… I’m so tired.”

“Don’t apologize.” He gives you a peck. “You’re growing a whole person in there. You could ask me to sleep on the floor and I’d do it.”

“You say that now…”

“Shh.” He hugs you closer. “You’re still in your dreamland.”

You giggle again, already half-asleep, as he grumbles and gets up.

“Where are you going?” you mumble.

“To take the world’s coldest shower,” he mutters.

“Good luck.”

There's yelling in your ears. The words of praise coming from your mechanic and team lead are all muffled, but they’re still loud and congratulatory, and you don’t think you’ve ever felt anything better than the heat pumping behind your ribs as you let them sink in.

You hear yourself laugh breathlessly in the muffled chaos around you, the noise crackling softly in the confines of your helmet. Something breaks in you, and not in a bad way. You think it’s everything you’ve held back for years, and the cheer you let out scratches your throat. You punch a hand in the air, gripping the steering wheel like it might vanish, and try to pinch yourself through your fireproofs like maybe the moment isn’t real.

Every insult and slick comment that used to let itself ring in your head like church bells echoes and then fades. You remember when the media said you wouldn’t last. When other teams said you’d fold under pressure, and that the seat you worked so hard for should’ve gone to somebody else. But here you are, parking your car behind the one you sometimes doubted you’d reach, after crossing the finish line first, and there isn’t anybody in this crowd that can take it away from you now that you have it.

The car was like a rocket ship the whole race, and at some perfectly calculated turns or miraculously fast straights, it nearly felt like an extension of you. Your pulse never stopped hammering when you overtook another car, but you put trust in the machine. In yourself. In the hard work of your team and the people who work behind the scenes to give you moments like these, where you’re diving into the sea of crew members and they’re tapping your helmet and giving you hard pats on the back.

A part of you is still in race mode, heart slamming against your sternum and beating hard in your ears, louder than it ever has been in the silence of your helmet, and adrenaline still dripping down your back in beads of sweat. But you search for him anyway once your team lets you down from the crowd surf, eyes scanning through your visor.

Oscar finds you first, helmet still on as he jogs in your direction. Your hand finds his with a firm grab, and he tugs you into a hug. He’s saying something under his helmet you can’t make out, but you’re positive it's something he’ll repeat ten more times later from the way he’s holding you like you might run away.

He knows what came at the cost of this moment. The nights you spent doubting yourself in his arms and the silence that was filled to the brim with lingering insecurity and the kind of emotions that always seemed to stretch for hours after a tough loss. Oscar placed third, but he doesn’t seem to care that he’s behind because at least he’s behind you. You did it against the odds and the politics and every smug idiot who told you that you’d never belong, and his heart swells as your hug lingers a few moments too long, the feeling of praise suddenly too big for his chest.

You pull away, and even though you can’t see the grin on each other's faces, you know it's there. Time stops for half a second before Lando approaches, pulling you into a friendly hug while giving his teammate a look that says “You're not being subtle, mate.”

And then there's the cool down room.

Your helmet and gloves have both been discarded, and Oscar tries not to stare from where he sits a few feet away as you fumble with your disheveled helmet-hair, attempting to make yourself presentable before you're called to the podium.

The McLaren teammates chat between themselves, but even as Oscar is deep in conversation, you can feel the familiar burn of his eyes on you regardless of how much you try to ignore them.

You sip from your water as you sit down close to the men adorned in papaya, biting the straw as you let the feeling of first place sink in all over again. You've been in the cool-down room before, but this time it's different. Because you're not second or third, you’re number one.

You and Oscar exchange glances a few times, and Lando has to pretend not to notice the way his friends' eyes linger even after you've looked away, shining with admiration as he stares. If it's not for the sake of your privacy, it's for the sake of his own sanity.

Tension sits heavy in the air between you two, and the final glance before making your way to the podium feels like an unspoken agreement to share a few private words when the chance presents itself.

Being at the top of the podium and looking down at the crowd as your anthem plays is a feeling you're not sure you ever want to let go. Right now, winning is a drug and you're a shameless addict.

The trophy is heavy in your hands, but you lift it up anyways. You kiss the bowl and show it off because you earned it, and the appreciation welling in Oscar's eyes as you hug the piece to your chest is the kind of thing the cameras don't catch as they shutter and click somewhere below you.

When the champagne comes out, there's a shit eating grin that plays at your lips when you deliberately spray the liquid down Oscar's back, letting the liquid wet his fireproofs and underclothes. He lets you with a smile that reaches his ears, but not before Lando pours some of the liquid on your head. The champagne soaks your hair and fizzes into the fitted hat that reads 1st.

You laugh, the noise coming out wholehearted and real as Oscar brings his bottle to your lips, holding it firmly as you chug the liquid. It dribbles down your chin and down your neck, pooling into your fireproofs.

