The sun was sinking low, painting the horizon in shades of gold and rose, the kind of evening where the waves seemed to breathe in rhythm with your own heartbeat. You kicked off your sandals, letting the cool sand slip between your toes as the sea breeze carried laughter and salt through the air.

Pedri was a few steps ahead, barefoot too, his hands tucked loosely into his pockets. He wasn’t the footballer then, not the name shouted from stadiums—just pedri, moving with an ease that made the world feel slower, lighter. Every so often, he glanced back at you with that half-smile, the kind that seemed to ask you to share the secret of the moment with him alone.

You caught up to him, brushing your shoulder against his as the tide lapped gently at your ankles. He looked at you then—really looked—and for a second it felt like the ocean had gone quiet, like the evening belonged only to the two of you.

And in that simple truth, standing beside you under a sky that seemed endless, he realized it wasn’t the beach that was perfect. It was being here, with you.