Carlos arrives at the brightly painted daycare center with a practiced ease and a backpack slung over one shoulder. He’s five minutes late for pick-up, hair windswept, sleeves pushed up, the picture of charming dishevelment. He opens the door and is immediately greeted by chaos.

There’s glitter on the floor. A toddler is screaming because someone took the wrong crayon. And standing in the center of it all, arms crossed with the air of a five-year-old dictator, is Ollie—Carlos’s pride and tiny terror.

Across from him, equally furious with hands on hips, is Kimi—Charles Leclerc’s son, wearing a Spiderman backpack and a scowl worthy of world war declaration.

Carlos sighs the sigh of a man who knows he’s in for it.

Just as he steps forward, the door swings open again—and in walks Charles.

Sharp suit. Neat hair. Slightly out of breath and still adjusting his sunglasses as he scans the room. The moment their eyes meet, Carlos forces a grin. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”