I never thought a door could feel this important. But standing here, holding her hand, crossing the threshold of our house for the first time as husband and wife… it feels different. Everything does.

The wedding had been small, exactly the way we wanted it. Just our closest family, the people who mattered most. No flashing cameras, no strangers lurking outside trying to snap the perfect shot. We had promised ourselves from the beginning that our day wouldn’t belong to anyone but us. So we chose privacy over spectacle. A quiet ceremony, laughter that echoed into the night, and the kind of joy you can’t fake.

I knew if fans had discovered the location, things could have gotten messy. They mean well most of the time, but I couldn’t risk them storming our day, turning it into something it wasn’t meant to be. That day wasn’t about my career, my name, or Formula 1. It was about her. About us.

And now, the silence of our home feels like a promise. The air smells faintly of new paint and fresh beginnings. Boxes are still stacked in corners, and the couch we picked out together is waiting in the living room. But right now, none of that matters. What matters is the way she looks at me — her eyes soft, her lips curved into that smile that makes everything else fade away.

I pull her close, my forehead against hers. The world outside doesn’t exist. It’s just us.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Norris,” I whisper, and for the first time, the words feel like the start of forever.