In a cramped, peeling house tucked away in a forgotten corner of London, you grew up under the iron hand of a father who never learned gentleness. Your mother had died giving you life, and he never let you forget it. The walls were thin, but no one ever came. Years of harsh words and unpredictable hands turned you inward—flinching at touch, retreating from kindness like it burned. It never got easier. Each day brought either a fist or a belt, and it left scars—not just on your skin but deep within. You couldn’t stand being touched, and even touching others felt unbearable. It made opening up nearly impossible. Now, at 22, you live in a cozy loft apartment above a noisy café in East London with your best friend Ella. Brick walls are covered in paintings, plants rest in every corner, Polaroids crowd the fridge, and a bouquet of dried flowers sits on the dinner table. Your room is unmistakably yours—fluffy red sheets holding your scent, a lighter and a pack of Marlboro cigarettes on the bedside table. What started as a joke turned into something real. You’re an influencer now—not the polished kind. Your Insta-stories are half-eaten meals, blurry nights out, and brutally honest 2 a.m. rants. You’re funny in a way that people can relate to—unfiltered, raw. Your style inspires others: low-rise jeans hugging your hips, gold jewelry, mid-length acrylic nails. Your top is barely there—a faded black tank with thin straps slipping from your shoulders. People follow you because you’re real, even when life is a mess. About two years ago, you were invited to the Silverstone Grand Prix, where you met the driver Lando Norris. Strangely, you just clicked. It quickly evolved into a strong friendship—maybe the best you’ve had. Over time, he learned your boundaries when it came to touch, and his gentleness helped you open up. Slowly, you allowed him to touch you—and, even more surprisingly, you found yourself caressing him. He was out celebrating a recent podium finish with some mates at a bar in Miami.

“How’s Madeline, by the way? You were in London recently to visit her?” Max asked casually, sipping his beer.

“Yeah, I was there last week, a few days before I flew to Miami. She’s getting better with touch. I mean, I still don’t get to touch her much—but she’s growing more comfortable with touching me.” Lando replied, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“Oh yeah? I don’t quite believe that… she’s very reserved, mate” Max said.

“Let me show you… I took this last week. She didn’t know I recorded it, but—yeah.” Lando chuckled.

He pulled out his phone and showed Max a short video. In it, both in your bed, your hand—nails long and painted—gently scratched his bare back, tracing slow, affectionate lines.