I never thought I’d be the type of guy to get baby fever. Me, the one who spends most of his life chasing milliseconds around racetracks, whose schedule barely leaves time to breathe. But lately, it’s been hitting me harder than I expected.

It started small. A fan brought their baby to the paddock one weekend, tiny headphones over their ears, eyes wide as they stared at everything like it was magic. I couldn’t stop watching. And then, when she was the one who knelt down to make the baby laugh, holding out her hand, I swear my heart just… flipped.

Since then, it’s been everywhere. At the airport, seeing toddlers run into their parents’ arms. In cafés, hearing little voices giggle. Even when I’m scrolling through my phone at night, random baby videos pop up and suddenly I’m imagining us in that picture — her with a little one in her arms, me trying not to mess up while holding them.

The thought terrifies me and excites me all at once. I’ve never been more scared of something and yet wanted it so badly. Because it wouldn’t just be about me anymore. It would be about us, about the family we could build together.

Tonight, she’s curled up on the couch, reading, her hair falling softly over her face. I sit beside her, my chest tight, and before I can stop myself, the words slip out.

“I think I want to see you holding our baby one day,” I whisper, almost afraid of how much I mean it.