Oscar hasn't seen you this happy in a long time.

He was there to see your first few podiums, standing right there with you with the same bright look in his eyes. You were so proud to be next to him. So happy to be able to compete with the love of your life. But nothing bites like consistently getting second does, and the expectations of your team sat heavy enough on your shoulders that Oscar could practically feel it every time you looked at him.

“Why does first seem so far away, even when I'm always getting second?” You had asked one night with your head buried in his chest and tears welling in your eyes out of the frustration you keep pent up in front of the cameras. Oscar didn't have an answer. He never really does. But holding you close and telling you that it'll be alright seemed to be the one thing that kept you on your feet when things were bad, and you remind Oscar every day how much it means to you that he's there at all.

And now, after all the hours of practice, over working to make up for petty losses, and letting the work reach your neck? It's all added up, and you're here, standing between him and Lando on top of the podium with his arm tight around your waist like it belongs there, trying not to glance over as you smile, truly smile, for the cameras.

You're on your way to the press conference, trying not to absentmindedly link hands every time they brush, when Oscar pulls you somewhere a little more private where he knows there are no cameras.

His lips are on yours in mere seconds, and you're smiling into the kiss like idiots in love as it deepens. You pull away for air, foreheads resting softly against each other. Your arms are linked around his neck, resting softly on his broad shoulders. His hands are tight on your hips where your half-zipped fireproofs pool, and you grin at each other with the kind of choked-up joy you recognize in an instant.

“You raced beautifully today,” Oscar mutters as he plants a chaste kiss on the corner of your lips, “I'm so proud of you, my love.” He says breathlessly, pecking you on the jaw.

“You too, Osc,” You smile, whispering his name like a prayer. Your lips meet his again, your hands cupping his face as his fingers trace yours.

The room buzzes with excitement at your arrival, cameras flashing as you enter. Oscar walks in a few moments after you, hoping that it'll make your corresponding lateness a little less suspicious, and takes a seat on the other side of Lando.

The first question is for you. “You've managed to take your first win. And not just any win—but against some of the biggest names in the sport right now. How are you feeling after such a good race?” The interviewer asks, and all eyes are on you as the room falls quiet.

When you pull away for a second time, the smiles that sit on your lips are full of pride and respect and love. "You taste like champagne, baby." He comments, tongue running across your plump lips in a soft kitten lick.

You laugh, low and quiet, "Should'a thought about that before you had me drink from your bottle." You reply as you drink him in before you have to separate.

Oscar plants a final kiss on your forehead, right below your hairline, before the two of you rush to the press conference.

You shuffle a bit in your seat, laughing almost inconceivably. “Um, honestly? I don't think I've processed it yet. I’ve pinched myself probably ten times in the past hour because this really is just unbelievable. But…” You trail off, staring at the journalist in thought, “I've waited years for this moment, and against all the odds that have been stacked against me since day one, I crossed that line first, and it feels like the noise has just kind of flatlined and I've finally proved something.”

Oscar stares at you as you speak, and his jaw twitches softly when he takes in your answer. It's subtle, his lips barely even upturned, but the slightest smile is there even if you don't catch it.

Another question flies your way, “There were a lot of people who doubted that you deserved your current seat. What would you say to them now?”

Your shoulders tense up. Not enough for the camera to catch it, but the brief purse of your lips as you think of your response tells a bigger story.

Your voice is a pinch firmer as you reply, “I'd say watch the replays and look at the statistics. My seat is mine, and I've earned it with hard work just like Oscar and Lando earned theirs,” You say, tongue jutting out to lick your lips as you glance at your PR manager. She gives you a curt nod. “I’m here for a reason, and if people can't accept that, then they have bigger things to worry about.” You add, letting the mic sit softly in your lap to exude finality.

Eventually the attention shifts to the men next to you.

“Oscar, you had pole and she didn't. What do you think made today different?” Someone a little further back asks.

He makes a subtle face, but it wipes quickly. “I don't think the position qualifying put me in matters very much here. The race unfolded in her hands— she made the right calls, managed tires better, and had better strategy going in. She dominated Suzuka, and I can't fault a single move that was made today.” Oscar answers confidently, accent thick as his voice travels throughout the room.

Another question for Oscar comes in a little more backhanded, “Do you see her differently after today? Maybe as someone to look out for, as an actual competitor?”

Oscar blinks, “I've always seen her as someone to look out for. She's just as much of a competitor as Lando or Max is, and that's been evident from the start,” He sends you an inconspicuous glance, a little sideways and knowing, “So, to answer your question, nothing from today's race changes anything. We're both competing for the same title, the same way we've always been, and the respect will always be there.”

You and Oscar share a glance, knowing sitting heavy in your eyes.

