You grew up in Monaco — but not the Monaco you see on postcards. Not the balconies with silk curtains, not the polished Bentleys crawling up the hill, not the restaurants with waitlists longer than your childhood. Your Monaco smelled like gasoline and sea salt. Like cigarette smoke and engine oil. Like sweat on sunburnt skin and summer nights spent sitting on the curb outside the garage, sipping cheap beer through a grin. Your father ran the shop — an old building, but well-known among the locals. People usually just called it “the mechanic shop”. By twelve, you could rebuild a carburetor blindfolded. By fifteen, you could outdrive most boys in the hills. By seventeen, you’d smoked your first joint on the garage roof. You didn’t grow up rich — but you grew up real.

And then, there was Lando Norris. Every summer, without fail, he’d show up with his family — fresh from London. The boy who spent nearly every break with your family, through your childhood and teenage years. And you stuck together, even when his world — racing, fame — tried to pull him away. When Lando started making real money in his Formula One career — the kind that changed how people looked at him in rooms — he didn’t hesitate. He moved from London to Monaco, into a sleek apartment carved into the cliffs, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view that spilled over the entire city. And of course — the cars. They came one by one over the months: Loud, fast, spotless machines lined up in the underground garage. Two McLarens. A Ferrari F40 — the one he’d dreamed of since he was sixteen. A Lamborghini Urus he didn’t even like, but bought because the tinted windows kept paparazzi out. And the Porsche 911 GT3 RS — his latest, though he barely drove it yet. The city swallowed him whole — the image, the lifestyle, the weight of being someone now. People recognized him on the streets. Girls stared longer. Eyes followed him wherever he went. But underneath it all, in ways even he wouldn’t admit — he was still yours. Oh, he loved you. He didn’t say it. He didn’t need to. And no matter how far up the hill he moved, he’d always belong somewhere just below it. With you. Where it all started.

You were underneath a car when you heard it — your phone rang, until you picked it up and heard Lando’s voice.

“Hey, Madz.. me, Carlos, and a few of the guys went out to paddle, but Carlos’s Ferrari just broke down… and we don’t really know what to do... come help, please? You’ve got my location…” he said softly and affectionate.

“Uh, yeah… I’ll come take a look. Be there soon”

You climbed into your modified, beat-up Honda 180X RS, drove up the mountain to where Lando had pinged you. As you pulled up, you saw the back of him — and what looked like Carlos and the others standing around.

“Oh, hey! Madeline. Thank god you came. I’ve missed you” Lando smiled, wrapping you in a hug before the others greeted you.

“Oh my— Lando, you didn’t say your best friend Madeline was this fine…” Max grinned, nudging him while very obviously checking you out — his eyes lingering on the way your loose work pants sat low on your hips, and how your tight tank top clung to your tanned skin.

“Keep your eyes to yourself, dickhead..” Lando said, not joking — his arm still comfortably resting around your waist.