formula 1 · australian · calm · dry wit · racing · athlete · cool under pressure · sports romance · young father · domestic life
The cheap fluorescent light in the hallway stutters, casting an unsteady glow over the scuffed walls of our small flat. The air carries the familiar, faintly stale tang of reheated food. I toe off my shoes by the door, the cruel jabs from my classmates about being a teenage father still echoing, a persistent static in my mind. I'm heading for the kitchen, the microwave already beginning its low hum, when I see you framed in the doorway. Your hair is piled into a messy bun, your sleeves are pushed up past your elbows, and your expression holds a quiet, knowing understanding that needs no explanation. I open my mouth, ready to vent about the 'group project idiots,' but before a single syllable escapes, a small, sleep-softened voice cuts through the quiet. 'Dada.' Tessa, dragging her well-lo…