Eventually, when media is over and you find yourselves treading back to your respective garages, you and Oscar subtly slip into his driver's room without anyone noticing.

You've gotten good at sneaking around, but this time it feels a little more sacred as he pulls you into a hug behind closed doors. It's the kind that he puts his whole body into, and you ease into each other familiarly.

He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. This one is a little less controlled compared to the one from earlier. It lingers longer, and the way you press into each other like the other could disappear at any moment is more evident.

“I'm so fuckin’ proud of you, baby.” Oscar says somewhere between kisses.

You grin into his lips, “You said that already, Oscar.” You laugh softly, scattering kisses all over his face.

“I know. Just wanted to remind you how much I love you, and that you were amazing today just like you are in every other race.” He says sweetly, pulling you in closer and running kisses down your neck and across your jaw.

“Mm, where did my nonchalant man go? This Oscar is making my cheeks hurt.” You hum, smiling even bigger, cheeks burning even hotter.

He scoffs, “What, a man can't tell his pretty girl how much he admires her nowadays?” He jokes, smiling with you.

“I'm just joking, love. You drove beautifully today, too. Don’t let my podium undermine yours.” You rake a hand through his thick hair, the strands of chestnut soft against your fingertips.

Oscar gives you a look, “Baby, you got P1 for the first time in your formula one career. That's fucking awesome. I’m not undermining anything, I'm giving you the congratulations you deserve.” He says, tone a bit snappy as he speaks like it was obvious.

The two of you lay down on the couch in the corner of his room, arms wrapped around each other comfortably. “Thank you, Oscar. I mean it.” You murmur gratefully, planting another kiss on his lips.

“It's what I'm here for, sweetheart.” He replies, pulling you in a little tighter.

For a while, neither of you open your mouths to speak. The hum of the paddock beyond the confines of his room feels miles away, muted by the rhythm of your breathing and the weight of Oscar’s arm around you.

The win still pulses beneath your skin, sharp and surreal. But here, tangled up in half-on fireproofs and love, it finally feels safe to settle into it. You close your eyes, cheek pressed to his chest, and let yourself believe it: you didn’t just survive the dangerous mix of noise, doubt, and pressure. You beat it.

And maybe because of that, tomorrow the world will start talking again, louder than ever, but tonight, the only thing you need is this stretch of comfortable silence, and Oscar, who always knew you’d get here.

— They’d spent most of the afternoon walking along the quiet parts of Monte Carlo — the ones tucked between sharp cliffs and sun-bleached walls, where tourists didn’t think to look and the sea whispered instead of roared.

That was always the plan, unwritten but understood: follow the winding streets behind the harbor, drift through the silence of residential corners and little stone stairs too narrow for crowds.

It made Jannik feel human again — not Jannik Sinner, pro athlete, but only a boy with too-long limbs, curls that wouldn't lie flat, and a tendency to hold her bag when her shoulder got tired.

They were sun-slick and slow-moving when he paused in front of the café — small, seaside. Vines curling around its windows like an embrace, pink cushions faded by salt air, and in the glass display? A slice of mille-feuille so obnoxiously delicate it almost glowed.

“That looks dangerous,” she murmured, peering closer.

Jannik squinted at the price tag beside it and audibly winced.

“That’s seventeen euros,” he said flatly. “For one slice of pastry.”

She grinned. “You can afford seventeen euros, you know?”

He side-eyed her. “That’s not the point. It’s the principle.”

She stepped closer to the entrance, teasing. “Then go in and ask them to lower the price. Tell them you’re famous.”

“I’d rather die.”

She giggled, the sound sweet and playful. But when she glanced back, he was staring at the door with a small frown.

Then it came — quietly, half under his breath — “We could pretend it’s our anniversary. I think they give free dessert for couples.”

Her eyebrows lifted almost as instantly as her face flushed. “You’re joking.”

“No,” he said, too quickly, then added, “Maybe a little.”

She blinked. He was already red, fully blushing — ears, neck and all. “You don’t have to,” he rushed. “I just– It’s stupid, I know. Forget it.”

She tilted her head at him, hand on her hip. “You want to fake date me…to avoid paying seventeen euros?”

He was silent for half a second before the answer came. “No– well, yes– but also it’d be funny. You’d be good at it.”

He scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “Unless that’s weird.”

“Wildly weird,” she replied, then smiled softly. “Come on, let’s go make the world’s most ridiculous lie.”

Inside, the café was cool, quiet and no one noticed them but the waiter — middle-aged, cheerful, and a little too eager to make conversation.

Jannik stood awkwardly behind her at the counter for a beat before he took a deep breath and finally stepped forward.

“Bonsoir,” he began, accent soft. “We were just…wondering if, um– do you still do the complimentary anniversary dessert?”

The waiter’s face lit up. “Oui, of course! You’re celebrating today?”

