Obviously.
Even from here I can see her hands pressed to her mouth, eyes shining, body pitched forward like she might throw herself onto the floor if I need one more ounce of strength she can somehow send me across a continent of air.
Beside her, Emmanuel sits very still in a dark jacket, jaw hard, beautiful face carved into that impossible old-world restraint of his. But one hand is braced on the railing in front of him so tightly I can see the whiteness in the knuckles even from here.
My coach is two seats down, arms folded, mouth set, not wasting one second on nerves because she taught me years ago that nerves are just energy looking for orders.
Jade is on her feet already, shouting something with both hands cupped around her mouth.
Leo laughs beside her and keeps one arm slung around the back of her seat like he’s the only calm person in the entire row, which means he’s probably panicking elegantly.
Kane is there too.
And Tristan?—
God.
Tristan.
He’s standing.
Black suit trousers, white shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled once, tie gone hours ago, dark hair pushed back from his face like he’s run his hand through it too many times. The Mediterranean light from earlier has burned off into arena glare now, but somehow he still looks exactly like himself—dangerous, polished, alive.
And his eyes are on me.
Not casually.
Not supportively.
Not in that sweet-boyfriend-in-the-stands way cameras love.
His whole heart is in his face.
Still.
After almost two years.
That’s what undoes me.
It’s the fire.
It’s still there.
The same heat that wrecked me in hallways and hotel rooms and private jets and locker-room tunnels. The same look that saysminein the earned way now, not the frightened one. The same impossible, steady burn that somehow got deeper instead of softer with time.
He lifts one hand.
Doesn’t wave.
Just touches two fingers once over his own chest.
There.
The old signal.
The one that means:
I’m here.
