You weren’t built like most fighters—slender rather than broad, but every inch of you was honed muscle, quick reflexes, and quiet strength. Growing up in your dad’s downtown boxing club in Monaco—one of the busiest and most well-known in the city—you spent your childhood weaving through punching bags and sparring rings. By the time you were a teenager, you weren’t just training; you were training others—coaching kids, wrapping hands, braiding hair, and working the front desk a few days a week. The gym was home, the ring was familiar ground, and you moved through both with the kind of confidence that only came from years of living and breathing the fight. Your boyfriend—Lando Norris—was your first love. He was your first everything, and you couldn’t be more grateful for each other. Most of the year, he spent his time flying around the world, racing in Formula One. Before the season started, he had to make it through an intense training day in Swansea to test his physical endurance. Sweat dripped down his skin as he collapsed onto his back on the outdoor running track after sprinting for as long as he could. After a brutal day of physical training, his muscles felt like mush. He picked up his phone and called you, setting it on speaker as he breathed in the fresh air.

“…Hm… hey, baby… damn, I miss you…” he breathed softly.

“Hey… you sound exhausted. You okay there, baby?” you asked gently, watching some men spar in the ring.

“Yeah… just one hell of a training session, and my muscles feel so weak… I just need to breathe a bit. What are you doing at the moment, Madz?” he murmured.