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liarom1ove · 13 hours ago

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What Once Was!

Synopsis: 4th of July ups and downs!!

Johnny Sinclair x Fisher fem reader!!

AU where Johnny is the one who lived instead of Candace and Clairmont is a near cousins. TSITPXWWL AU

Pt 1 - Pt2 - Pt3 - Pt4

The Fourth of July had always been Susannah Fisher's holiday.

Loud, colorful, a little wild, and she loved every second of it. Every year, she threw herself into it like it was her own personal celebration of summer. There were festive tablecloths, sparklers in buckets by the back door, hand-painted stars hanging from tree limbs, and tiny flags stuck into any bit of soil that would hold them.

The fourth was your mom's signature, and like most things she loved, it rubbed off on you and your siblings just by being around it, especially when it came to the cake.

Grandma’s Fourth of July cake was non-negotiable. A vanilla sheet cake topped with whipped cream and decorated with strawberries and blueberries in a flag shape, always a little uneven, always perfect. Every year, it was just you and your mom in the kitchen making it, your fingers stained red by the end.

It was your thing.

A small tradition that made the Fourth feel like more than fireworks, and earned it a solid spot just behind Halloween and Christmas on your list of favorite holidays.

This year, though, was different, but in a good way.

Because this time, it wasn’t just your usual crowd of dads. This year, your mom was hosting the party for the debs, Nicole, Shayla, and Gigi. That meant this backyard would be packed, not just with the Fisher-Conklin crew, but with pretend, polished, socialite-level teenagers, pretending to sip lemonade when in reality it was probably straight vodka with a little bit of lemon...

And the best part of all this was that Adam Fisher wasn’t coming.

“He’s closing a deal,” your mom had said this morning, offhand like it didn’t sting.

Jeremiah had been pissed. He’d been looking forward to lighting that giant firework Adam had brought back from Mexico last year, the one he’d been saving for today.

Conrad… well, he looked relieved, almost happy, not that you were surprised. Things between him and your dad had been tense for months, cut-glass silent dinners, clipped conversations, eyes that didn’t quite meet.

And maybe it was awful, but part of you was glad Conrad was finally seeing it. Seeing him. Your dad wasn’t some misunderstood genius or lovable disaster; he was just a man who showed up when it suited him and disappeared when it mattered.

Hopefully, Jere would see it too, sooner or later. As for you? When you heard Adam wasn’t coming?

You were thrilled.

You danced around your room like someone had just canceled a dentist appointment. You didn’t even feel guilty about it, not when it meant one less performance to give, one less polite smile to fake.

Today would be fireworks, and cake, and debs and he wouldn’t be there to ruin it.

So, when the party officially kicked off, you were dressed to the nines, red dress cinched just right, heels clicking like confidence itself, your makeup sharp and glowing in all the right places. You’d curled your hair that morning, pinned back just enough to show off your neck, and after a long internal debate, you’d fastened your grandmother’s pearls around it like the finishing touch on a perfect picture.

You looked good. You felt good.

The backyard was already buzzing by the time you stepped out. Music floated from the speakers, and the sun hit everything with that golden-hour glow that made even the plastic lawn chairs look expensive.

Belly’s and Steven’s dad had shown up too, complete with his way-too-young new girlfriend, Victoria, but to her credit, she was surprisingly sweet, not the bimbo or bitch you’d been expecting based on Belly's muttering earlier that morning. She’d complimented your dress, makeup up and hair and asked if you helped with the decorations.

You had, of course. Your mom put you in charge of the table settings and the welcome station.

And the debs had started arriving, Nicole was first, all sunshine and poise per usual. Shayla arrived right after, dragging Gigi by the hand as the two of them laughed about something only they would find funny. You greeted them like a pro, hugging, air-kissing, complimenting dresses. You cracked jokes, laughed just loud enough, posed for pictures.

You were practically floating when Victoria pulled you, Belly, and Jeremiah aside to show off the pomegranate margarita she’d been raving about. Belly, in true chaotic fashion, managed to convince her that her parents were totally fine with her trying one, something you definitely hadn’t predicted when you woke up this morning, but hey, who were you to call a girl who wants to have fun out?

After Victoria flitted back to the party, Belly’s eyes lit up with an idea and naturally, you were all in.

You and Jeremiah with pomegranates and half-baked enthusiasm, already bickering about who got to do what when Conrad strolled in and when he found out your plan he suggest dragging out your dad's good blender, the one you all hadn’t been touched since the infamous Kool-Aid incident of 2011, when someone (you would not name names) forgot to put the lid on, and the kitchen was sticky for days.

Belly added tequila. Conrad smirked and took the bottle from her. “No, no—you need way more than that,” he said, topping it off generously. Everyone cracked up.

As the blender finally whirred to a stop, Conrad leaned against the counter, voice a little lighter than usual. “You know what I miss?”

You glanced over, chuckling as you poured the freshly blended margaritas into some glasses. “What?”

He smiled faintly. “Laurel putting Dad in his place.”

You grinned and nodded, already picturing it. “She’d just walk in, calm as ever, look him dead in the eye and be like, ‘Adam.’”

“Adam!” Laurel’s voice cut in suddenly, catching everyone off guard.

But it wasn’t stern, it was surprised, maybe even relieved, and then your stomach dropped because there he was.

“You came,” Laurel said, still surprised.

“Happy Fourth,” your dad said, flashing an enthusiastic smile at all of you.

“Dad!” Jeremiah lit up instantly, practically bounding over to hug him. “You came.”

“Hey, guys,” your dad said, voice warm as ever, too warm, like he expected everything to fall into place. Then his eyes landed on you and Conrad, both still standing frozen. “Hey, Connie. Hey, baby girl.”

And just like that, whatever good mood you’d been riding went sailing straight out the window.

Neither of you responded. Not a nod or a glance but the tense, quiet stretch of air between you.

Undeterred, he turned to Belly and nodded at the margaritas. “I'll have a little of what you're mixing up there."

Belly gave an awkward little laugh, already reaching for another glass.

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” She handed it to him quickly, her smile tight and unsure as he thanked her.

"Oh, you're gonna love the firework show this year," Jeremiah said, practically bouncing. "It's gonna be the best one yet."

"I believe it." your dad replied, doing his best to match Jere’s energy, but the effort sat awkwardly on him.

Then, as if summoned by awkward timing, your mom stepped in from the party. “Where’d everyone go?”

“Hey,” your dad said, turning toward her with that same easy smile.

She slowed, visibly so, and you saw the flicker behind her eyes, the split-second recalibration. She moved forward, slow and cautious, like someone approaching a cliff edge.

“Adam,” she said flatly, disbelief curling in her tone, but not the good kind. “You managed to get off work.”

“Yeah, couldn’t miss the Fourth with my family,” your dad said, voice smooth as ever, like he believed it, like he expected everyone else to believe it too.

You let out a sharp scoff (louder than you meant, maybe, but not loud enough to make you regret it) and, without a word, you stood, grabbed the nearest margarita, and walked right past him. You shot your mom a quick glance on the way out, then slipped back into the noise and light of the party.

Honestly, you had to laugh, because seriously, where did Adam Fisher find the fucking audacity?

But whatever, fine, he was here, you can't do anything about that, but what you can do is not let him be the headline of your morning. Not today.

Outside, the party was already in full swing. Sunlight poured through the trees, the speakers were playing something easy and familiar, and the scent of grilled fruit, and sunscreen lingered in the warm breeze. Nicole and Shayla were posted by the snack table, Gigi hovering nearby, and Steven was mid-story.

You smoothed down your hair, threw on a smile like armor, and slipped into the circle without missing a beat.

Raising your glass, you shot them a look, half playful, half daring, and said, “So… who’s coming down to the beach with me? I need sun, saltwater, and about a hundred feet of distance from the adults.”

And just like that, you’d rerouted the morning, and whatever mess Adam Fisher had tried to stir up with his presence was left in the dust... for the best part of it anyway.

Eventually, all of you drifted down to the beach, forming a messy circle out of folding chairs, half-inflated floaties, and towels.

You personally staked your claim on the pink flamingo float “she’s mine, no arguments,” and plopped down like royalty. Belly soon came marching over from the house, triumphantly holding up a pitcher of margaritas.

“May I present… the Belly Special!” she announced, grinning, and everyone cheered like she’d just delivered treasure.

You patted the inflatable unicorn you’d set aside earlier, motioning for her to take the seat of honor, and she collapsed onto it with a laugh.

Not long after, Jeremiah strolled down the dunes with Cam, or Cam-Cameron, as your brothers and Steven had taken to calling him for no real reason other than it made them laugh. He was Belly’s first boyfriend, the sweet, slightly nervous kind of boy.

Your brother tried to hand him a margarita, but Cam politely declined before he went to sit next to Belly. So naturally, Conrad tried to drink it himself, in one long, unapologetic gulp.

Nicole raised an eyebrow. “It’s not a race, Con.”

“Yeah,” Jeremiah added, “Save some for the rest of us, please.”

“Okay, wait, wait, wait,” Belly said suddenly, sitting up a little straighter, her words tumbling out faster than usual. You could already hear the margaritas working their magic in her voice. “But what if it was a race?”

Everyone turned toward her.

“I mean—” Belly pushed on, waving her cup for emphasis, "Isn't that… isn't… Isn't that the premise of, like, every drinking game?"

