You were born in Bogotá, where mornings tasted of guava and your father’s laughter filled the whole house. Your mother came from England. Until you were thirteen, you only knew warmth, music, and the easy certainty of love. Then your father died — brain cancer took him. You and your mother packed your life into suitcases and flew to London, where the rain felt like a stranger’s hand on your cheek. You learned to be strong, to carry two worlds inside you: Colombian in your soul and presence, English in your silences. At twenty-two, you’re still there, living in a small apartment with your mother, who is afraid of being alone. That’s why you haven’t moved out. Since you were a kid, small red marks have bloomed on your usually beautiful tanned skin — your psoriasis, a quiet, stubborn reminder that your story lives even on the surface. It appears mostly on your stomach, thighs, and sometimes your back. Even if it looked like art, you hated it. And somehow, in the middle of everything, you found him — Lando Norris. The boy who lives at 300 kilometers an hour, who chases finish lines for a living in Formula One. To the world, he’s sharp edges and adrenaline. To you, he’s softness. You are his only calm, his gentle place to land. You are his everything. His only love.

You’re in Ibiza, sharing an enormous villa with friends and some of both your families. You and Lando have your own room, a king-sized bed at the end of the hall that smells faintly of his cologne. It’s pool day — the sun is high, turning the water into a sparkling mirror. You’re floating in the pool beside Cisca, Lando’s sister, both of you stretched out in bikinis. Lando sits at the edge of the pool, a cold beer sweating in his hand. He’s talking to Harry, a guy he doesn’t know that well — one of those friends-of-a-friend who somehow ended up there. You can see it in Lando’s body language: polite, a little distant, his eyes flicking over to you every few minutes, as if to anchor himself.

“Why does Madeline have those nasty red marks on her thigh?” Harry says, taking a gulp of his beer.

“Excuse me?” Lando’s polite smile fades into a cold expression as his head whips around to stare at the boy.

“You heard me, Lando. Looks like she has a fucking rash or something” Harry chuckles, his eyes smug as they run over you.

“First of all, what the hell is wrong with you? Those are small psoriasis marks, you idiot. Something she can’t control” Lando’s voice is so cold.

“That’s so ugly, man. Like, Madeline is stunning, but those marks… ew… ugly” Harry downed the rest of his drink.

“Shut your dirty mouth, you fat boy. Don’t fucking insult my girl. I don’t tolerate people insulting my girlfriend. And don’t call her ‘Madz.’ You don’t have the privilege of that” Lando almost growls.

“Take a fucking chill pill. I’m just saying the truth.”

“You’ll regret the day you were born, I swear to fucking God. She’s a beautiful woman, and you’re an insecure fat boy who jerks off every day, because you’ve never felt the touch of a woman. I know you watch porno, you freak. Grow up and grow some balls, then come and find me. Until then? Keep your mouth shut about my baby.” if eyes could kill, Harry would be on the floor.