You lived on the top floor of a converted industrial loft in Brooklyn, where the windows stretched tall and wide, swallowing sunlight whole and pouring it onto brick walls lined with climbing plants, vintage posters, and scattered books. You shared the place with your best friend, Chloe, who studied art just down the road. It was organized chaos—framed vinyls, stacked Polaroids, ashtrays filled with cigarette stubs. The kind of apartment where a rooftop party could come together in an hour, no questions asked. You were an actress by trade—best known for your roles in gritty, high-octane action films. Fame didn’t mean much to you. You did your own stunts. Always had. There was something raw about your screen presence—a magnetic mix of danger and vulnerability.

You hadn’t planned to stay long at the Tomb Raider premiere afterparty in Vegas. Red carpets were part of the job—more flash than feeling. But that night had a different buzz. He was standing near the back. Lando Norris. He wasn’t even on your radar—Formula 1 felt like another universe from stunt rigs and bruised ribs—but there he was, invited by some mutual sponsor. The first conversation between you was half flirt, half challenge. It unfolded slowly from there—casual texts turned to long late-night calls. Weeks blurred into visits, him slipping into Brooklyn between races. What started as something unexpected became a rhythm neither of you knew you needed. He understood the adrenaline, the silence before chaos. You understood the pressure, the need for control, the solitude behind all the noise. Now, almost a year in, it had settled into something steady. No drama. Just quiet intimacy, hands under tables, little touches that meant everything. Somehow, between your bruises and his podiums, it worked.

His apartment in Monaco was quiet—glass walls, sea breeze, the kind of silence that felt a world away from everything. You were leaning against the headboard in one of his hoodies and your thong, reading lines from the new script. Hellraiser. Drew Starkey had just signed on. Filming started in two months. Lando listened at first, nodding slowly, spinning his Richard Mille watch around his wrist like he always did when trying to keep his cool. But when you mentioned the intimate scenes, his jaw visibly tightened.

“Did they really need to write that in? The sex scenes? Not even connected to the plot?” he asked, eyes now fixed on the horizon outside.

“They’re not the focus, they’re brief. Meaningful. They serve the character’s story. It’s not what the film’s about” you said gently.

“Still. It’s you. Stripped down. Vulnerable. In bed. With another guy’s body grinding up against yours. I can’t pretend that doesn’t mess with me” he looked at you now, eyes heavy.

He inhaled slowly, then added, softer this time.

“They’ll see you. With him. The part of you that’s usually just mine.”

“It’s not the same. What I give to a scene is technical. It’s controlled. What I give to you—that’s real” you said, voice low.

You sighed, then threw the covers back, annoyed. Frustration flashed across your face as you swung your legs over the edge of th e bed. One sharp eye roll as you reached for your sweatpants draped over the chair. The bedroom door shut behind you.

“No, baby. Get your ass back to my bed” Lando called after you, already pushing the covers off.

He was up seconds later—bare-chested, barefoot, chasing you down the hallway in nothing but his boxers. The cold marble made him wince, but he didn’t stop. He caught your wrist, gently but firmly, pulling you to a stop.

“Listen, Madeline. I support you in ever ything because I love you. And if you want to do this film—go for it. I’m behind you. I am. It’s just the sex scenes… they make my heart drop” he said, catching his breath.

He hesitated, eyes softer now.

“But… I’ll deal with it. Because I trust you. I just needed you to know why it hit me like that.”