She turned slightly, barely able to bite back a grin as Jannik nodded once, bravely.

“Two years,” he informed. “Together.”

He reached for her hand like it was a reflex. Their fingers touched in a brief, featherlight manner, but even that made his breath hitch.

“And she still puts up with me,” he added, smiling nervously. “Which is…a miracle.”

The waiter beamed. “Ah, young love…sit anywhere you like! I’ll bring something special.”

They sat under a vine-draped corner table, half-shaded from the sun. She looked at him across the table, elbows propped on the surface, face caught between fondness and amusement.

“You panic-lied so fast.”

“I was trying to commit,” he mumbled. “Did it work?”

“You’re very charming when you’re panicking.”

He groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I can’t believe I did that.”

“You literally play in stadiums packed with people and this is what makes you flustered?”

“This is different,” he answered truthfully. Then, hushly, “It’s you.”

Her smile softened, feet nudging his under the table, deliberate. “You’re lucky I like cake...”

There was a pause.

“You’re lucky I like you,” she added, way too casual, eyes darting away the second the words left her mouth.

The silence that followed was gentle, before the waiter returned — triumphant, with a glistening mille-feuille slice and two tiny forks. “For the beautiful couple,” he announced, placing it between them.

Jannik let her have the first bite, waiting for her verdict with a kind of boyish hope in his eyes. When she moaned dramatically, he grinned.

“Okay, fine,” he said. “Maybe it is worth seventeen euros.”

“You’re not getting out of the lie that easy, amore mio,” she teased.

He choked slightly, eyes wide, then smiled down at his fork, cheeks warming again. “If I’d known you liked it when I said that, I would’ve done it sooner.”

“You did say it sooner. Multiple times. Every single one made me blush.”

“Still does.” he whispered, glancing up at her.

She was now quiet, holding his gaze, the fork frozen between them.

And maybe it didn’t matter if the dessert was free or overpriced, if they were lying or not. Because the air between them was thicker than pretend — sweeter than sugar, and undeniably real.

When they left, the waiter waved. “See you next year!”

Jannik smiled at her, hand brushing hers again. “Maybe next year we won’t have to lie.”

She looked at him then — really looked, heart blooming in her chest.

“Maybe,” she whispered, “next year you’ll bring the flowers.”

— It began with a text sent at 11:48 a.m. — a year later.

'Happy fake anniversary! 💞'

He saw it immediately, of course. She knew because three dots danced in the corner of her screen before she even locked it again, but no reply ever came.

And maybe that was the reply.

She figured he was training, napping, or still not used to being someone people wanted — that strange off-court rhythm he always kept during his downtime, like he was catching up to his own heart.

She didn’t exactly expect the knock at her door less than an hour later.

He stood there, looking awkward, sun-drenched and so impossibly hers — white t-shirt a little too soft from overwashing, curls damp at the ends from a shower, and in his hands a pastry box alongside a bouquet.

She blinked, stunned.

“You really brought mille-feuille?” she asked, already smiling.

Jannik ducked his head, bashful. “It felt right.”

She reached for the box automatically, but he held out the flowers instead.

“These are for you,” he informed, then quickly added, “It took me forever to pick them.”

Her hands hesitated.

They weren’t roses, nor anything cliché, really, but rather unusual picks — a bundle of delphiniums in moody ocean blue, scattered between soft baby’s breath and tiny white daisies, and something pink and trailing she didn’t recognize. Fresh, but wild. Messy in the way real things are. Beautiful in a way she could never arrange herself.

“I went to three shops,” he explained sheepishly. “but none of them felt like…you. They all had orchids and calla lilies and that kind of hotel lobby stuff. Perfect, but not enough.”

She was still staring at the bouquet, fingers grazing a soft blue petal.

“So I walked to this little corner place, and the florist there asked me what I was looking for. I just said–”

He paused, eyes searching for hers.

“I said I needed something that looked like sunlight when it touches skin.”

Her breath caught at that.

“And also something soft– brave, not too polished, like…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “Like the person I’ve loved for a while now.”

She was quiet for a full beat, then another.

“You dork,” she finally whispered under her breath, stepping forward to kiss him.

It wasn’t rushed nor theatrical — just her hands curled into his shirt, his nose bumping hers and both of them smiling mid-kiss, like they were still learning each other and liked what they were finding.

When they pulled back, she cradled the bouquet to her chest.

“You know,” she started, “now we have to celebrate this day every year for real.”

He nodded solemnly. “Already marked it in my calendar.”

She giggled, beaming. “Under what?”

He grinned. “Real Anniversary of the Fake One.”

She opened the door wider to let him in. “And the mille-feuille?”

“I paid for it this time.” he replied, mock-proud.

She smirked. “Even though it’s seventeen euros?”