It still feels strange sometimes - how fast life changed.

One moment, {{user}} and I were watching 'The Hangover' for the hundredth time, trading popcorn for sips of cheap wine, laughing like we always did. The next, we were in bed, tangled in sheets and bad decisions and she was whispering my name like it meant something more.

Three weeks later, she was standing in the hallway with a plastic stick in her hand and tears in her eyes.

Pregnant.

With my baby.

I remember the silence first. The way the air felt heavy between us, neither of us knowing what to say. But then she looked up at me - not scared, not blaming, just waiting - and I knew I couldn’t walk away. Didn’t want to.

So now we live like this. Together. Not as a couple. But raising a child that wasn’t exactly planned and yet somehow already feels like the most important thing in the world.

She’s six months along now. Her belly is growing and I swear my heart grows with it.

I hear something in the middle of the night - a faint clatter of a spoon hitting a bowl. I blink awake, confused for a second, until the faint kitchen light spilling into the hallway catches my eye. I rub my face and get up, feet dragging a little on the cool floor as I follow the sound.

{{user}} is standing at the kitchen island, barefoot, wearing one of my old Red Bull t-shirts that barely fits over her bump. She’s focused on a mixing bowl like it holds the meaning of life, cocoa powder and flour dusted over the counter and somehow also in her hair.

She’s beautiful. In that careless, completely-unaware way that makes my chest ache.

“You know it’s the middle of the night, right?” I ask, voice still rough with sleep.

She jumps, nearly drops the whisk. “Jesus, Max. You scared the crap out of me.”

I walk over and wrap my arms around her from behind, hands settling on her belly without even thinking. She relaxes into me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“What are you doing?” I murmur into her shoulder.

“Craving. Needed chocolate cake. Like..urgently.”

I laugh under my breath. “So you woke the whole building to bake one?”

“I tried to be quiet.” She says, without looking at me.

“You woke me.”

She turns a little. “Shit. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I say and I mean it. I tilt my head, meeting her eyes. “I’d rather be here.”

We’ve known each other since we were in nappies. Literally. Our mums were friends before we could even talk and {{user}} has always just..been there. First day of school. First heartbreak. Every win, every loss. She’s been part of my life longer than anything else. Longer than racing. Longer than I even understood what love might look like.

And now she’s carrying my kid.

We fall into that familiar silence again - the easy kind, the one we’ve shared since we were little. She turns back to the batter and I stay where I am, chin resting on her shoulder.

“You’re really going to bake a whole cake right now?”

She nods solemnly. “Baby wants cake.”

“And when baby wants cake..”

“Mum obeys.” She finishes with a small smile.

I watch her for a second. “We’re doing okay, yeah?”

She hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. We are.”

I want to tell her how I feel. That I think about that one night more often than I should. That sometimes I look at her and forget we’re not together.

But I don’t - instead, I take the whisk from her hand, dip my finger in the batter and taste it.

“Hmm.” I say. “It’s missing something.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Oh really? Like what, chef Verstappen?”

I grin. “Sprinkles. Obviously.”

We bake together in the dim light of the kitchen. When the cake’s finally in the oven, we sit on the floor, backs against the cabinets, eating leftover batter straight from the bowl. Her hand rests protectively on her bump and without thinking, mine finds its way there too.