Until my Last Breath

19

It's almost midnight, and the restaurant is starting to empty out. I glance around, taking in the polished decor, the glittering view of the marina below, the lights reflecting off the water. It's one of Monaco's finest spots, with the kind of glamour that should match a night like this. Yet here I am, picking at my untouched meal, my mind fixated on Gavi and the mess of emotions swirling inside me.

Pablo's blending in well with the other drivers, even with most of them being Madrid fans. I envy his ease, his ability to be here, fully present, while I feel like a stranger at my own celebration.

I grab a champagne glass off a passing tray and slip out to the balcony, seeking some quiet. The stars are scattered across the night sky, the air is cool and crisp, and the city lights have softened, leaving everything with a gentle glow. The balcony stretches out like a sanctuary under the night sky as I lean against the railing, trying to steady myself. My mind is still tangled with the memory of what happened earlier-the threat in Darwin's voice, the way I felt cornered, like I was running out of air.

A small noise behind me makes me tense up, but then I hear his voice.

"You and balconies..." Gavi's tone is light, almost teasing, and it makes me exhale, just a little. I turn to see him standing there, hands tucked casually in his pockets, watching me with a steady, quiet gaze. It's the same look he gave me earlier, back in that moment I can't shake, when he stepped in without a second thought.

Its also the same look he gave me in Barcelona at the masquerade ball.

I manage a small smile, shrugging. "Guess i have a thing for views." I try for a laugh, but it doesn't come. I can tell he notices-he seems to notice everything-but he doesn't press, just steps up beside me.
"Thought you were busy tonight?"

"Amelie needed a ride to the airport," he says with a shrug.

We stand in silence for a moment, and I'm grateful for it. The calm, unspoken understanding between us feels rare and fragile, like we both know we're tiptoeing around something neither of us is ready to say. I can feel his presence next to me, grounding but not overbearing, and it somehow eases the tension that's been twisting inside me all night.

"You don't have to talk about it, you know," he says quietly, his gaze fixed on the skyline. "Sometimes it's enough just to... be here."

I swallow, surprised at the simplicity in his words, and how much they seem to cut right to the heart of things. I don't know how he does that-make everything seem a little more manageable, even when my own thoughts are anything but. I nod, turning my gaze back to the city lights, letting his words sink in.

"I don't even know what I'd say if I did," I admit, almost to myself
"I've bever encountered anything like this in my career or even my life before." There's a quiet vulnerability in my voice that I hadn't intended to show, but it's there, exposed in the soft glow of the night.

He doesn't react, doesn't fill the silence with hollow reassurances or push for more. Instead, he just stays beside me, his presence a quiet reminder that I don't have to pretend to have it all figured out.

A part of me wants to tell him everything-that for a few terrifying moments tonight, I felt like I was losing control, like my own strength had limits I hadn't realized ,- what would've happened if he wasn't there-. But something in me resists. It's only the third time we've met, and the truth feels too raw, too close. I barely know him, he barely knows me but then again, there's something about him that feels familiar, like he's someone I can trust without knowing why. It's disconcerting and comforting all at once.

"Being here's enough," I say finally, and my voice is steadier this time. It's the only way I know how to thank him without going too far, without giving more of myself than I'm ready to. And somehow, I know he understands.