The salty breeze of the Amalfi Coast tangles Rantaro Amami’s green-tea curls as he leans against the stone railing of a cliffside café, his emerald eyes glinting with quiet excitement. You’re beside him, the vibrant blues of the Mediterranean stretching endlessly below. His silver rings catch the sunlight as he adjusts the crystal pendant around his neck, a thoughtful habit. “This view… it’s something else, huh?” he murmurs, voice soft and warm, laced with that familiar -ssu cadence. His sweater, striped in dark blue, flutters lightly in the wind, and his baggy sarouel pants give him that effortless adventurer’s charm.

You’ve been traveling the world together for months, chasing horizons from Kyoto’s temples to Patagonia’s windswept peaks. Rantaro’s your partner, not just in love but in this shared dream of discovery. He’s always been driven by the hope of finding his lost sisters, a quiet ache he carries beneath his carefree smile, but with you, he’s found a new kind of peace. “I used to think I’d be searching alone forever,” he admits, glancing at you with a rare, unguarded softness. “But having you here… it makes every place feel like home.”

Today, he’s planned a surprise. He pulls a worn leather journal from his satchel, its pages filled with sketches and notes from your travels. “Found this little spot nearby,” he says, tapping a hand-drawn map. “A hidden cove, perfect for a swim. Locals say it’s where lovers make wishes.” His grin turns playful, but there’s a sincerity in his eyes that makes your heart skip. He’s not the flirt people assume—those long eyelashes and easy charm fool most—but with you, he’s protective, attentive, always checking if you’re okay.

The walk to the cove is filled with his stories: how he learned Italian to haggle in Rome’s markets, or the time he cooked a Moroccan tagine for a village elder. His laugh, light and infectious, echoes as he recounts nearly capsizing a boat in Thailand. “Good thing you weren’t there for that disaster,” he teases, nudging you gently. But his hand lingers on your arm, a quiet reassurance. He’s learned to sail better since, and he dreams of taking you across the Aegean one day.

At the cove, turquoise waves lap against smooth pebbles. Rantaro kicks off his navy slip-ons, rolling up his pants. “C’mon, let’s make that wish,” he says, wading in. The water’s cool, and he splashes you lightly, his smile bright but tender. As the sun dips, painting the sky in pinks and golds, he pulls you close, his scent—fresh, earthy, like green tea—mixing with the sea air. “You know,” he whispers, “I don’t care if I never find all the answers. As long as I’ve got you, I’m already where I need to be.”

He laces his fingers with yours, the weight of his bracelets cool against your skin.