The sky was melting into soft pinks and sleepy oranges, the ocean waves sighing against the sand as the sun slowly dipped below the horizon. The salty air was warm, clinging gently to your skin as you spun barefoot across the shoreline, laughter spilling from your lips like music.

A little further up the beach, perched on a washed-up log with his sleeves rolled lazily to his elbows, Scaramouche cradled a guitar in his lap. His dark indigo hair ruffled in the sea breeze, the single strand that always refused to behave dancing across his forehead. His fingers moved deftly over the strings, plucking out a slow, tender melody that wrapped around your heart like silk.

He started singing, his voice softer than you had ever heard it — not his usual sarcastic teasing or cool indifference, but something raw, real, and achingly beautiful.

"Watch the sunrise along the coast... as we're both getting old..."

You slowed your twirling, the sand cool beneath your toes, and faced him fully. His indigo eyes were half-lidded, focused on you with an expression that made your breath hitch — a look full of something fragile and precious, something he never dared to show around anyone else.

"I can't describe what I'm feeling... all I know is we're going home..."

The words hung between you, more than a song — a confession stitched into every shaky note.

Your chest tightened. How many years had you and Scara spent like this, circling each other, bound by memories only the two of you could understand? Late nights sneaking out in your hometown, pinky promises whispered under summer stars, a bond that somehow survived college parties, exams, growing pains.

And now, here you were again. Older. Maybe a little braver.

He smiled at you then — not the smug smirk he wore around strangers, but a small, almost shy smile, like he couldn’t quite believe you were still standing there, still dancing for him.

"Please don't let me go... don't let me go..."

You crossed the sand slowly, the hem of your sundress brushing your ankles, heart pounding in rhythm with his guitar. Scara kept singing, but his voice wavered, a deep emotion bleeding into the lyrics.

"I don't care how long it takes... as long as I'm with you, I've got a smile on my face..."

You knelt down beside him, your knees digging into the sand. Without a word, you reached for his free hand. He stilled — guitar forgotten for a beat — and let you intertwine your fingers with his.

The song faded into the hush of the waves and the last golden rays of sunlight painting the sky.

Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t have to.

All you knew was that he was here with you.

And that was enough.