Raven had never been good at planning things. Not really.

She was the kind of person who remembered your birthday a week in advance and still picked up flowers from the gas station at midnight. The kind of person who meant every quiet "be safe" text but sent it thirty minutes too late. The kind of person who had a hundred things she wanted to say — and only ever said five.

But tonight mattered.

Tonight was your anniversary. Not the kind marked by a restaurant reservation or a hotel suite with petals on the bed. The kind that lived in the pit of her stomach — quietly glowing, humming, rooted deep like old tree roots under the surface of everything. One year and six months. Or one year and seven, depending on whether you counted that first night — the one where she kissed you but didn't yet believe she was allowed to.

She hadn't told you much. Just texted earlier: "Meet me by the dunes after sunset. Dress warm." No heart emoji. No hint. Just her usual way of trying not to sound too eager. But her hands had been shaking a little when she hit send.

The beach was almost empty when she got there.

Waves licked at the sand in slow, patient laps. The sky was ink-blue, streaked faintly with leftover coral and gold. A breeze tugged at her hoodie — the one you always borrowed — and carried the scent of salt, seaweed, and distant bonfires that weren't hers. She'd already set everything up: a small driftwood fire crackling to life, a blanket laid out with two paper cups of cider still warm in the thermos, and a beat-up acoustic guitar leaning against her backpack like it had something to prove.

She sat cross-legged near the fire, elbows on her knees, watching the flames catch and curl like they were doing her a favor.

She wasn't good at guitar.

Hell, she wasn't even okay at it.

She'd started learning for you — in secret, two months ago — quietly, stubbornly, late at night in her room while cursing every chord that made her fingertips burn. Her strumming was awkward. Her tuning questionable. She could barely remember more than three chords in a row. But that wasn't the point.

The point was tonight. The quiet. The fire. You.

She ran a hand through her hair, tugged at the sleeves of her jacket. Her heart was beating faster than she liked. Not from nerves, exactly — just... the weight of wanting this to be good. Wanting you to feel good. To forget work. To breathe again.

The wind shifted.

And then she heard your footsteps.

Soft. Familiar. Sand-muted and slow, like even the earth was careful with you.

Raven didn't stand up right away.

She just turned her head slightly, eyes catching the firelight, lips parting like she might say something but changed her mind. Her expression was unreadable at first — half-shadowed, half-hopeful. You couldn't tell if she was nervous or just cold.

But then she gave you that look.

The one that only ever belonged to you — the one she never practiced, never forced, never used on anyone else. Like the whole ocean was somewhere behind her eyes, and she didn't care about any of it if you weren't looking back.

She reached toward the space beside her on the blanket, patting it with her hand in a silent invitation.

"Happy anniversary," she murmured, voice low, rough-edged, the way it always got when she was trying not to sound too soft.

And then, after a pause:

"I, uh... might've brought something stupid."

She nodded toward the guitar like it was an inside joke between you and the moon.

"I learned that song you liked. Kind of. Maybe. Don't judge me if I completely fuck it up."

Her eyes flicked to you, and for a second, Raven wasn't the calm, quiet, unshakable one.

She was just your girl.

Trying her hardest.

Trying not to show how much she wanted this night — and you — to feel like home.

You smiled, or maybe tilted your head the way you do when you're soft with her. That alone made her exhale a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

She picked up the guitar, balancing it awkwardly on her lap. Her fingers fumbled along the fretboard, shaky but trying. The first strum was all wrong — too sharp, too loud — and she winced a little.

"Shit... okay. Hang on."

You didn't laugh.

Or maybe you did — but only in that way that made her feel safe.

She adjusted her grip. Took a second. Breathed in deep.

The second attempt came softer. Still rough, but better. The chords were halting — not graceful, not smooth — but they carried intention. That strange kind of beauty that lives in trying. Her brows furrowed in concentration. Her jaw tensed. You could see the tips of her fingers tremble slightly as she found the next chord.

Her voice came next.

Low. Scratchy. Barely louder than the fire.

It cracked once. Then again. But she didn't stop.

She didn't look at you while she sang — not at first. Her eyes were on the strings, on her hands, on the flickering shadows dancing over her thighs. But somewhere in the second verse, something shifted. She looked up. Right at you. And her voice steadied.

Not because she got better.

But because she saw you.

She sang like she was whispering a secret only the waves could hear — and she didn't care if it came out wrong, as long as you heard it too.

The song ended in a shaky final chord, her thumb brushing over the strings one last time.

And then silence.

She blinked down at her lap, cheeks flushed pink from the fire and embarrassment and something deeper she couldn't name.

"...That was supposed to be the bridge. I think. I forgot it halfway through."

She laughed, a short, breathy thing, nerves still clinging to her throat.