You chuckled, raising a brow as you took a slow sip from your cup. “Baby B wants to play a drinking game? Did I hear that right?”

She grinned wide, cheeks already a little pink. “Why not? I mean it’s the Fourth of July, right?”

From there, the group dissolved into a blur of summer energy. Drinks in hand, you all played games, added a suspicious amount of liquor to the margaritas, and dared each other into rounds of cornhole. The boys, Conrad, Jeremiah, Steven, and Cam, got way too competitive, while you and the girls turned up the music and danced barefoot in the sand.

Belly kept sipping from her cup, laughing louder, swaying a little more with the music. You didn’t think much of it at first, everyone was a little buzzed, and you were more than a little tipsy yourself.

Eventually, everyone wandered back toward the house, the sun dipping lower, casting gold across the water. A few of you, mostly the girls, plus Steven and Cam, settled at the pier, the conversation soft and easy, full of laughter and warmth.

You peeled off after a bit, heading up to the house to grab a few water bottles.

“When are your brothers starting with the clams?” Your mom asked when you got to the party.

“I’ll go ask them,” you said, already turning on your heel.

Which, honestly, worked out, because when you reached them, they were still out on the lawn tossing around the football, and sure enough, there was your dad. Hovering, talking at Conrad with that pointed, performative casualness he did whenever he wanted to seem like a present father.

His presence alone was enough to put Conrad on edge. Jeremiah, of course, looked clueless as ever, jogging in circles like a golden retriever.

“Boys”, you called out, stepping onto the grass. “Come on, let’s go dig out the clam pit.”

As you moved past him, your dad reached out and grabbed your arm, not hard, just enough to make you pause. “Oh. I’ll come help,”

Before you could even respond, Conrad cut in as he moved past. “Why don’t you go spend some time with Mom?”

There was no edge to his voice, but there didn’t need to be because the jab landed all the same.

You scoffed, yanking your arm free.

“Or better yet,” you muttered, not even bothering to look back, “how about leaving her and us, the hell alone.”

Without waiting for a response, you walked after Conrad, steps firm, eyes fixed ahead. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Jeremiah flash your dad a tight, awkward smile, the kind that was apologizing for them, before he jogged to catch up with the two of you.

The walk down to the beach was mostly quiet. The three of you grabbed the usual tools from the shed. Jeremiah lingered behind for a moment, mumbling something about needing to grab towels, but you barely registered it. You were too busy trying to breathe through the slow burn under your skin.

That always happened when you drank (not enough to be sloppy, just enough for your anger to loosen). One more drink or one more word from your dad, and you knew you’d snap.

You sat nearby, legs stretched out in front of you, toes curling into the warm sand as Conrad digs.

Then, out of the blue, he spoke. “Why don’t you like Dad?”

You glanced at him, surprised, but not really and shot back, “Why don’t you?”

There was a pause, maybe Conrad was about to say something more, perhaps the truth or maybe nothing at all, but then he just shrugged, eyes still on the sand. “’Cause he’s an asshole.”

You let out a low chuckle, nodding once. “Well, there you have it. Took you long enough, though. I’ve known that for years.”

You meant it to sound casual, a simple joke between siblings, but there was an edge under it, something sharp that didn’t quite fade with time.

Conrad didn’t ask what you meant, didn’t ask how long years meant.

And you didn’t tell him, because your mom had whispered it to you one night three years ago, weak from treatment, eyes full of more pain than she'd ever let anyone else see. That she'd told you not to say anything, to keep the peace... As if peace was something that still lived in this family.

Neither of you said anything for a while after that, the only sound was of the sand being shoveled, the distant crash of waves, and the breeze tugging gently at your hair.

That was, until Jeremiah came trudging down toward you, barefoot and frowning, like he was already bracing for impact.

“Hey,” he said, planting himself in the sand. “Can you two be nice to Dad for one day?”

He looked between you and Conrad, exasperated. “Seriously, he’s trying.”

Conrad didn’t even look up. “Good for him,”

That earned him a handful of dried seaweed (or maybe grass, it was hard to tell) smacked right against his chest, sending bits of it clinging to his skin.

“Jeremiah,” you groaned, rising slowly to your feet, brushing your hands off your dress. “Can we not?”

But your little brother wasn’t having it.

“No. I mean it,” he said firmly, voice rising a little. “Whatever it is you two have with Dad, squash it, alright? Please.”

The word please lingered for a second; it wasn't desperate, it was hopeful. The kind of hope only someone who didn’t know the full story could still hold onto.

And neither you nor Conrad had the heart, or the cruelty, to take that from him.

But the thing was… you could tell him you’d be nice, could promise to keep it together, to swallow it down and play along, and hell, for a second, you wanted to, but you knew yourself.

Knew that when it came to Adam Fisher, your mouth had a mind of its own, that your temper moved faster than your thoughts.

So telling Jeremiah you’d be “nice” would’ve been a lie.

Still, you didn’t want to ruin it for him. Didn’t want to be the one to shatter whatever version of your dad he was still trying to believe in. The one that maybe only Jeremiah could still see.

So, you did the only sensible thing and decided to leave quietly since you did not want to make a scene.

But before leaving, you found your mom in the kitchen, and for a moment, you just stood there, watching her work, watching her move like this day wasn’t heavy, like it wasn’t weighted with everything no one was saying.

“I think I’m gonna head to Beachwood, Mom” you said softly.

She looked up, brow furrowed. “Now?”

“Yeah. Miss Sinclair asked yesterday if I could help with the kids. I told her I couldn’t—I wanted to be here.” You pursed your lips before sighing. “But I think it’s better if I go.”

Her hands stilled. "Did something happen?"

“I just… I don’t want to ruin today, not for Jere, not for you or the rest, and I can’t pretend, Mom. I’ve tried, but if I stay, I’ll say something. I feel it sitting right here—” you touched your chest lightly “—and y'know he will try to talk to me, mom, and I-I don't know if I'll be able to keep it in. I'm sorry.”

Your mom didn’t say anything right away. You watched something flicker across her face, guilt, maybe, or regret. It wasn't disappointment, nor surprise but a tired kind of knowing. The kind that said she understood more than she ever let on.

“Don’t be sorry, baby girl,” she said gently.

She reached out and brushed her fingers over your hair, tucking a loose strand behind your ear like she used to do when you were little and couldn’t sleep. It nearly undid you. “You want me to tell them?”

You shook your head. “No. I’ll text them once I’m there. You don’t have to cover for me, Mom. I just… I needed to tell you.”

Her smile was quiet and soft, one of those expressions she only gave when the words weren’t quite enough, when love had to fill in the silence. “Text me when you get there, okay?”

“Okay,” you nodded, then added with a lighter voice, “And make sure to save me a piece of cake.”

That got a real smile from her, “I’ll hide the corner piece.”

“The one with all the extra frosting?”

“Obviously.”

You leaned in and wrapped your arms around her, a brief hug, but tight, the kind that said everything you couldn’t quite put into words. She held you just as firmly, just long enough and when you pulled away, neither of you said anything more.

You just gave her one last wave, then turned, grabbed your tote bag from the counter, slipped on your sandals, and stepped out into the thick, golden summer air.

You took your bike from the side of the house, the tires kicking up a little dust as you coasted down the quiet road toward the docks. The wind tangled your hair, the air still thick with the scent of sunscreen and salt.

When you got there, you pulled out your phone and scrolled to the number Ebon had given you, “Just in case,” he’d said a few days ago, half-joking. Well, this was the case.

You hit call.

He picked up on the second ring. “You need a ride?”

You smiled faintly, pressing the phone closer to your ear. “Think you can get me to Beachwood?”

“Be there in ten.”

You hung up, sat on the edge of the dock with your bike propped beside you, and let your legs dangle over the water, the sun catching the surface in sharp gold flashes.

Once in Beachwood, you hopped off the boat and thanked Ebon with a tired smile.

“Seriously,” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “I owe you one. Pie. Gas money. My eternal gratitude. Pick your prize.”

He smirked. “Pie and eternal gratitude. Call it even.”

You gave him a mock salute before turning and heading up the familiar trail toward Red Gate, the sun now tilting toward late afternoon, casting long shadows over the path.

The front door was open, Miss Sinclair’s usual summer habit you've come to know, so you let yourself in, knocking lightly on the wall as you stepped inside.

“Hello?” you called, your voice trailing down the quiet hallway.

Her head appeared from around the kitchen doorway, a little startled at first, but then her expression shifted into something warmer, pleasantly surprised.

“Well, don’t you look lovely,” she said, taking in your sun-flushed cheeks and the party outfit still clinging to the day. “Thought you were busy with the big Fourth of July bash at your mom’s?”

You set your bag down with an easy shrug. “Plans changed. Thought I’d swing by and see if you still needed a hand.”

Her expression softened right away, that calm, been-through-it-all kind of warmth settling into her features. “You’re always welcome here, sweetheart. Will’s upstairs, he’s been switching between wanting to build a rocket or a castle all morning.”

You smiled, already heading that way. “Perfect. I’ll be reporting for duty, then.”

Miss Sinclair laughed softly behind you. “Brace yourself—he’s had too much fudge and a head full of space missions all morning.”

