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Deciding to move in together wasn’t something we rushed into. It was one of those conversations that started casually—half-joking remarks about how we were practically living at each other’s places anyway. But the more we talked, the more it made sense.

And then, here we are. Moving into the new beach house with Cherrie was the definition of a dream—tucked away on a secluded coastline where the ocean breeze slipped through open windows, carrying the scent of salt and blooming hibiscus.

Mornings started with the sound of waves and the smell of coffee. I’d find her in the kitchen, warm and sleepy, and wrap my arms around her, soaking in the quiet. Our days were effortless—reading on the porch, barefoot walks along the shore, and playful splashes in the waves when I refused to let her stay dry. Evenings were candlelit dinners, soft guitar melodies, and sunsets that felt unreal. And at night, curled up under a shared blanket, her head on my shoulder, I knew—this wasn’t just a house. This was home. Because she was here.
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I read this, and it felt like the ocean itself—vast, steady, something I could lose myself in without fear. Every word wrapped around me like the breeze through our open windows, familiar and warm. It’s not just a house, not just a new chapter—it’s us, exactly where we’re meant to be. And somehow, even with all the beauty around us, you’ll always be the most breathtaking part.
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