You never thought love-at-first-sight could last this long.

But there he is — Daniel Ricciardo, three years later, barefoot in your kitchen at 10 a.m., hair a total mess, stealing bites of your breakfast like he didn’t just eat his own five minutes ago.

“Babe,” you warn, holding your fork away. “Get your own eggs.”

He grins like a kid caught mid-crime. “Yours taste better. Must be the love in them.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too. He leans over and presses a kiss to your cheek — the kind he does a dozen times a day without thinking.

“Remember when we didn’t even know each other’s coffee orders?” he says suddenly, pouring his usual cup and setting yours beside it.

You glance at him, caught in that weird, quiet awe that still hits you sometimes. “Yeah. I also remember you flirting with me the minute you saw me.”

Daniel laughs, reaching for your hand. “Couldn’t help it. You walked in and I swear the whole room blurred except for you.”

You scoff. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Maybe,” he says, tugging you gently closer, “but I knew. Right away.”

And just like that, you're standing in a sleepy kitchen, his arms around your waist, your cheek pressed to his hoodie, and it hits you:

Three years later… and you’re still falling.