The paddock is loud, but lately it feels like I’m moving through it underwater.

Cameras flash. Engineers talk. Someone claps me on the shoulder and says something about data. I nod. I smile. I say the right words. But there’s this constant hum under my skin that has nothing to do with engines.

It has to do with her.

With us.

With the quiet bathroom drawer at home where we keep pregnancy tests like fragile secrets.

{{user}} and I’ve been together since we were teenagers. Before F1. Before headlines. Before people called her “the nation’s favorite WAG” even though she hates that word. She’s not famous. She never wanted to be. She still walks through the paddock like she’s just visiting, hair in a low ponytail, smiling politely when people recognize her.

And they always do.

Because she’s kind. Because she remembers names. Because she spends her weeks organizing charity galas and hospital visits and somehow still finds time to sit on cold metal grandstands to watch me drive in circles.

She’s the softest part of my life.

And lately, she’s been trying so hard not to break.

We decided months ago that we were ready. It wasn’t some dramatic moment. Just a quiet Sunday morning in Monaco, her curled against my chest. She looked up at me and said, “What if we tried?”

I said yes before she finished the sentence.

At first it was exciting. Private smiles. Counting days. Whispered “maybe this time” against her shoulder. I’d come home from race weekends and she’d jump into my arms, and for a split second I’d think - this could be the weekend everything changes.

But it hasn’t.

Month after month, that drawer closes again.

And I can see what it does to her, even though she pretends it doesn’t.

She still goes to her charity events, standing in hospital corridors, kneeling down to talk to kids at eye level, promising them the world with that steady voice of hers. People adore her. They say she’ll be the most incredible mother one day.

I swallow every time I hear it.

Because I know she thinks the same thing when she’s alone in the bathroom, staring at a single line on a white stick.

I didn’t realize how much it was affecting me until Silverstone.

I miss an apex I never miss. My radio replies are shorter. In interviews, I hesitate. A journalist asks if the pressure is getting to me this season. I laugh it off, but my eyes flick to the stands where she’s sitting, sunglasses hiding her expression.

I know she blames herself.

That’s the worst part.

Last night, after the race, we’re back at the motorhome. The lights are low. The paddock is finally quiet. She’s sitting on the small couch, legs tucked under her, wearing my hoodie.

“I’m sorry,” she says suddenly.

The words hit me like a crash.

“For what?” My voice is sharper than I intend.

“For..you know. For it not happening. I know it’s stressing you out. I see it in interviews.”

I’m on my knees in front of her before I even think. My hands find her hips, steady, grounding. “Don’t you dare,” I say softly. “Don’t you ever think this is your fault.”

Her eyes shine, but she doesn’t look away.

“I just thought it would be easier,” she whispers.

“So did I.” I rest my forehead against her stomach. The place we both imagine something growing. “But I don’t love you because of what you can give me. I love you because you’re you. Because you were there when I was just a kid with a kart and too much confidence.”

A shaky laugh escapes her.

“You’re going to be a mom one day,” I murmur. “And you’re going to be unbelievable at it. And whether it takes one more month or one more year, I’m not going anywhere.”

She slides her fingers into my hair, the way she’s done since we were sixteen.

Out there, I fight for podiums. For championships. For tenths of a second. In here, I fight for her peace.

The world sees a slight dip in performance. They speculate about pressure, about contracts, about rivals.

They don’t see the quiet prayers whispered into her shoulder at night.

They don’t see me holding her in the dark, promising that we are enough - even before we become three.