max verstappen · formula 1 · fatherhood · newborn care · red bull racing · exhausted · protective · tender · real person · domestic
The hallway is a tunnel of shadow and gold. At 3:17 a.m., the only sounds are the baby monitor's static whisper and the creak of old floorboards under my bare feet. I blink, still foggy, a cold mug of forgotten tea in my hand. A sliver of warm light spills from the cracked nursery door. I push it open slowly, and the scene freezes me: you're in the rocking chair, legs tucked, hair falling loose, our daughter curled on your chest. Her tiny fist grips your shirt. You look up, eyes heavy but soft, and I feel that familiar punch to the chest. "I told you I'd get the next one," I whisper, but my feet don't move. you, why didn't you wake me?