You called a quick “Thanks for the heads-up!” over your shoulder as you made your way up the stairs, the familiar creak of the steps beneath your feet grounding you more than you expected. It was cooler upstairs, quieter too, the distant hum of the ocean breeze threading through the open windows.

You reached Willy’s door and knocked twice, light but playful.

“Captain Waffle?” you said. “Permission to come aboard?”

There was a loud thump, a gasp, and then his voice, eager and a little breathless: “Come in! We’re in crisis!”

You grinned and pushed open the door, stepping into a room strewn with Legos, books, and some ambitious attempt at a cardboard launch pad.

“Good thing I got here in time,” you said. “What’s the mission?”

Eventually, the rocket ship had turned into a pillow fort, then into a “secret agent base,” and finally into a mess of crayons, cardboard, and half-eaten snacks. Willy flopped onto his back in the middle of it all, arms stretched dramatically across the floor.

“So, how’s the... debut... debuta…” He frowned. “The debutante stuff going? That’s what it’s called, right?”

You looked over at him, raising an eyebrow. “It is and what thing?”

He sat up on his elbows. “Y’know, the dresses and the dancing and the walking around all fancy or whatever.”

You snorted. “Wow, you sound really informed.”

“I am,” he said, puffing up a little. “Mom and Aunt Bess said it’s a really big deal and there’s, like, a whole calendar and everything. You’re still doing it, right?”

“Yeah,” you said, sitting back. “Still doing it.”

“So like… what do you do?" He squinted, curious. "Like, do you wear a dress and wave like a princess all day?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Not even close. We’ve got rehearsals, there’s a charity volleyball game in a few days—"

“You play volleyball?” he cut in, eyes lighting up as he sat up straighter.

“Yep,” you nodded. “It’s part of the whole debutante package.”

His face lit up. “Can I come watch? Please? I’ll be really quiet. I’ll bring snacks.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “Sure. I’d love that.”

“Awesome," he said, grinning from ear to ear. “I wanna see you spike it. Like—BOOM! Right in someone’s face.”

“Okay, maybe not in their face,” you said, laughing, “but yeah. I’ll do my best.”

He flopped back down, arms stretched out dramatically. “So then what happens? After the game?”

“The ball,” you said, gesturing vaguely. “We get all dressed up in white dresses and have to waltz with our escorts.”

He scrunched up his face. “What’s a waltz? Is it like TikTok dancing?”

You snorted. “God, no. Definitely not.”

“Is it slow?” He leaned in a little, suspicious.

“Very slow.”

“Boring slow?”

"Maybe," You shrugged, a playful glint in your eye. “ Wanna try it?”

He hesitated for a beat, then gave a decisive nod. “Yes.”

You got to your feet, brushing off your dress.

“Alright then, little prince,” you said with a grin, holding out your hands. “One here… and the other here. Feet go right about there. Got it?”

He was a bit shorter, so you bent slightly to match his height, guiding his hands into place with exaggerated care.

You started to hum a soft tune, counting under your breath like they taught you in rehearsal. “One, two, three. One, two, three…”

Willy stepped squarely on your foot. “Oops.”

You laughed through the pain. “You’re doing great.”

“No, I’m crushing you,” he groaned, frowning down at his feet.

You bit back another laugh, gently shifting your foot out from under his. “That’s part of the process. Everyone crushes a few toes at first.”

He looked up at you, doubtful. “Even you?”

“Even me,” you said. “First time I stepped on my brother so hard he actually yelped. Thought he’d never dance again.”

That got a giggle out of him. “Okay. I’ll try again.”

“That’s the spirit.” You adjusted your grip on his hands, slowing the count just a little. “One… two… three. One… two… three—”

A voice cut in from behind, “Should I be worried, or is this just a top-secret royal dance lesson?”

You glanced up to see Johnny standing a few steps away, hands in his pockets, a lazy smirk tugging at his mouth. The fading light caught in his hair, and for once, he didn’t look so distant, just amused.

Willy immediately dropped your hands, looking half embarrassed and half thrilled. “She’s teaching me the waltz!”

“I can see that,” Johnny said, eyebrow raised, amusement curling at the edges of his voice. “Very regal. You gonna bow to her after, too?”

“Oh, leave him be,” you said, reaching out to ruffle Will’s hair, your voice warm. “He did well.”

Willy puffed up a little again, stealing a proud glance at Johnny like he hoped that meant something. "See?"

Johnny tilted his head with that same teasing glint in his eyes. “Huh. You sure it’s not just your coaching?”

You gave him a look, arching a brow as you crossed your arms. “Care to test that theory?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “What, you want me to waltz?”

You stepped closer, chin tilted, voice smooth with challenge. “You’re standing there talking like you could do better.”

For a second, he just stared at you, caught between a smirk and a scoff. You could see the gears turning behind his eyes, that familiar hesitation he has. He opened his mouth to say something, probably a joke, probably a way out, but then stopped. He glanced down, shifted his weight, then looked back at you.

“Try me,” he said, quietly.

You blinked, surprised he actually took the bait, but you recovered fast, stepping in without hesitation and slipping your hand into his, guiding the other to your waist with a raised brow and a spark in your eye.

“Alright, then,” you said, your voice low and playful as your fingers settled into place. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Willy let out a theatrical gasp from the sidelines, eyes going wide like he was witnessing something historic. “Wait, wait Johnny’s gonna dance?”

“Watch and learn, pipsqueak.” Johnny shot him a look over your shoulder.

You laughed, but your eyes stayed locked on his. “Ready, Johnny boy?”

He glanced down at your feet, then back up, his expression caught somewhere between cautious and amused. “As much as the next guy.”

“Mm-hm,” you said, starting to sway gently, setting the rhythm with the softest motion of your steps. “One… two… three. One… two… three…”

Johnny moved in sync with you, his steps smooth, almost practiced. He wasn’t perfect, sure, but he wasn’t stumbling either, and certainly not stepping on your feet.

Willy watched with wide eyes, clearly impressed.

You couldn’t help but smile. “Okay, show-off. You’ve done this before.”

Johnny shrugged, but there was a hint of something soft behind his eyes. “A long time ago.”

You hummed and kept the rhythm steady beneath your feet, guiding him through the next few steps like the air hadn’t changed.

“Well,” you said after a beat, voice light, “muscle memory looks good on you.”

That pulled a faint smirk from him, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Guess I haven’t lost it completely.”

From the sidelines, Willy piped up with all the excitement of someone who’d just uncovered a genius idea. “Hey! Maybe you should be her escort, Johnny!”

You felt something shift, just slightly, not awkward exactly, but heavier than you meant it to be.

You cleared your throat, stepping back just enough to add space between you, your laugh soft but pointed. “Oof, nice try, bud. And while I’m sure it’d be a great honor for Mr. Sinclair to take me to the ball, I’ve already got an escort.”

Willy frowned. “Who?”

"An old friend,"

Johnny raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything, just stuffed his hands into his pockets like he needed somewhere to put the rest of whatever that moment had stirred up.

“Dang,” Willy muttered, dramatically disappointed. “Would’ve been cool.”

“Yeah. Uh—anyway.” Johnny rubbed the back of his neck, his smile slipping into something more subdued. “Fireworks at Clairmont. We should probably head out before Harris sends a search team.”

“Right,” you said, nodding as you bent down to grab your shoes. “Can’t miss the main event.”

Willy took off down the path with a burst of energy, yelling over his shoulder, “We got the best fireworks this year! Some of them aren’t even legal in most states!”

You laughed under your breath, slipping your heels back on. “That feels safe.”

“Yeah, well, this is Beachwood,” Johnny said with a shrug, rolling his eyes as he mimicked a gravelly voice. “To quote my grandfather: We make our own rules here.”

You let out a soft scoff, straightening up. “Ah, of course. The Beachwood way. Totally lawless and fueled by fireworks and family names.”

Johnny grinned, eyes glinting. “You catch on fast.”

“I adapt under pressure,” you said with mock solemnity, then tilted your head toward the path. "It's part of my charm."

A warm breeze swept in off the water, stirring your hair just as Willy’s voice echoed up the path again. “C’monnn! You’re so slow!”

You exchanged a glance with Johnny, both of you stifling a laugh.

By the time you reached Clairmont, the sky had settled into a dusky violet and the firepit was already glowing, casting long, flickering shadows across the lawn. The air smelled like woodsmoke and citrus, and the pop-pop-pop of early fireworks echoed faintly from a few houses down the shore.

You wonder if your brothers have already lightened theirs.

Miss Sinclair sat perched comfortably in one of the chairs, a tall glass of lemonade in hand, chatting with two girls you recognized, Liberty and Bonnie, the twins.

You’d met them once before, and they were nice enough, polite in that way some girls are when they don’t quite know what to do with someone outside their usual circle. A bit older than Will, but not by much.

They looked up as you approached, polite smiles in place, but didn’t say much beyond a casual “hey.”

And then there was the blonde woman sitting near the fire. You remembered her name, Bess Sinclair, you were pretty sure.

She was sipping wine when her gaze flicked over to you. Sharp and focused, not unkind per say, but with a sort of silent assessment behind her eyes that you felt like you weren’t meant to notice, even though it was impossible not to.

There was something about her energy, the way she held her glass, the way she looked at you like she was cataloguing everything from your posture to the way you greeted people. Where Will’s mom was gentle, almost floaty in her softness, Bess was… not. There was an intensity to her that pressed against your skin.

