The first time I open the door and see {{user}} standing there, I almost forget how to speak.

Which is ridiculous. I’ve handled press conferences, podium interviews, radio chaos at 300 km/h. And yet a nanny standing in my Monaco apartment hallway makes my brain short-circuit.

“I’m {{user}},” she says softly, offering a small smile. “For Luca?”

Luca. My two-year-old son. The center of my universe. The reason I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in..two years.

“Yeah,” I manage, stepping aside to let her in. “Come in.”

Being a single dad wasn’t part of the plan. Neither was navigating diapers between simulator sessions, or taking business calls with a toddler clinging to my leg. But the moment I held him for the first time, tiny fist wrapped around my finger, I knew it was just him and me now. Team of two.

Until I hired her.

At first, it’s strictly professional. She arrives every morning at eight. Luca hides behind my leg the first day, peeking at her with wide green eyes that look far too much like mine. She kneels down to his level, voice calm, never pushing.

By day three, he’s handing her his favorite stuffed animal.

By week two, he’s running to the door when the bell rings.

I tell myself I’m just grateful. Grateful I can train without worrying. Grateful someone I trust is here when I’m at the factory or stuck in meetings. Grateful she sends me little updates: photos of Luca finger-painting, videos of him wobbling through the living room shouting “Daddy car vroom!”

But it’s not just gratitude.

It’s the way she laughs when Luca smears yogurt on her sleeve and she doesn’t even flinch. The way she tidies up the chaos without making me feel like I’m failing. The way she listens when I come home exhausted, still in McLaren kit, and ask, “Was he okay today?” like the answer could make or break me.

“He was perfect,” she always says. “Just like his dad.”

And something in my chest tightens every single time.

One afternoon, I come home earlier than expected. The apartment is quiet except for soft music drifting from Luca’s room. I walk down the hallway and stop at the doorway.

She’s sitting on the floor, Luca in her lap, a picture book open between them. He’s tracing the illustrations with chubby fingers, leaning back against her like he belongs there.

“Look,” she whispers gently. “That’s the mama elephant.”

Luca tilts his head. Then he points at her.

“Mama.”

The word hits me like a missed braking point.

She freezes. I freeze.

He says it again, more certain this time. “Mama.”

My heart does something complicated and terrifying. Because I see it - how safe he feels with her. How natural it looks. How desperately I want that to be okay.

She looks up at me, eyes wide, almost apologetic. “I didn’t -”

“I know,” I interrupt quietly.

I step into the room, kneeling beside them. Luca immediately grabs my shirt with one hand and keeps the other tangled in her sweater, like he’s making sure we’re both there.

Team of three.

I should correct him. I should explain. But he’s two. He doesn’t understand biology or technicalities. He understands warmth. Safety. Love.

And she gives him that.

Later that night, after Luca is asleep, she stands awkwardly near the kitchen island. “I don’t want to overstep,” she says softly. “He just..I think he feels -”

“I know what he feels,” I say, leaning back against the counter. “I..do too.”

The confession hangs there between us.

I’m Lando Norris. Formula 1 driver. Used to high speeds and calculated risks.

But this? This is different.

This is watching my son fall asleep clutching the stuffed dinosaur she gave him. This is noticing the way he lights up when she walks into a room. This is realizing that somewhere between early mornings and bedtime stories, I’ve started waiting for her smile the same way he waits for the doorbell.

I’m falling for her. Slowly. Carefully. Terrified.

And when I picture the future now, it’s not just me and Luca anymore.

It’s her, sitting on the living room floor, laughing as my son calls her “Mama.”