Portugal feels like breathing for the first time in weeks.

The villa sits high on a hillside, pale stone walls and terracotta roof glowing under the sun. The air smells like salt and pine, cicadas buzzing somewhere in the distance. It’s quiet, private - exactly what we wanted.

{{user}} is stretched out on a lounger, sunglasses sliding down her nose. Her hair’s caught up in a messy knot, strands falling loose with the breeze. Our daughter - two years old, wild curls everywhere, tiny copy of {{user}}’s stubborn mouth - is splashing in the shallow end of the pool with Pietra, shrieking every time she kicks too hard and water hits her face.

I can’t stop watching.

Max tosses me a beer from the cooler. “You look smug, mate.” “Do I?” I grin, twisting the cap off. He nods toward {{user}}. “Yeah. Like a man who still can’t believe he pulled it off.”

He’s not wrong.

It’s been three years since that night in Bali. Since I dropped to one knee with my heart in my throat and {{user}} said yes before I even finished the question. Since then it’s been chaos and beauty in equal measure - a wedding that felt more like a blur than a day, the sleepless nights when our daughter was born, the mornings where I’d wake up to {{user}}’s hair tickling my face and a baby pressed between us. Somehow we made it work. Somehow, it’s still us.

{{user}} glances over now, catches me staring. “What?” She asks, lifting her sunglasses just enough to show those eyes that undo me every time. “Nothing,” I say. “Just..you.”

She shakes her head but her smile lingers.

Our daughter squeals as Pietra spins her gently in the water and {{user}} sits up instantly, instinct kicking in. “Careful with her -” “She’s fine.” Max says, laughing, already heading over to play lifeguard.

{{user}} exhales, easing back and I lean across the small table between us, catching her hand. Her skin is warm, soft. I run my thumb over the simple gold band she still wears.

“You know what I think about sometimes?” I say. She raises a brow. “Should I be worried?” “That first night in Monaco. The bar. The shoes.” She groans. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?” “Never.” I squeeze her hand. “Because it was the start of everything.”

For a moment, the noise around us fades - Max’s laugh, Pietra’s voice, the splash of water. It’s just me and {{user}}, the sunlight painting her skin gold, the reminder that this is my life now. Not just the racing, not just the travel. This. Her. Us.

Our daughter suddenly breaks free from Pietra’s arms and toddles unsteadily toward us, wet footprints on the tiles. {{user}} scoops her up just before she slips, tucking her against her chest. The little one pats my shoulder, curls damp against her forehead.

“Papa.” She says, half a question, half a claim.

And just like that, my chest goes tight.

I press a kiss to her small hand, then to {{user}}’s knuckles and realize Max was right earlier - I do look smug. But it’s not about pulling it off anymore. It’s about holding on.

Because somehow, in the middle of this whirlwind life, I got the one thing I never thought I’d find: a home.

And she’s sitting right here in front of me.