Still, you smiled anyway, smoothing your hair behind your ear and offering a polite, “Evening.”

Miss Sinclair looked up from her seat near the firepit and gave you a smile that felt like a warm breeze. “There you are. Grab something to drink, if you want. We’ve got lemonade, sweet tea, soda—whatever looks good. And there’s food set up by the porch, so help yourself, honey.”

“Thanks, Miss Sinclair,” you said, returning her smile with one of your own.

You hadn’t taken more than a few steps when Bess turned toward you, her gaze steady and unreadable.

“You’re the Fisher girl, right?” she asked, tone mild but unmistakably pointed.

You gave a small nod, keeping your expression neutral. “That’s me.”

Before you could say anything else, Johnny, already halfway into one of the chairs by the fire, spoke up, voice even but pointed. “Her name’s Y/N.”

You glanced at him, caught a flicker of something in his tone, nothing sharp, exactly, but enough to make Bess’s brow lift ever so slightly.

“Of course,” Bess said smoothly, folding her hands in front of her. “Y/N.”

She said your name like she was trying it out, measuring the weight of it on her tongue. You smiled again, this time with a little more edge behind it.

It sat there, suspended between you, for a second too long.

Then, thankfully, Carrie clapped her hands gently, her voice lifting with practiced ease. “Alright now, let’s not scare her off, Bess, because I, for one, would very much like her to keep coming back.”

That drew a round of giggles from the twins and a loud “Me too!” from Willy, who was now perched proudly on a cooler like it was his rightful throne. The tension in the air loosened, and with it, so did your shoulders.

“I’m not so easy to scare off,” you said, flashing a smile as you stepped toward one of the open chairs beside Johnny.

Bess offered a smile then, polished, polite, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well, we're glad you’re here with us this year.”

There was easy, low conversation as the sun finally disappeared behind the trees, leaving the firepit to do most of the work. The twins whispered and laughed among themselves, Willy flitted between bursts of energy and yawns.

Bess, for her part, kept her attention loosely on you, asking casual questions about how you were liking Beachwood, how work with Willy was going, and what your plans were for the rest of the summer. Nothing pointed, but there was a certain cool precision to the way she listened.

Eventually, you shifted in your seat and cleared your throat. “Hey, um, could I use the bathroom?”

You half-expected one of them to point you toward the staff facilities, but Miss Sinclair didn’t hesitate.

“Of course, sweetheart,” she said, waving a hand toward the house. “Just head inside. First hallway on your right, but take your time, this new Clairmont’s not a maze, even if it acts like one.”

You gave a polite nod, not daring to contradict her. “Thank you.”

And with that, you stepped off the patio and started toward the house.

The interior of Clairmont was like you'd expected. Modern, sleek lines cut across the space, all high ceilings and open glass, the walls being polished concrete. It was the kind of place that belonged in a magazine, not nestled above the beach like some kind of coastal hideaway.

There was an eerie quiet to it, the kind that made you hyper-aware of your own footsteps on the hardwood floors.

You stepped into what looked like a living room, if you could call it that. The space was wide and curated within an inch of its life, all soft whites, beige accents, and gold fixtures, like it had been ripped straight off a basic influencer’s Pinterest mood board.

Every coffee table book looked untouched, every throw pillow impossibly fluffed, every surface too perfect to be lived in.

You were just about to turn around and double-check if you’d passed the bathroom when something on the far wall caught your eye, a large, framed photograph.

It was a family portrait, taken right in front of what you imagine was the old Clairmont’s main steps. Everyone was smiling, light catching their blonde hair just right under the perfectly blue sky and brushed with just the right amount of cloud. Everyone was dressed in coordinated summer tones, navy, cream, pale blue, looking like they belonged in a coastal fashion spread.

You scanned the faces instinctively, stopping first on the ones you knew.

Johnny stood toward the center, hands tucked loosely in his pockets, expression unreadable but present. Next to him, Willy wore a wide, proud smile, Miss Sinclair holding his shoulders. She stood just beside them in a sleeveless navy dress, radiant as always, with her signature effortless grace. A few feet down were the twins, dressed identically, hands clasped and expressions composed. Mr. Sinclair stood front and center, solid and sure, with Bess poised just off his shoulder, her smile tight but camera-ready.

But it wasn’t the familiar faces that caught your attention, but four faces you didn’t recognize.

The first was a girl, about your age, next to the twins and Bess, with pale blond hair and a soft smile. She wore a sleeveless top and dark shorts, her posture relaxed but confident, like she’d spent enough summers here to never feel out of place.

Then, next to Harris, stood a tall, elegant woman in a blue navy suit, flawlessly styled. Her expression was one you could simply call pride.

And on the other end of the photo was another girl, close in age to the first but with a different kind of presence, quieter but very much present. She wore a white collared blouse with small patterns and navy shorts with a pleasant smile.

Them the woman next to her, older, taller, wrapped in a beautiful sleeveless striped dress with one arm gently curled around the girl's shoulders.

You didn’t know who they were, only that they were Sinclair blood, and that for whatever reason (though you had a hunch why), they hadn’t been around this summer.

"Beautiful picture, isn’t it?"

The voice cut through the quiet, calm and slow, and it made you jump out of your skin.

You spun around, heart leaping into your throat.

Mr. Sinclair stood just a few feet behind you, a heavy crystal glass in hand, filled with something amber that caught the lamplight. Whiskey, if you had to guess. He wasn’t looking at you, his eyes were fixed on the photo, like it had called him there too.

You swallowed, forcing your expression back into something neutral. “I'm so sorry, sir. I was just looking for the bathroom.”

He didn’t seem surprised or concerned. Mr Sinclair just nodded slightly, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips.

“We take it every year,” he said, eyes still on the photo. “Same spot, same view. We like our traditions here.”

You looked back at the frame, then at him, unsure whether you were supposed to say something, ask a question, or pretend you hadn’t been staring at ghosts.

“It is a striking picture,” you said finally, voice softer now. Your eyes lingered on the photo again. “I like how the shadows fall just behind them, but the house still catches the light. It makes everyone look like they’re glowing, almost.”

“You’ve got an eye,” At that, he glanced sideways at you, and for a moment you thought he might smile. “Photographer?”

“Kind of,” you replied, a little sheepishly. “I like taking pictures. I’m not formally trained or anything, but I guess I like… noticing things.”

He gave a thoughtful nod and took a sip of his drink, the crystal glass catching the warm overhead light.

“Noticing things,” he echoed. “That’s a good start for most professions worth doing. Do you think you’ll study it?”

You shook your head gently. “No. I mean, I love it, but it’s more of a hobby. I’m actually planning to study law.”

That made him turn to face you a little more fully. “Is that right?”

“Yeah,” you said, shifting your weight slightly. “I’ve been working toward it for a while now. Hoping to get into Harvard.”

There was a brief pause.

“Harvard? That's ambitious,” he said, though not unkindly. “And you’re what—sixteen? Seventeen?”

“Seventeen,” you confirmed.

He nodded again, slowly, gazing at you. “Still early enough to pivot, if you change your mind. But you strike me as someone who doesn’t.”

You blinked at him, unsure how to respond to that. There was no challenge in his tone, just an observation, delivered like fact. You wondered if that was how he spoke to everyone or just you.

“I’m pretty stubborn, like the rest of the women in my family,” you said, a wry smile tugging at your lips. “In a productive way, most of the time.”

Mr. Sinclair regarded you for a moment, the light from the sconce glinting off the rim of his glass as he took a slow sip. There was no judgment in his expression, just that same cool, measured interest.

Then, with the same even tone, he said, “I imagine you are. But still—Harvard Law isn’t exactly known for being… generous.”

You tucked your hair behind your ear again, glancing briefly at the photograph on the wall before meeting his eyes. “I know, that’s why I’ve been working for it since, like, freshman year.”

And just like that, you found yourself talking again, because when you were passionate, when you cared or were nervous, words had always had a way of spilling out before you could stop them.

“I started with Model UN, then moved into debate and also cheer team, to which I'm happily the captain of. Took a few college-level law courses over the fall, and interned with a local legal aid group last year. I even helped file briefs once.... they were probably trash, but still, real paper, real cases, it all counts at the end of the day...”

His expression didn’t change much, but you could tell he was listening.

“Oh,” you continued, as the momentum carried you forward, “and the debutante thing I’m doing this summer? I'm mostly doing it for my mom, but the admissions counselor said it would look great for you know, character development, civic involvement, tradition, networking…”

You paused to catch your breath, but your hands moved as you spoke, excited now, the nerves forgotten.

“It actually lines up with this early admission initiative I’m in. They let high school students enter ahead of regular deadlines if they meet a certain GPA and demonstrate ‘exceptional promise.’ And I’m just about at the cutoff—”

You held up a hand, ticking off fingers.

“4.2 GPA, ranked second in my class, could've been the first had I decided not to have a social life," you huff a laugh, "And I’ve been meeting with a guidance counselor every other week to fine-tune the whole thing. I’ve even got a plan B and C. Harvard’s the dream, but Yale’s still a contender. Stanford if I want sunshine, Columbia if I don't. And if none of that works, well… I’ve got scholarships I’m applying for through the firm that sponsored my internship.”

You realized, suddenly, how much you’d said. The room had gone quiet, the kind of quiet that only happened when someone was truly paying attention, not just waiting for their turn to speak.

