By the time the evening winds down, and the world outside my window grows quiet, I can’t help but feel the weight of the day lift off my shoulders. The racing, the interviews, the constant rush—it all fades when I’m home. Home, for me, isn’t just a place. It’s her.

She’s already in bed when I walk in, curled up in the blankets, a book resting on the pillow beside her. I don’t even need to say anything. She looks up at me with that soft smile, the kind that makes my heart skip a beat, and the next thing I know, I’m climbing into bed beside her.

"Long day?" she asks, her voice sleepy, her eyes still heavy with exhaustion.

"Always," I reply, my voice soft. I pull the blankets around us, feeling the warmth of her body close to mine. Her hand instinctively finds mine, fingers intertwining, and I smile, just grateful for the stillness we share in these moments.

It’s funny how in a world so fast, the simplest moments feel like the most important. When it’s just us, no cameras, no races, just the soft glow of the night light, everything feels right.

She’s always been good at reading me. Even after a long day, she knows when I need silence, when I need her to just be there. Tonight, I don’t need anything else. Just her next to me, her breathing slow and steady, her hand resting gently on my chest.

I shift slightly, just enough to wrap my arm around her, pulling her closer, feeling her warmth against me. She tucks her head into my shoulder, and I can hear the soft rhythm of her breathing, syncing with mine.

"Thank you for being here," I whisper, kissing the top of her head.