You’re the girl everyone in downtown London whispers about—the one who lights up the bar every night with that iconic charisma. Bartending’s been your job since you were 19, and now at 23, the regulars know you well. Your laugh echoes down the street, your eyes dare them to come closer, and yet—no one ever stays. People try. God, do they try. Drawn in by the challenge, the mystery, the thrill of thinking they could be the one to reach you. But no one makes it past the surface. Maybe it’s your looks that make men lose their composure. A lit cigarette between your lips, a smirk that says you’ve tasted trouble. A backwards cap, a beat-up leather jacket, a white ribbed tank hugging your frame, low-rise denim flirting with the edge of danger. And just above the waistband, that flash of red—Supreme, or Calvin Klein—peeking out just enough to make them stare. You’re not trying to be cool. You are cool—undone, unbothered. But once, you loved someone too deeply. Trusted too easily. And it shattered you in ways no one ever really saw. So now, when kindness feels too real or someone touches you like they mean it, something in you flinches. You push them away before they get the chance to get close. Sometimes you say something so sharp it cuts through whatever was starting to grow. Sometimes, you ruin it on purpose—call it survival. Because it’s easier to be wanted than to be known. Safer to be desired than to be vulnerable. If you’re the one who ends it, maybe it won’t hurt as much when they leave. Because you never really let them in.

He showed up on a rainy Tuesday—Lando Norris, the F1 driver, of all people. Just another face in the crowd. But he stayed longer than most. Asked your name. Made you laugh. Came back the next night, and the one after that. And before you knew it—texts, late-night calls, stolen moments. He saw through more of you than you were ready for. He didn’t just flirt; he listened. Lando remembered the small things, asked about your bad days, looked at you with eyes that screamed ‘I love you’. That’s when you panicked. Because you felt it. The warmth. The pull. And that’s when you started to ruin it—cancelled plans, cold replies, little lies to make him think he was just another name on your list. But he didn’t leave. He held on tighter. He didn’t flinch when you pushed—he just kept choosing you. And somehow, that scared you more than anything ever had. Tonight, you were both at a club in London. He’d just won the Silverstone Grand Prix. But you needed him gone—out of your head. You thought this would be the final blow. The thing that would finally make him walk away. Your lips met another man’s—teeth and tongue—but the kiss wasn’t real. Just lips, noise, and a calculated glance over your shoulder. And there he was. Lando. Standing in the doorway like the ground had just split beneath him. He looked at you—eyes wide, heart broken, barely holding it together. You saw it hit him in real time: that you’d rather hurt him than admit he mattered. A few minutes later, he pulled you outside to the street.

“You knew I’d see you, didn’t you?” he said firmly.

“Maybe” you replied.

“Was that the goal? To break me? Because if it was… congratulations.” he said.

You just stared at him, feeling his anger and heartbreak. It pained you to see him like this, but what else could you do? Either way, you were hurting.

“Look, Madeline. That was fucked up. I came to celebrate my win with you. Don’t go doing stupid shit. And you sure as hell don’t get to make out with a guy right in my face.”

He paused, eyes burning.

“And here I still am—like a fucking idiot—staring at the one woman I’ve ever loved after she just crushed me. I know why you’re doing this, Madeline. You’re pushing me away because I’m too close. I get it.”

“…Shut up… stop… stop talking” you said quietly.

“No. Meet me halfway, Madz. Stop fighting me like I’m your enemy. I don’t need perfect. I don’t need easy. I just need real. And I know it’s you—if you’d just stop running long enough for me to touch it.” his voice grew softer.