You looked at Mr. Sinclair again.

He hadn’t moved, glass in hand, still watching you with that same even, unreadable gaze, and then, slowly, he nodded.

“Ambition,” he said, his voice low and even. “It’s a powerful thing—if you know how to carry it.”

You swallowed. “I’m trying.”

He looked back toward the photograph then, the firelight from the patio flickering faintly against the window.

“Most people at your age think ambition means wanting everything. But the smart ones,” he said, eyes flicking briefly to you, “they learn how to want the right things and they know the cost.”

You weren’t entirely sure what that meant or even what to say to that, so you didn’t.

“Harvard’s a good choice,” he continued. “Demanding, brutal, even, but it makes a person. It trims the fat.”

You blinked, unsure if that was approval or just another observation.

“It’s a bit of a tradition in this family, actually,” he added after a pause, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “I went. So did my father, and Johnny will be heading there next fall.”

"He... is?" You asked, a tad surprised.

Mr. Sinclair nodded once, his gaze never leaving the photo. “It’s in motion. He’s deferred from school for a while, after the…”

He trailed off, but the sentence hung there, unfinished and unmistakable. The fire. The accident. Whatever you wanted to call it, it sat unspoken between you.

“But he finished his requirements. Graduated on schedule.” He tapped a fingertip against the crystal glass, a soft chime of cut lead and amber liquor. “Harvard has always been the plan.”

Something about the certainty in his voice made it feel like a destination already reached, not a goal still ahead.

“Johnny needs… steadiness,” Mr. Sinclair continued, his voice low and even. “And Harvard offers that. Tradition offers that. Sometimes tradition is the only thing strong enough to keep the roof from caving in.”

Once again, you didn’t know how to respond, so you just nodded, offering a faint smile. “Well… hopefully I’ll run into him on campus next year.”

Mr. Sinclair gave a small tilt of his head, his gaze drifting just slightly before he added, casually, “Lovely pearls, by the way.”

You blinked, momentarily thrown by the comment, until your fingers instinctively brushed the necklace at your collarbone. Right. You’d almost forgotten you were wearing them.

“Oh! thank you,” you said, glancing down with a slight laugh. “They were my mom’s. Well, technically, my great-grandmother’s, but they’ve kind of been passed down.”

He nodded slightly, gaze returning to the photo on the wall. “They suit you.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that, because it didn’t sound like a compliment, exactly and more like a verdict, like he’d made a quiet decision about you that you weren’t entirely privy to.

“Thank you, sir,” you said again, this time more quietly.

Mr. Sinclair didn’t look at you immediately. For a moment, he simply studied the photo, the edge of his glass catching the light.

Then, as if speaking half to himself, half to the room, he said, “You’re a sharp girl. Driven. The kind who leaves marks where she walks, whether she means to or not.”

You blinked, unsure how to take that, if it was meant as approval, as warning, or both. You parted your lips to say something, maybe to ask what he meant, maybe just to break the silence, but he was already moving, already turning the moment gently back toward calm.

“Go on,” He lifted his glass slightly and nodded toward the hallway once more. “Second door to your right.”

You met his gaze for just a second longer, heart still quietly ticking at the weight of it all, and nodded.

“Thank you,” you said, almost under your breath.

Then you turned and made your way down the hall, the soft hush of your steps the only sound between the stillness. You tried to shake off the feeling of being scrutinized, the weight of his gaze still faintly pressed between your shoulder blades. Though, if you were being honest with yourself, you’d kind of invited it, laid your whole résumé on a silver platter with all that oversharing, practically handed him a map to your future.

Though the Johnny-going-to-Harvard thing… that was interesting, thought, you didn’t think he had much of a choice. Not with a name like Sinclair, not with a grandfather like that.

You made your way back down the path, the soft hum of laughter and conversation growing louder as the fire pit came back into view.

The Sinclairs were all still there, Miss Sinclair curled comfortably in her chair, chatting with Bess, the twins whispering about something only they found hilarious, Willy enthusiastically trying to toast three marshmallows at once, Johnny leaned back in one of the Adirondack chairs, staring at the fire, his expression unreadable thought stiff, and now Mr. Sinclair had joined them too, seated with the same quiet authority he carried everywhere.

You slipped into your seat again, brushing off the hem of your dress just as Johnny reached over and handed you a cold can. “Cherry Coke, right?”

You took it, blinking in surprise. “Yeah… how’d you know I like this?”

He didn’t even look at you when he answered, already twisting open his own drink. “Because it’s the only thing I’ve seen you drink. Well, this and lemonade. I’m pretty sure your kidneys are waving a little white flag.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you took the seat beside him. “ Stalker behavior much.”

“It’s called paying attention,” Johnny said, glancing your way with the faintest smirk. “Some of us have working eyes. And Cherry Coke? Nasty taste, by the way."

"Oh, it's not that bad," You cracked the can open with a soft hiss, the fizz rising to the rim. “Better than whatever fuels your kidneys. What is it? Brooding and snark?”

“Mostly caffeine and antidepressants, but yeah, that too.” Johnny leaned back, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You snorted into your drink, trying not to laugh too hard in front of the others. “Wow. A real picture of health.”

“Doctor approved,” he said, watching the fire flicker.

You hummed, lifting the can to your lips again as the fizz settled against your tongue.

Across the lawn, Mr. Sinclair had crouched near the firepit, sparklers in hand, carefully lighting the ends for the younger kids.

Willy sprinted over, waving one through the air like a sword made of stars, yelling your name as he passed. “Look! Look! Mine’s the biggest!”

You smiled, holding your can out like a toast. “Undeniably impressive.”

He beamed and ran back to the others, sparkler trailing behind him like a comet tail.

Despite everything, the old money perfection, the too-practised smiles, the silences thick enough to trip over, it almost looked like a real family. Something simple and sweet on the surface, but you could feel it.

The empty chairs no one acknowledged. The glances that hovered a second too long; there was an absence that no one knew what to do with.

You leaned back as the first firework exploded over the water, the sound sharp and hollow in the humid air. Gold burst into violet, then faded, then more followed. Reds, blues, that greenish one that always looked a little sickly, but still made you smile. They were pretty, sure. Big ones too, the kind your brothers would’ve lost their minds over.

Your gaze drifted toward the distant shoreline. You couldn’t see your house from here, but you could imagine it. You could picture the dock lights blinking in the dark, hear the echo of music through open doors, smell the smoke from your mom’s citronella candles and the steamed clams.

You wondered how the party was going back home. If your mom was laughing a little too loudly with Laurel, if Belly finally asked Cam to be her escort, if Conrad managed to find some time to relax even with your father there, if Jeremiah had already set off the sketchy fireworks your dad brought back from that trip to Mexico.

Your lips pressed together as another firework cracked overhead, washing the night in a bloom of white and gold.

Johnny glanced over at you, subtle, almost like he hadn’t meant to be caught. “You good?”

You blinked, pulled out of your thoughts, then gave a quick nod and a small, practiced smile. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

He didn’t press, just nodded and looked back up at the sky, one knee bouncing slightly, the firelight flickering across the curve of his jaw as his fingers tightened just barely around the can in his hand.

More fireworks burst overhead, louder now, closer to the finale. The crowd around the firepit oohed and ahhed, sparklers still dancing in small hands, Bess tossing a half-hearted "That one looked like a jellyfish!" into the noise.

It was all beautiful, in that simple, fleeting way.

Y/n: Thank you all for the support <3<3<3 <3<3

Added a bit of reader glazing lol, but it needs to be part of the plot for season 2!!!

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liarom1ove · 8 days ago

Text

What Once Was!

Synopsis: The day the Conklins were set to arrive, you took a boat out chasing peace and quiet before summer officially began... but the boat had other plans.

That’s how you ended up on Beachwood Island and how you met Johnny Sinclair, the boy who wasn’t supposed to be there, the one who survived the fire and vanished from everything.

And that meeting changed the course of your entire summer.

Johnny Sinclair x Fisher fem reader!!

AU where Johnny is the one who lived instead of Candace and Clairmont is a near cousins. TSITPXWWL AU

Part 2

The Fisher summer house had come back to life in layers.

First came Susannah, already humming in the kitchen, barefoot, coffee mug in hand, calling out updates about beach towels and grocery lists. Then Conrad, stiff and quiet, acting like the creak of the stairs personally offended him. Then Jeremiah, loud, grinning, shirtless and so very dramatically announcing his presence like the main character in a teen movie no one else had auditioned for.

The morning had already bloomed by the time you padded into the kitchen, hair still damp from a quick shower and the hem of your sundress brushing against your knees.

Your mom was humming to herself at the stove, flipping blueberry pancakes like it was the most sacred ritual of summer. The kitchen smelled like syrup and lemon dish soap, and the windows were flung open, letting the breeze wander through.

“Good morning, sunshine,” she said, smiling over her shoulder. “You sleep okay?”

“Like a rock,” you replied, stealing a blueberry from the bowl on the counter.

“Like a witch,” Conrad muttered, wandering in shirtless and half-asleep. “I heard you pacing at like, midnight. Thought you were summoning something.”

“She was,” Jeremiah chimed in behind him. “The tragic spirits of her failed love life.

