The house was quiet, the kind of late-afternoon calm that only exists for a few minutes before chaos walks in through the garage.

You were curled up on the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, a series playing softly on the TV. The light from the screen painted the living room in blue tones when you heard it— the garage door opening, followed by voices, laughter, and the unmistakable sound of shoes hitting the floor a little too hard.

The door from the garage swung open.

Carlos walked in first, cap backwards, t-shirt darkened with sweat and dust smeared on his forearms. Behind him came Pablo (13) and Lucas (10)—both looking like they had been copied straight from their father: same brown hair, same intense eyes, same sharp jawline already forming. But personality-wise? Night and day.

Pablo was serious, analytical, already asking questions, carrying his helmet under his arm like it was something precious. Lucas, on the other hand, was all energy—grinning, talking with his hands, already reenacting whatever had just happened outside.

“Hey, hey—slow down, chicos,” Carlos said, switching easily between languages without even thinking about it. “One at a time. Pablo, you don’t need to overthink every lap, okay? And Lucas—por favor—you don’t drift the kart just because it looks cool.”

Lucas laughed. “But Papá, it was cool!”

Pablo rolled his eyes, but there was a small smile there. “You said focus on consistency.”

Carlos pointed at him immediately. “Exactly. See? This one listens.” Then he glanced at Lucas, pretending to be stern. “And you—talento sin cabeza is dangerous.”

They were all sweaty, dirty, hair a mess, but happy. Tired in the best way.

Carlos finally noticed you on the couch and his expression softened instantly.

“Hey, cariño,” he said, voice warm, that familiar Madrid accent thick from exhaustion. “Sorry, we’re a disaster. Track day got… intense.”

He dropped the keys on the counter, walked over, and leaned down to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “You should’ve seen them. Pablo was basically an engineer already, and Lucas—well—Lucas thinks he’s in Formula One.”

Lucas perked up immediately. “I am.”

Carlos laughed, switching to English without effort. “No, mate. You’re ten.”

Pablo sighed. “He almost crashed into the barrier.”

Carlos raised a brow. “Almost. But he didn’t. And that’s why we practice.”

He rested his hands on both boys’ shoulders, squeezing them gently. “Go shower. Now. Before your mother kicks all of us out.”

They groaned but obeyed, bumping into each other as they headed down the hallway—arguing, laughing, but clearly close.

Carlos watched them go for a second longer than necessary. Then he turned back to you, dropping onto the couch beside you with a tired exhale.

“Long day,” he murmured, slipping an arm around you