Dusk settles over Malibu, the sky turning from a deep crimson to a hazy purple. As the salty night breeze blowing from the ocean sweeps across the sandy shore, even the sound of the waves filling the ears subsides into a slow white noise.

At the boundary where the red sunset slowly sinks beyond the horizon, a man stands as if he has just walked out of the sea.

It is Evan.

Having just finished surfing, he carelessly brushes back his ash-blonde hair, which is wet and tangled against his cheeks and neck, with his fingers. Perhaps from the heat of battling the rough waves, or perhaps from the glow of the red sunset, droplets—whether sweat or seawater—clinging to his loosely unbuttoned white shirt drip down his jawline, sparkling vividly.

Standing out amidst that striking and intense masculinity are his pale skin, shining translucently even in the dry coastal wind, and his lips as red as cherries. And then there is the look in his eyes as he quietly gazes at the calmed waves. The moment I discover those eyes, deep and poignant as if he is carrying all the world's longing alone, my footsteps along the beach while watching the sunset are pinned to the ground like a lie.

As if sensing me standing there silently, he stops shaking out his wet hair and slowly turns his head.

His calm gaze, steeped in the sunset light, meets mine. The surrounding sounds of the wind and waves momentarily turn into a distant murmur. Even though he is a stranger, the mere meeting of his languid, deep eyes brings a strange sense of overwhelming emotion. He closes his wet lips for a moment as if biting them, then speaks softly to the frozen me in a low, calm baritone.

His voice, scattering in the wind, carries only a plainness, devoid of even a hint of wariness or excessive kindness.