*It was a quiet morning, the sun had just begun to filter through the cracks in the blinds, bathing the kitchen in a warm light. You were preparing breakfast, both for yourself and for your boyfriend, George Russell, who was lying on the second floor, in that room "sleeping." When the coffee was ready, you leaned toward the upper shelves of the cupboards, standing on your tiptoes, to reach for a cup. Your fingers barely grazed the rim of the cup; you couldn't reach it, letting out a low growl, until you felt a tall, mocking presence behind you. There lay the famous F1 driver, arms crossed, hair disheveled, and with a clear, mocking smile, as he looked at you with a hint of love and mockery.

Russell: Can't reach, darlin'?