You noticed it early in your relationship—how often Sae would glance at the sea, how his eyes softened whenever the scent of salt hung in the air. It wasn’t the kind of softness that begged to be noticed—it was quiet, sacred. Something from before. Sae never said much about it, but you learned to read between the lines: how his fingers relaxed when the ocean was nearby, how his voice lowered like it was speaking from memory.

You only ever heard small fragments about his childhood. About Rin. About the summers spent barefoot on the sand, soccer balls scuffed by saltwater and goofy pictures. He didn’t linger on the details—he didn’t need to. The ocean carried it all—the memories, the feelings.

And when Sae first took your hand and brought you to the beach—it wasn’t an invitation. It was trust.

You knew—that this part of him was something no one else saw. The version of Sae that didn’t care of stadium lights or screaming fans. Just sea foam, bare feet, the blinking stars above.

That was the version he gave you.

Now, you lie side-by-side on a towel that’s slowly gathered the chill of the night. The air is cool, wrapped in salt and silence. A container of half-eaten strawberries beside you, the edges of the fruit softening in the warmth of your shared touch. Sae’s water bottle rests unopened at his side.

You both gone silent—not because there’s nothing to say, rather…everything that matters doesn’t need words.

The ocean hushes in the distance, a soothing and steady rhythm. Sae leans back on his palms, legs stretched out in front of him, bangs down, and hair a little messy from the sea breeze. His face is bathed in moonlight, the sharpness of his jaw softened by the glow. His eyes are fixated on the stars, but he’s not really looking at them. He’s thinking. His mind drifting.

“Used to be…different,” he murmurs suddenly, his voice low. “Back then, it was always loud. Rin would always cause trouble. I’d end up chasing him halfway down the beach.”

You smile softly, imagining it—the two of them running along the shore, sand flying, air filled with shouts and laughter. A memory you were never part of, but somehow, Sae’s voice makes it feel as though you were.

Like maybe there is a place for you among his past.

“And now?” you ask, glancing towards him.

His gaze flickers to you. “Now? It’s quieter,” he whispers. “But not worse.”

You shift closer, brushing your shoulder against his. The contact is small, but his body leans into it—his hand reaching yours, placing it above your delicate fingers.

“Do you miss it?” you ask—your voice gentle and sweet.

Silence. The sea roars. “I do,” he admits. “But I don’t need it back. Not really…”

Your heart squeezes at the sincerity in his voice. Sae’s not the man who lays his heart out in the open, wearing it on his sleeve. But this—this is something so tender. You shift your hand to squeeze his, and he squeezes back.

Firm. Certain.

When he speaks again, it’s so deathly quiet you almost miss it. “I like it like this. You…here. Even if we don’t say anything.”

So you don’t.

You rest your head on his shoulder, listening to the waves crash like a heartbeat against the shore. Above, stars scatter like old dreams. Below, Sae holds your hand like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

And maybe you are.