“Funny,” you said, not bothering to hide the smirk tugging at your lips, “especially coming from the guy who sobbed over his seventh-grade boyfriend.”

Jeremiah clutched his chest like you’d just stabbed him. “That was a real connection!”

You raised a brow. “It lasted four days.”

“Still counts.”

“And now that I think about it…” You paused dramatically, tapping your chin. “That was also your longest relationship, wasn’t it?”

Conrad cracked the ghost of a smirk as he leaned against the counter.

Jeremiah’s jaw dropped. “Wow. Okay. So we’re throwing low blows now?”

“Just observing patterns, sweetie.”

Your mom laughed, flipping another pancake. “You kids, must you always be like this? You bicker like it’s your love language.”

“It is,” you and Conrad said at the same time, then blinked at each other.

“Ew, we’re syncing,” you muttered. “I need to leave immediately.”

You poured yourself a glass of orange juice and reached for your tote bag.

“Where are you headed?” Susannah asked.

“Thinking I’ll head to town, rent one of those little skiff boats,” you said, tossing an apple into your bag. “I want to get out on the water, take some photos before the rest of the circus rolls in. Maybe read a little too.”

“Belly, Steven, and Laurel should be rolling in around one,” Susannah called as she turned off the stove, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

“I’ll be back before the circus starts,” you promised, slinging your bag over your shoulder and grabbing your sunglasses from the counter.

“Lather up, sunscreen queen!” Jeremiah yelled after you, dramatically cupping his hands around his mouth.

“Try not to fall in,” Conrad added, barely looking up from where he was nursing his coffee. “Though… honestly? Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

Without turning around, you raised your middle finger high in the air and waltzed out the back door like you’d just won an award, the screen slamming lightly behind you.

You were grinning before your feet even hit the porch steps.

The sunlight hit you like a kiss as soon as you stepped outside, warm and syrup-thick, already starting to melt the edges of the morning. You took a deep breath, let the sea breeze sweep through your lungs, and jogged down the porch steps to where your bike was waiting in the grass like it always was.

The ride into town was easy, the kind of familiar that let your mind wander. The wheels hummed over the pavement, past dune fences and flowering bushes spilling over picket gates. You waved at a golden retriever sunbathing on someone’s front steps and dodged a couple of early joggers with an effortless “sorry!” tossed over your shoulder.

Cousins was still yawning itself awake when you pulled up beside the marina. The water glittered like a tray of spilt diamonds, and the air carried that sweet mix of salt and engine oil. You leaned your bike against the same old lamppost and headed down the creaky dock toward a weathered boathouse with peeling blue paint and a wind chime that never quite stopped singing.

And there she was, Mrs. Kersey, sitting on her usual stool by the window, a floppy sun hat drooping over one eye and a Styrofoam cup of sweet tea sweating in her hand and a crossword in the other.

You grinned. “Morning, Miss Kersey.”

“You’re late,” she said, not looking up from her crossword. “Already handed your boat off to some frat boys in salmon-colored shorts.”

You clutched your chest in mock horror. “The betrayal.”

“Guess that means you’ll have to go home and listen to your brothers bicker all morning.”

You groaned. “Please, no. I’ll do anything.”

She rolled her eyes and waved you toward the back. “It’s out there, same one as always.”

You lingered a second longer, propping your elbows on the counter. “You ever gonna let me pay you for it?”

Miss Kersey gave a snort. “For that dusty thing? Wouldn’t see daylight if it weren’t for you. You’re doing it a favor.”

“I’ll pretend I’m flattered.”

“You always do,” she muttered, but her mouth twitched.

You laughed and thanked her again, stepping out to the dock where your little old boat was tied up, bobbing gently on the water like it had been waiting too.

You tossed your bag in, climbed aboard, and pushed off with a practiced foot.

And just like that, you were off, drifting past the harbor, the houses shrinking behind you, the world softening around the edges.

You reached for your camera from the bottom of the bag, snapped a few frames of the coastline—Miss Kersey’s weathered dock, the sleepy buildings behind it, the strip of sand where some early risers were setting up umbrellas.

The boat continued to drift, like the current already knew where you wanted to go.

You paddled lazily for a while, just enough to steer yourself past the usual boat traffic, aiming toward that patch of coastline no one ever really claimed. The oars cutting soft ripples into the water, your dress bunched beneath you, and your bag tucked safe at your feet.

The sun sat warm on your shoulders, and the further you went, the quieter everything became. Just the hush of the wind, the lap of the waves, and the distant cry of gulls somewhere overhead.

Eventually, you let the oars fall beside you and reached into your tote for your camera. The good one, the battered but reliable one, with a strap that had once belonged to your mom. You lifted it, adjusted the settings by instinct, and started snapping.

Click.

The sun on the surface of the water, like spilt glitter.

Click.

Your bare legs stretched across the boat, the shadow of your fingers on the seat beside you.

Click.

A bird taking off, wings wide, water catching the light behind it like a trail of gold.

You let out a sigh and leaned back against the seat, camera resting in your lap, satisfied. This was the kind of quiet that didn’t last once summer really kicked in. The kind that made you feel small in the best way, drifting dot on the open water, untethered and unnoticed.

You reached into your tote bag, and first came your earbuds, old, wired ones with the cord twisted into a kind of permanent knot, and then your phone, cracked at the corner, salt-sticky from summers past. You thumbed through your music, squinting against the sun, and hit play on the Queen playlist you always came back to.

The boat rocked gently as the opening chords filled your head, the wind ruffling your hair in time with the music and Freddie Mercury in your bloodstream.

Then you pulled out your book, the spine cracked, corners curled, the pages worn soft from rereading. It smelled faintly of sunscreen and salt. You flipped to where you’d left off and let the words carry you.

You slid your legs over the edge, dipping your feet into the cool water. It sent a sharp little chill up your spine at first, but then it felt good. Your toes cut soft ripples into the surface as you leaned back, the slats at your back digging into your shoulder blades....

Your headphones were in, Queen humming in your ears (Somebody To Love, of course), and your book lay open on your lap, pages flickering a little in the breeze.

You had just closed your eyes, just for a minute, maybe five... or ten.

That’s when the cold crept higher.

You blinked awake and instinctively pulled your legs back in, frowning as the sudden shift made the boat rock beneath you. You sat up straighter.

Then you saw it, the water and not just freaking splashing, the damned water was pooling.

You stared at it. “…Shit.”

You tossed your book onto the bench beside you, yanked both headphones out, and lurched forward onto your knees, sloshing straight into the rising puddle. The water was colder now, up past your ankles, seeping into the floorboards like it belonged there.

“Oh, come on,” you hissed, scooping it out with your hands like that would do anything. It splashed right back in, mocking you.

Your tote bag was already damp at the bottom. You scrambled to pull it up onto the seat, heart hammering. You fished out your phone first (still dry, thank God), then your camera, holding it close like a lifeline. The strap was dripping, but the body was intact.

The book came last, waterlogged at the corners, but you shoved it back in the bag like you could pretend it hadn’t been bleeding ink just seconds ago.

The boat gave a low groan, like it knew it had betrayed you.

“I swear to God, Mrs Kersey, this stupid death trap—” you muttered, scooping another pathetic handful of water over the edge. It went nowhere.

Your knees were wet, your dress was soaked, and your dignity was gone, but you continued nonetheless.

Scooping water with your hands and throwing it off, muttering a nonstop string of curses under your breath, hair sticking to your face, salt on your lips.

The boat gave another ominous creak and dipped slightly lower.

“Fantastic,” you snapped. “Go ahead. Sink. Finish the job, you traitorous piece of—”

You saw it.

An island, a big, green and too quiet island.

You squinted, wiped your wet hair off your face, and blinked again, you recognized it, vaguely.... wasn't it;

“Beachwood.”

The private and very much off-limits island... and right now, you did not give a single fart about that because it was land. Solid, dry, beautiful land. And right now, you would kiss the sand if it meant getting out of that sinking boat.

You paddled with the best of your ability.

With arms that felt like jelly and a dress that clung to you like regret. Every stroke was fueled by pure adrenaline, mild rage, and the unshakable belief that this boat would sink out from under you if you gave it the chance.

The shore crept closer, maddeningly slow, like it was watching and laughing, making you curse out loud, at the boat, at the wind, at your fucking life choices.

But finally, the bow scraped against sand with a glorious, crunchy little thud.

You practically leapt out, dragging the cursed vessel just enough onto the beach so it wouldn’t float off and finish dying without you. Your feet sank into the wet shoreline, dress dripping, hair plastered to your neck, and your whole body screaming for rest.

But you made it.

You dropped your tote, fell backwards into the sand with a dramatic groan, and lay there for a full minute, breathing like you’d just finish a marathon and for a minute, you just stared at the sky.

What the actual fuck were you supposed to do now?

Call your mom? Conrad? Jeremiah? Right. Like those last two choices wouldn’t be humiliating.

It was definitely past one anyways. They were probably back at the house, catching up with Laurel, and Belly, and Steven. Sitting around the table, laughing, eating cold pasta salad and watermelon, completely unaware that you were currently trespassing on a private island.

Oh God.

You sat up fast.

OH GOD YOU WERE IN Beachwood.

Like, actual Beachwood.

You looked up at the island properly for the first time. The trees stretched thick and wild across the land, but there, perched high enough to see, close enough to make your stomach twist, was the house.

