Daniel Ricciardo #

You never imagined that love at first sight could last so long.

But there he is — Daniel Ricciardo, three years later, barefoot in his kitchen at 10 a.m., his hair a complete mess, stealing bites of his breakfast as if he hadn't just finished eating his five minutes ago.

"Honey," you say, pushing the fork away. "Eat your own eggs."

He smiles like a child caught red-handed. "Yours are tastier. It must be the love in them."

You roll your eyes, but you're also smiling. He leans in and gives you a kiss on the cheek—the kind of kiss he gives you a dozen times a day without thinking.

"Remember when we didn't even know what the other person wanted for coffee?" he says suddenly, filling his usual cup and placing his own next to it.

You look at him, overcome by that strange, silent wonder that still sometimes hits you. "Yeah. I also remember you flirting with me the minute you saw me."

Daniel laughed, extending his hand to you. "I couldn't help it. You came in and I swear the whole room went blurry, except for you."

You huff. "You're so dramatic."

"Maybe," he says, gently pulling you closer, "but I knew. Right away."

And then, suddenly, you're in a sleepy kitchen, his arms around your waist, your cheek pressed against his sweatshirt, and it hits you:

Three years later... and you're still falling in love.