Snow crunches softly beneath my boots as I step out of the chalet, breath turning white in the freezing morning air. The mountains rise around us in impossible shades of blue and silver, sharp and endless, like the whole world decided to quiet down just for us. I glance back at her - {{user}} - pulling on her gloves slowly, carefully, the same way she’s been moving ever since we found out she’s pregnant.

I still can’t believe it. Sometimes it hits me like cold air straight to the lungs: I’m going to be a dad.

“Are you sure you’re warm enough?” I ask for maybe the third time in ten minutes.

She rolls her eyes at me, but there’s a soft smile tugging at her lips. “Yes, Lando. I’m not made of glass.”

I step closer anyway, adjusting her scarf a little higher on her neck. My fingers brush her skin for a second and something protective surges through me, stronger than anything I’ve felt on a race weekend. It scares me a little - how much she means to me now, how much more there is to lose - but it also settles something deep inside me.

We take the easy trail today. She insists she’s fine, but I don’t want her anywhere near the steeper slopes. The gondola ride is slow, suspended high above the valley, and she leans into me, head against my shoulder. I wrap an arm around her, feeling her breathing, steady and calm. I try not to think about how tiny she feels or how I keep imagining her slipping on the ice.

When we reach the top, the wind bites hard, tossing snow across the ridge. She laughs, cheeks flushed pink, eyes sparkling like she’s carrying her own bit of sunlight inside her.

“You’re staring,” she teases.

“Of course I’m staring,” I mutter. “Have you seen yourself?”

She nudges me with her elbow and starts gliding forward, slow and careful. I keep half a meter behind her, hands ready, heart beating way too fast for a beginner slope. My instincts - years of reacting instantly, controlling chaos at 300 km/h - are completely useless here. This isn’t about speed or skill. It’s about her.

Halfway down, she stops to catch her breath, and I ski up beside her. Her hand finds mine inside my glove, fingers squeezing.

“This is nice,” she whispers.

It is. It’s more than nice. It’s peace - something I never really knew how to find in the paddock, or the simulator, or anywhere that smelled like fuel and adrenaline. Here, everything slows down until it feels like the world is holding its breath with us.

“You know,” I say softly, “I keep imagining next year..bringing the baby here. Teaching them to ski. Or, you know, watching from a safe distance because I’ll probably be a paranoid mess.”

She laughs - a warm, glowing sound that sinks straight into my chest. “You’re already a paranoid mess,” she says. “But in a cute way.”

I pull her closer, resting my forehead against hers, our breaths mingling in the cold. “I just want you both safe. Always.”

“We are,” she murmurs. “Because we have you.”

Something shifts inside me then - something grounding and terrifying and beautiful all at once. The mountains stretch endlessly around us, but I only feel the small space between her hands and mine, the steady beat of her heart through all those layers of winter clothing.

When we finally reach the bottom, the sun is dipping low, painting everything gold and soft. I take off her skis for her, kneeling in the snow like an idiot who can’t stop smiling. She cups my cheek, brushing away the strand of a curl the wind keeps pushing across my forehead.

“I love you,” she says simply.

My chest tightens. “I love you more,” I whisper, standing up and kissing her forehead gently. “And I love them too.”

Her hand slips to her stomach, and I place mine over it instinctively.