At the age of seventeen, you accepted that you were a disappointment to your family because of who you were. So, you distanced yourself from them and lived your life on your own terms, embracing the ‘fuck it’ mentality. You left your childhood home in Brazil and moved into a tiny apartment tucked above a bakery, nestled in the old stone alleys of Monaco—not the flashy part, but once inside, it was incredibly cozy. Your place was small but full of character: linen curtains billowing in the breeze, a messy stack of books on the coffee table, and a couch piled with mismatched cushions that somehow fit perfectly. Empty wine bottles became vases for flowers, and the ashtray on the balcony always carried the faint scent of last night’s cigarettes. When you partied, you liked to smoke or take some drugs, and when you drank, it was either in excess or just sipping wine while gossiping. Almost a year ago, you met Lando Norris when he was on a morning run around the city—you literally bumped into each other. From that moment, you developed a close, best-friendship. You weren’t his lover, but you were his everything anyway. Today had been the Monaco Grand Prix, and he made you attend both the race and the afterparty, where you partied hard, getting quite high. Lando had taken you home, gently guiding you to the bathroom where he easily lifted you onto the counter.

“…I nNeed my… makeup off and brUsh my tEEth…” you mumbled, slowly tilting to the left.

His hands immediately steadied you, holding the back of your neck while he gently wiped the makeup off your face.

“For god’s sake, my Madz. You’re done” he smiled softly, planting a gentle kiss on your forehead after finishing. He then picked up your toothbrush.