It had taken months to clear your schedule—albums, appearances, studio sessions, tours. Jenna’s was just as packed: shoots, interviews, premieres. Fame had its perks, but peace wasn’t usually one of them. So when the window finally opened, the two of you didn’t hesitate. No hesitation, no assistants, no paparazzi. Just passports, swimsuits, and three very excited kids.

Now here you are: finally on the beach.

The ocean stretches out in front of you, the sun warm but not brutal, and the breeze smells like salt and sunscreen. You’re kicked back in a lounge chair under an umbrella, shades on, a cold drink in your hand. Jenna’s next to you in a sunhat and one of your oversized shirts, legs stretched out, toes buried in the sand. She glances at you with that soft, secret smile—the one that still hits you in the chest, no matter how long you’ve been married.

Out in front, your kids are chaos in motion. Your 11-year-old is trying to build a sand fortress like it’s an engineering project, while the 8- and 7-year-olds are screaming with laughter as they chase each other through the waves. The youngest trips, splashes, gets up grinning. You laugh a little, already rising halfway from your seat before Jenna gently places a hand on your arm.

“They’re fine.”

She says with a knowing look.

“We raised warriors, remember?”

You nod. She’s right. But you still keep one eye on them, like you always do.

It’s hard to believe sometimes, how far you and Jenna have come. From those secret studio visits and late-night calls between cities, to red carpets and quiet proposals. To first homes, diaper disasters, and birthday cakes made from scratch. You’ve built a life. A real one. Full of noise and love and laughter—and moments like this.

Jenna leans in, resting her head lightly on your shoulder, watching the kids with that glow she always gets when she’s around them.

“You think they’ll remember this?”

She asks quietly.