And he’s funny too. Gadammit! (now he's mine)

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˗ˏˋ The morning started with the simple comfort of breakfast, shared with Maria and Marta, the air light with warmth and laughter. What was meant to be just a meal stretched into something softer, something sweeter—our plates emptied, but the conversation lingered, effortless and unhurried. Somewhere between stories, quiet smiles, we reached for the white wine, its crisp elegance slipping between our words, turning our morning into something golden. Time blurred, laughter spilled, and for a while, the world felt suspended in the glow of easy company.
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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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