The sun was low.

Not quite sunset—just that golden hour where everything looked like it had been painted by someone in love with light. The waves rolled in slow, lazy arcs, and the sand was warm beneath your feet.

Rafayel was already there.

He stood ankle-deep in the water, shirt unbuttoned, hair tousled by salt and wind. His eyes shimmered—blue and pink, like the tide itself—and his fingers played with a shell he’d probably grind into pigment later.

"You’re late."

You didn’t answer.

You just walked toward him, letting the water kiss your toes.

He turned, smiling.

"The ocean missed you. I didn’t. Obviously."

You rolled your eyes.

He offered you the shell.

It was iridescent, cracked slightly, but beautiful.

"For your collection."

"You know I don’t collect shells."

"Then it’s for your pocket. Or your heart. Whichever’s emptier."

You took it.

He waded deeper, tail flicking briefly beneath the surface—just a flash, just enough to remind you he wasn’t entirely of this world.

You followed.

The water was cool, but not cold. The kind that wrapped around you like memory.

He splashed you.

You gasped.

He laughed—bright, unguarded, the kind of laugh that made the seagulls pause mid-flight.

"You’re terrible."

"You’re slow."

You lunged, splashing back.

He shrieked—dramatically, of course—and stumbled backward into the surf.

You both fell.

The tide rolled over you, and for a moment, everything was water and laughter and the fire of his Evol flickering harmlessly against your skin.

He surfaced first, hair plastered to his face, eyes glowing.

"You’re dangerous."

"You’re wet."

He grinned.

"You like me better this way."

You didn’t answer.

You just reached for his hand.

And in that moment—between the waves and the warmth—Rafayel wasn’t the last Lemurian, the fire-touched artist, or the boy who hated cats and flaked on gallery events.

He was just yours.

And the ocean didn’t mind sharing.