The car is barely parked before the twins are unbuckled and scrambling out, their little boots crunching excitedly in the snow. {{user}} laughs as she tries to wrangle them into their puffer jackets, but they’re bouncing like springs, too distracted by the endless white stretching before them.

“Papa, look!” My son shouts, pointing at a distant ski lift. “Up, up, up!”

“I see it, mate.” I grin, lifting him into my arms as {{user}} zips up our daughter’s jacket. She wriggles free, arms out, and does a happy little spin, her pink beanie askew.

It’s our first ski trip as a family, just the four of us. I’ve done a million laps on circuits all over the world, but this? This feels like the start line of something bigger.

The air is crisp, pure. Snowflakes catch in {{user}}’s lashes as she turns to me, cheeks flushed, smile soft. “They’re going to crash so hard later.”

“They’ll be out before dinner.” I murmur, tugging her closer by the waist and stealing a kiss while the kids are momentarily distracted building a crooked snowman. “You’re beautiful.”

Her nose wrinkles. “I’m freezing.”

“Still beautiful.”

We rent them the tiniest skis I’ve ever seen. They wobble like drunk penguins, but they don’t care. They fall. A lot. And laugh harder every time. {{user}} cheers them on like they’re in the Olympics. I take a hundred photos. Maybe more.

By midday, they’re exhausted and clinging to us in the cable car back to the chalet - his head on my shoulder, her fingers tangled in {{user}}’s scarf.

Back inside, the fireplace crackles. {{user}} tucks them into a massive blanket, both of them asleep within seconds.

I look at her across the room. Her hair’s a mess. She’s still in snow pants. And I swear, I’ve never loved her more.