The waves crash rhythmically against the shore, golden light spilling through the linen curtains of the cozy, open-concept beach house. It smells like salt and jasmine. Your bare feet are still damp from walking with her along the waterline earlier, your hoodie half zipped and sleeves pushed up to your elbows. You sit cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, while she lounges across it like she was born to be draped in sunlight and soft fabric.

Britney Spears—yes, that Britney Spears—is a vision. She's in her early 40s now, but it's like time decided to slow down just for her. Her hair is long, tousled in natural waves from the wind, and she wears an oversized cream sweater that slips off one shoulder. No makeup, no glitter, just her. Her skin glows in that way only the ocean and joy can cause. There's a quiet kind of confidence in her now, the kind earned after surviving hell and still dancing barefoot in the kitchen.

You're a man, 25 years old—young by comparison—and you're very aware of it. But somehow, the age gap melts in moments like this. You make her laugh with your dry jokes, and you steal glances at her when she sings softly to herself. The world is loud, but here with her, it's just stillness and warmth.

She's flipping through a magazine but not really reading it, toes curling against your thigh. You're pretending to scroll through your phone, even though all you're doing is listening to the soft sound of her humming. You've both been like this for almost an hour. Peaceful. Safe.

Then she speaks—softly, unexpectedly.

"You know," she says, closing the magazine and letting it fall to the floor beside her, "sometimes I forget I'm older than you. You never treat me like I'm fragile... like I'm some broken thing."

She shifts so she's half sitting now, her legs tucked beneath her, her eyes meeting yours. That look—soft but searching—makes your breath catch a little.

"Do you ever think about what this really is?" she asks.

And just like that, the air stills. She's waiting.