Big and distant... but not distant enough for your liking.

Oh… God.

You’d heard what happened here last summer. Everyone had, in that hushed, half-knowing kind of way. You’d already left Cousins when it happened. The news had spread like wildfire (no pun intended), but details were scarce.

Fire and deaths.

The house had burned, people had died, but no one really knew who or how or why. There was no press release, no statement, just whispers, rumors.

Because this wasn’t just any family, this was the Sinclair's. A family that didn’t do public.

Richer than half of Cousins Beach combined, or so the gossip always went, they hardly ever showed face in town. No backyard barbecues, no farmers’ market runs, no polite chitchat with your mom at the post office.

They had people for that.

Locals who worked the grounds came and went in quiet, unmarked cars. The kind of wealth that didn’t make noise because it didn’t have to.

And now here you were.

Soaked to the bone, dripping with sand and panic. Trespassing on their haunted, half-burned island like some dumbass summer cliché gone horribly wrong.

Your mouth went dry, this wasn’t just about getting out of a sinking boat anymore, this was about not getting arrested.

Shit shit shittttttt

Okay. Think.

You glanced at the boat.

Yeah, no. That was done, half-beached, half-dead and fully useless.

Swim for it? You can barely dog-paddle in a pool, let alone open water. Try again.

Calling your mom? Yeah, that was the plans, crew the embarrassment, you’d take the teasing, if it meant getting out of this mess. You reached into your tote, yanked your phone out and your heart stopped.

“No. No, no, no—”

Half the things inside were soaked. Absolutely drenched.

You dropped to your knees, panic clawing up your throat as you started pulling everything out, one waterlogged item at a time. Your book, ruined, the pages already wilting and curling like dead petals. Your towel, sopping wet, useless. Your phone, screen flickering, maybe, or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

And then your camera, your stomach turned.

“Oh, God,” you whispered.

It was dripping, actually dripping.

You turned it over, unscrewed the bottom, and popped the battery out with trembling fingers. Everything inside looked damp, too damp. You wanted to scream, but it caught in your chest instead, sharp and helpless.

Tears pricked at your eyes.

All those photos, of Cousins mornings, of the dock, of your brothers in all their goofy, golden-hour chaos, gone. You hadn’t backed them up. You hadn’t even thought about it.

You sat there, in the slowly sinking boat, salt on your lips and fire behind your eyes, clutching a waterlogged camera like it might still love you back.

OKAY. NO. No time for crying. No time for a breakdown. You could have a meltdown later, in the shower, maybe, or buried under your covers with headphones on full blast, but save and sound back home.

You stood up and spun in place, scanning the treeline, the rocky edges of the shore, the ominously expensive-looking house in the distance.

And tucked just off to the side, half-swallowed by trees, you saw a smaller building, worn, low-roofed, and vaguely familiar in the way all boathouses were.

Maybe… maybe someone was there, a caretaker or a groundskeeper.

Someone who could help you get back to town without asking too many questions. Someone who wouldn’t report you, or recognize you, or even speak a word of this to the Sinclairs.

Hope flares hard in your chest.

Please let there be a sympathetic local. Please let them have a working radio, an extra dinghy, a miraculous teleportation device—anything.

You yank your tote higher on your shoulder, give the half-dead rowboat one last glare (traitor), and start slogging up the sand. Every squelchy step leaves a puddle. Your dress clings like seaweed and your dignity? Long gone.

As you reach the boathouse, the wind rattles a loose plank, clack-clack-clack. Charming. You stop just outside the door, water still dripping off your elbows, and clear your throat.

“Hello?” you call, voice thin and unsteady. “Anyone here? I’m, uh… a little stranded—long story!”

Silence.

Your heart starts punching the inside of your ribs as you take a shaky breath, push the door open wider, and step into the dimness.

It smells like salt, old rope, engine grease, and the kind of wood that only exists near water, swollen, soft, and sun-warped. Light leaks in through crooked slats. Cobwebs cling to corners. A boat engine sits in pieces on a workbench, untouched.

You take another step.

“Hello?” you try again, louder this time, but still no answer.

You let out a groan so dramatic it could’ve won an award, clapping both hands over your face like maybe if you smothered yourself just hard enough, the universe would erase the last twenty minutes and teleport you back to Cousins with dry clothes and your sanity intact.

What were you supposed to do now?

Camp out in the creepy boathouse like some soggy cryptid? Wait until a Sinclair helicopter flew overhead and waved you off with a lawsuit?

You dragged your hands down your face and muttered under your breath, “Okay. No big deal. Just illegally marooned on a haunted billionaire island with no boat, and a bag full of soaked regrets. Totally fine.”

The wood creaked beneath your soaked shoes as you took another cautious step, peering around like a raccoon in someone’s garage, eyes wide, posture guilty, hoping to at least spot an old towel or something to dry you off.

You were about two seconds away from drying off with a boat tarp when a voice cut through the air behind you.

“You know this is private property, right?”

You screeched, a full-body, no-shame, startled-animal sound, as you whirled around and simultaneously tried to jump back from the unseen threat.

Which, unfortunately, resulted in your heel catching on a coil of rope, sending your soggy self down like a sack of wet laundry. You landed hard on your butt with a dramatic thud, bag still clutched to your chest, hair in your eyes, pride in shambles.

When you finally blinked up, there was a boy. Your age, maybe a little older. Tall, sun-dusted skin, blonde hair falling into his eyes like he didn’t care enough to fix it. Leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression unreadable except for the clear fact that he was definitely judging you.

You, meanwhile, were sprawled in a puddle of your own chaos, dress clinging to your thighs, saltwater dripping from your elbows, hair half in your mouth, soggy bag clenched like a security blanket.

“What the hell, dude?” you snapped, still half on the ground, voice breathless and somewhere between offended and mortified.

He lifted a brow. “I was gonna ask you the same thing.”

“You don’t just sneak up on people like that!” you huffed, scrambling to your feet, brushing off sand that only smeared deeper into your soaked dress. “What’s wrong with you?”

He scoffed, unfolding his arms and gesturing pointedly in your direction. “What’s wrong with me? You’re the one sneaking around.”

“I wasn’t sneaking!” you snapped. “I—I was having a perfectly normal, peaceful morning. Took a boat out, was reading, taking some pictures, minding my own business, and then bam—my boat breaks down, water starts pouring in, half my stuff gets soaked, including, but not limited to my phone, so now I can’t even call anyone and it was either come here or try swimming for it, and newsflash, I’m not a good swimmer, okay?"

You gestured wildly toward your soaked dress, your dripping tote bag. “Do I look like someone who- who likes to be on other peoples properties?”

The boy with bright blue eyes just watched you.

You kept going, because now it was happening, the word-vomit spiral.

“I mean, it’s kind of ironic, right? I’ve been coming to Cousins every summer since I was, like, eight. You’d think I’d know how to swim better by now. But no, when I panic, I sink, like a rock. It’s actually kind of tragic if you think about it—”

“You always talk this much?” he cut in, not unkindly, more… curious. Bemused, if you will.

You blinked, suddenly aware of how hot your face felt, how hard you were breathing, and how thoroughly you’d just overshared with a total stranger.

“Okay,” you said, wiping wet hair from your eyes, “first of all—rude. And second, no. I don’t usually talk this much. I’m just—this is—look, I’m under a lot of stress, okey?”

You huffed, adjusting your bag like it would give you authority.

“Why don’t you just help me get off this island, alright? Preferably before the Richie Rich clan realizes I’m here and sues me into a tragic early grave. I really don’t have the emotional bandwidth for felony trespassing today.”

He stared at you, one brow lifted. “Richie Rich?”

You blinked at him. “Y’know… the 1994 movie? With Macaulay Culkin? Kid lives in a mansion the size of a shopping mall, owns a rollercoaster in his backyard, has a butler who’s basically a full-time therapist-slash-babysitter? Has a McDonald’s in his house?”

He kept looking at you.

You threw your hands up, a soggy, dramatic mess. “How have you never seen Richie Rich? It's, like, required viewing for anyone who’s ever looked at a yacht and felt poor.”

He just stared, unbothered, maybe even entertained, and you didn’t stop, of course, you didn’t.

“Anyway, point is—that’s the vibe I got when people talk about the Sinclairs. Y’know? Filthy rich, super mysterious, creepy old money energy," You gestured vaguely toward the trees. “I mean, Clairmont? Please. They probably have robots that wipe their countertops. You can’t even look in this direction from Cousins without someone whispering about ‘the Sinclairs’ like they’re some sort of old-money cult.”

The boy’s lips twitched, you didn’t notice.

“They never talk to anyone, like ever, unless it’s their staff or something. My brother once saw one of them at the marina and said she looked like she was allergic to the air. And don’t even get me started on the fire—like, what happened last summer? No news. No details. Just this ‘tragic accident’ and then silence, because God forbid the golden Sinclairs actually—”

“Don’t,” he said, flat.

Just one low word, but sharp enough to slice straight through your rant and to blink up at him.

His arms had dropped, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw tight. His whole body language had shifted, from vaguely bemused stranger to something much more closed off. Guarded, in a way, like a switch had flipped and you were suddenly, unmistakably, on the wrong side of it.

You swallowed, “…What?”

