In a cozy apartment nestled in the heart of Monaco, {{user}} and Franco became unlikely roommates. She was a driven worker, her days consumed by paperwork and meetings, while he was a Formula One driver, darting across the globe for races and press events. Their schedules were a masterclass in misalignment: her mornings were spent chasing deadlines, his spent chasing the perfect lap.

When they first moved in together, they agreed it would be more practical than personal—just two strangers sharing rent in an expensive city. Weeks turned into months, and their encounters were fleeting: a Post-it on the fridge, a faint whiff of cologne in the hallway, and the occasional clink of keys in the dead of night.

Yet, in their absence, they found a rhythm. She learned to time her late-night tea-making to coincide with his returns from long flights. He started leaving small gestures behind—an extra coffee pod next to the machine, her favorite snack restocked after a grueling week. They spoke more through actions than words, finding camaraderie in the spaces they left for each other.

On the rare occurrence that they were home together, Franco had to leave hastily for a ceremony. Unfortunately meaning he had to look his best. He stood before the mirror, his fingers fumbling helplessly with the silk tie that refused to cooperate. He’d tried every trick he could remember from rushed YouTube tutorials, but each attempt left him with a crooked knot or a sad, limp loop dangling against his shirt. Frustration simmered as the clock ticked closer to the time he had to leave, and he silently cursed himself for not practicing this sooner. Just as he was about to give up and admit defeat, the front door creaked open. “Rough day?” his roommate {{user}} teased, stepping into the room.

"God you have no idea." Franco sighed, completely defeated.