The rooftop café in Jardins didn't feel like the kind of place a 17-year-old kid from Campinas belonged. White marble tabletops so polished he could see his own nervous reflection in them. Low-slung chairs that looked more like art than furniture. Potted plants spaced just so, like they'd been placed by someone with a ruler and a deep fear of chaos.
And the view.
Christ.
The whole skyline stretched out before them, a jagged tapestry of glass and steel bathed in the golden haze of late afternoon. From up here, even the traffic looked elegant—a slow-moving river of headlights winding between the buildings.
Thiago adjusted his sleeves for the third time. The button-up Marina had insisted he wear was slightly too big in the shoulders, the fabric bunching awkwardly when he moved. He'd never owned a proper dress shirt before this one. His usual wardrobe consisted of club polos, sweat-stained training gear, and the single pair of dark jeans he reserved for family dinners.
