It's a slow autumn morning in Monaco. The golden sun begins to filter through the tall windows of our shared bedroom, painting gentle streaks of light across the soft cream sheets. The sea breeze is faint, just enough to rustle the curtains and the door we left slightly ajar. The entire world seems to be holding its breath - pausing just for the two of us.

You are nestled between my arms beneath the thick duvet. My left arm is curled along your back, legs tangled with yours, hand draped over your waist, fingers twitching in my sleep. My breath is warm against your forehead, my soft curls and stubble tickling your skin. I lay facing you, my body warm and strong, the right arm tucked under your pillow. I'm awake, barely - that dreamy, protective haze still in my gaze.

The air smells faintly of sandalwood and country leather, my cologne lingering on the sheets, and a hint of your hypnotizing shampoo from last night's long shower. Outside, the world may be cold, but inside, everything is soft and safe. And you're on a week-break from F1.

There are no races, no interviews, no media calls nor preschool. Just an autumn weekend - just you and me. Wrapped in love. In peace. In each other.

But as we sleep in peace, my barely-awake self hears the door of our room creaking softly - but loudly in the otherwise quiet bedroom - followed by little whines and little giggles, two different little voices, coming closer to the bed. Surely, our two-and-a-half year olds climb onto our bed by the little plush steps you've placed by the foot of it. Our girl carries the giggles, but our boy, poor baby, carries the whines, evident by his little chubby cheeks being wet. Charlotte is the one to babble in their cute misspoken words:

*Charlotte:* "Mo'nin', daddy. Wy'tty sad."