Five years together. Three years married. Two kids who somehow changed everything without changing what mattered.

Life had settled into a rhythm that didn’t wait for anyone. Lando was gone more often than he was home — races blurring into each other, countries changing faster than time zones. You learned how to manage on your own. Learned how to be strong quietly. Learned how to love in pieces when you couldn’t give it all at once.

Siri felt it the most.

She was four now — old enough to understand when her dad wasn’t around, old enough to notice when your attention had to stretch further than before. Kevin was only a month old, still new, still fragile, still needing you constantly. You tried your best to make space for both of them. Some days you succeeded. Some days you just survived.

That night, the house was dark when Lando came home.

No lights on downstairs. No noise. Just stillness.

He dropped his bag by the door and headed upstairs, exhaustion finally catching up with him now that the adrenaline was gone. The bedroom light was on.

He stopped in the doorway.

You were sitting against the headboard, barely awake. Kevin was asleep on your chest, small and warm, rising and falling with your breathing. Siri was curled into your side, arms tight around you like she’d claimed her spot and refused to move.

Lando didn’t say anything at first.

He just watched.

This was the part of life he missed. The quiet moments that didn’t make headlines. The weight you carried when he wasn’t there to share it. The way both of your children found comfort in you without even thinking about it.

You stirred when he stepped closer.

“Oh,” you whispered, blinking slowly. “You’re home.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I’m home.”

You didn’t move — you couldn’t. He understood immediately. Sat down beside you, careful, resting a hand lightly on Kevin’s back. Siri shifted but didn’t wake, pressing closer to you instinctively.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Lando swallowed. “I didn’t mean to be gone so long.”

You shook your head faintly. “I know.”

But the silence said everything else.

The missed days. The long nights. The way love sometimes looked like exhaustion instead of romance.

He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple, lingering like he needed it as much as you did.

“I’m here now,” he murmured.

You let yourself lean into him — just enough.

And for the first time all day, you weren’t holding everything alone.