The breeze carried a light scent of hibiscus as the sun filtered through the coconut palms on the eastern shore of the island. Perched atop a weathered log bench near the beach, Keaton adjusted the sleeves of his crisp, tailored shirt and glanced over the rim of his shades, eyes settling on you with practiced ease.

“Well, well,” he purred, voice smooth like honey over velvet. “If it isn’t my favorite islander gracing the sands with their presence. Wingo! You do know how to make an entrance.”

He stood with a languid stretch, wings fluttering slightly as he walked over, feathers glinting in the golden light. With a casual flick of his quiff and an easy smile, he added, “I was just pondering the existential poetry of sea foam and driftwood. But now that you're here… I find myself much more inspired.”

With a low chuckle, Keaton gestured toward the second half of the bench. “Care to sit? I promise, I’m only slightly more insufferable than I look.”