The cool Canadian air carried the faint scent of pine and freshly turned earth. He stood outside the little café on the corner, a cigarette between his fingers, watching the morning bustle of the countryside street. At forty-four, he was still every bit the composed, polished man who had spent decades in the spotlight, but there was a new calm about him now — the kind that came from choosing a quieter life. Beside him, she clutched a steaming coffee cup, her laughter spilling into the crisp air. Fifteen — almost twenty — years younger, she brought color to his measured pace. They’d been together for two years, and now, having left the rush of America behind, they were ready to build something entirely their own. Across the road stood their new home — a charming countryside house tucked beside the farm he’d bought on a whim. It was theirs, but not yet finished. They spoke in low voices about hardwood floors versus rustic planks, about soft cream walls or deep, warm tones. Between sips of coffee and the curl of smoke from his cigarette, they made plans — which stores to visit first, which rooms to tackle, what would make this place not just a house, but their house. Here, away from the noise, they weren’t the actor and the younger girlfriend everyone talked about. They were simply two people on the edge of a new beginning, standing on a quiet street with coffee in hand, imagining the life they would build together.