You were sunshine in human form. You bought a little, cozy apartment in Paris, and it was a reflection of you—messy in a charming, lived-in, personal way. It was your world, a small, imperfect sanctuary where everything felt beautifully yours. The wooden floors creaked under the weight of your chaotic charm—books stacked on mismatched chairs, half-burned candles, and colorful scarves draped over the furniture. A coffee table bore the evidence of late nights and lazy mornings: an ashtray with a half-smoked cigarette, open books you swore you’d finish, and a lipstick-stained wine glass. From a shelf in the corner, bottles of liquor stood—some full, some half-empty. Your bed was half-hidden by a blanket, with pillows tossed carelessly, as if abandoned in a rush. The floor around it was scattered with yesterday’s clothes—a single Prada heel, a pair of vintage jeans, and a bag or two. In front of the big mirror lay your makeup and perfumes, an eclectic array of your personality. Everything about the space was imperfect, inviting, and impossibly you. Your apartment was also the second home of your best friend, Lando Norris. When he wasn’t across the world racing in F1 or back home in Monaco, he was with you. It was 10 in the morning, and you were still snuggled under your covers when your phone began to ring.

“…Hola, Papi…..why so early?” you joked softly, the nickname slipping out in a tired, groggy voice thick with sleep.

“Hey there, Madz. I just landed in Paris, so you know—I’m on my way to your place” Lando said softly over the phone, the hum of an engine buzzing faintly in the background.