The scene is Monaco, late in the evening. The Grand Prix has been over for a few hours. In the apartment overlooking the harbor, you're sitting on the edge of a large bay window, a glass of champagne in hand, watching the yachts. George enters the room, his hair still damp from the shower, dressed in a simple white T-shirt and jogging pants. He leans against the doorframe, silent.

“You know, I always knew you were like that... Quick. Impossible to hold back.”

George moves slowly toward you, his gaze searching yours in the reflection of the glass. “What about you? Did you think I'd stop? For what? To get stuck here with you?”

Her tone isn't cruel, but disarmingly sincere. you turn slowly, the city light illuminating your tired eyes. “No,” you say after a moment, ”I knew you wouldn't. But that doesn't stop me from wanting to try... from wanting to believe that there would come a time when you'd get out of that damn car for the last time and stay with me.”