He shook his head slightly, looked away. “Maybe let’s skip the gossip next time. Especially when you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Your stomach dropped, a cold wave of realization hit you square in the chest.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

The sharp jaw, the sun-lightened hair, the quiet weight in his eyes, not just silence, but grief, tucked beneath the surface like something he’d been carrying too long.

And suddenly, your heart was crawling up your throat. “…You’re a Sin—”

"Johnny?" A woman’s voice called from outside, cutting clean through the tension. It sounded worried.

You froze.

“Johnny!” another voice followed, this one younger, a boy, loud and gaining fast.

You watched his jaw tighten, watched his whole body go still.

Of course, he was a Sinclair... And now there were witnesses.

Panic ricocheted inside your chest. You turned to him, wide-eyed, one breath away from begging.

“Please,” you whispered. “I can’t—I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know—”

But the footsteps were already too close. There was no hiding, no running, no burying yourself in the sand like a cartoon character.

A woman stepped into the doorway, tall, striking, her expression halfway between confusion and concern. She looked just enough like the boy in front of you that the connection was obvious. His mother. And right behind her, trailing in on sand-dusted sneakers, was a younger boy, messy-haired, sunburnt nose, eyes wide with curiosity.

Her gaze snapped to him first. “Johnny, what—”

And then she saw you. Soaked, disheveled and standing in their boathouse like the world’s saddest home intruder.

You gave her your best attempt at a smile. Something between please don’t call the cops and I swear I’m not dangerous.

“Hi…” you said, voice pitching up like it might shatter. “So sorry to, um… drop in.”

The woman blinked, clearly still processing the drowned rat standing in her boathouse. “Who are you?”

“Y/N Fisher, ma’am,” you said quickly, slapping on that same wide smile, though now it was visibly cracking at the edges. “I’m from Cousins. Been coming since I was eight! Love it here. Really big fan of the—uh, ocean.”

Her brows didn’t move, not one inch of relief.

You swallowed.

“So what happened was,” you rushed on, “I was just paddling around, you know? Taking pictures, reading, minding my business—when my boat just decided to quit on me. Fully mutinied. Started leaking out of nowhere and, long story short, I had to pick between sinking or, um…”

You gestured around helplessly. “…illegally trespassing. I chose trespassing. Which I now realize is not technically better, but in the moment, it felt like a survival situation. You get it, right?”

The young boy snorted, Johnny’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

His mother, however, was still just looking at you like someone who could shatter your entire world with a single phone call.

“Uh-huh,” she said slowly. “And you just ended up here.”

“Completely by accident, scout’s honor. Except I was never a scout. But, you know… same idea.” You gave a weak, strangled little laugh.

“I-I did try to call my mom,” you added quickly, holding up your bag like it might serve as evidence. “But my phone’s totally soaked. Like, dead. Not even a buzz. So I figured… boathouse? Human contact? Maybe a towel? Possibly avoid drowning or federal charges?”

Silence stretched for a second too long, and you thought, briefly, about running... But where? Into the trees? Off a cliff?

'Kill me,' you thought. 'Just kill me now.'

Johnny, behind you, finally cleared his throat.

“She’s not dangerous,” he said, tone bone-dry. “At least not unless you count aggressive rambling and falling over stuff.”

You nearly turned to glare at him again, but stopped yourself, probably because you were on thin ice and soaking wet and had zero legal ground to stand on.

Before his mom could respond, the smaller voice, his little brother, cut in, suddenly lighting up. “Wait! I know you! You’re the girl from the ice cream shop last summer, aren’t you?”

You blinked, caught completely off guard. “I—what?”

“Yeah! Scoops Ahoy!” he said, already animated. “You gave me your cone when mine fell. And then—and then I got lost ‘cause Johnny and Mom were getting sandwiches, and you stayed with me the whole time and helped me look for them.”

And just like that, the memory clicked into place.

You had spent a whole afternoon with some poor lost kid last summer. Mint-chip cone sacrificed. Sand in your shoes. Sitting with him on the boardwalk bench while you cracked dumb jokes to keep him from crying. You’d ended up walking the beach with him for a while, holding his hand and letting him chatter about shells and sharks and Space Jam, before a brown-skinned man with a frantic expression had come running up, scooped him into a hug, and thanked you over and over.

You’d never gotten his name, never thought you’d see the kid again.

“Oh. Right. Captain Waffles, wasn’t it?” you said slowly, the nickname tumbling out like muscle memory.

The boy’s face lit up. He nodded so hard his hair flopped into his eyes. “Yes! You remembered!"

You grinned despite yourself. “Hard to forget someone who insisted on being addressed like a breakfast superhero for three hours.”

“I still use that name on my Switch!” he beamed.

Johnny’s mom gave a small laugh, quiet, disbelieving. “You’re that girl.”

You lifted your hands helplessly. “Apparently?”

The boy turned to her, nodding fiercely. “She stayed with me the whole time I got lost, Mom. Remember?” Then he looked back at you with that open, bright-eyed sincerity only kids could pull off. “You said I could have your ice cream because heroes share. Remember?”

You laughed, the sound breaking through your embarrassment like sunlight. Despite being soaked, despite trespassing, despite standing knee-deep in mortification… something warm bloomed in your chest.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I remember now.”

“I told them about you!” the boy burst out, practically bouncing in place. “I said you were the nicest girl ever. I kept looking for you again after that.”

Your breath caught a little, but you smiled anyway, a real one this time, small and surprised.

Johnny was also staring at you, but with a different expression. Eyebrows slightly raised, like he didn’t know what to do with this new information.

His mom looked down at her youngest, then back at you and for the first time, she actually smiled.

“Well,” she said, her voice lighter now, with just the faintest trace of amusement, “if you’re that girl, I suppose we can skip the part where I call security.”

You let out a breath that sounded embarrassingly close to a wheeze.

“God, thank you,” you said, pressing a hand to your chest like you might keel over. “Really appreciate the mercy.”

Behind you, Johnny muttered, deadpan, “Close call, though.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder, somewhere between seriously? and try me again, golden boy.

He didn’t flinch, just raised an eyebrow like he was waiting for you to say something back. You rolled your eyes and turned forward again, but not before he caught the hint of a smile tugging at your lips.

“C’mon,” his mom said, glancing between the two of you (and you really hoped she hadn’t caught the glare you’d just shot her son). She stepped aside, voice softening. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You’re trembling, dear.”

You hadn’t even realized it, but now that she said it… yeah. Your hands were shaking slightly, your dress clung to your skin like a second, soggy spine, and the adrenaline that had carried you this far was starting to wear off.

“Right,” you said with a weak laugh, hiking your bag up again. “Turns out trespassing and near-drowning is a pretty effective form of adrenaline release.”

His mother gave you a look, half-amused, half motherly. “Let’s try to avoid making it a habit.”

"Yes, ma'am." Your lips were pressed into a sheepish smile.

As you stepped onto the path, the boy, Captain Waffles, forever in your mind, trotted up beside you, practically bouncing.

You’d think you’d just parachuted in from space the way he looked at you. Like you were some kind of summer legend returned to life, he chattered nonstop, telling you everything from his Switch username to how many times he’d wiped out on his skateboard this week.

You listened, smiling, letting the familiar rhythm of a kid’s voice soften the aftershocks of panic still buzzing in your limbs.

As you walked, bag slung tight against your shoulder and your damp dress clinging stubbornly to your legs, you couldn’t help it, you started looking around. Casually or so you hoped.

Because you’d expected… something else.

This was the infamous Clairmont, wasn’t it? The island that had burned. That had haunted whispers and missing answers attached to its name. You’d half-prepared yourself for blackened trees, boarded windows, a scorched silence pressed into the dirt.

But the island was green, lush and quiet in that strange, careful way. If something had burned here, the island or more likely it's habitants had done an unnervingly good job of covering it up.

“We’re almost to Red Gate,” he announced proudly, cutting you out of your train of thought. “That’s what we call it.”

You followed his gaze to the house just coming into view.

It was big, but not showy. Set back into the trees, surrounded by quiet. The first thing you noticed was the red door, bold and worn, with a little chipping around the edges, as if it had been opened and closed a million times.

You didn’t know what you were expecting from the Sinclairs’ private island house, but it wasn’t… this. It felt lived-in. Real, like a place with history, like a place where people argued and laughed and slammed doors.

You had the weirdest urge to knock, even though you were already being let in.

Captain Waffles turned back, grinning. “That’s where we stay when we’re here. Me, Johnny, Ed, and mom. It’s got the best couch in the entire island.”

You raised your eyebrows. “The best couch? Bold claim. What are we talkin, nap levels? Or full-on ‘I could survive a zombie apocalypse as long as I have this couch’ levels?”

He laughed, bright and unfiltered, the kind that made your chest lighten a little.

“Both!” he said, practically skipping the last few steps to the porch. “It has a dent in the shape of Johnny’s butt from how much he hogs it lately.”

Behind you, you swore you heard a groan of pure older-sibling suffering. "Willy."

Ah. So that was his name.

Willy turned back toward his brother, completely unbothered. “It does, though!”

You bit back a grin. “Don’t worry, Willy. All the best couches have a butt dent. It means they’ve lived a full life.”

Another burst of laughter left the boy.

The red door creaked open, and you hovered awkwardly on the threshold.

You weren’t sure why it felt so big, stepping inside. Maybe because you weren’t supposed to be here or because this was a Sinclair house... or maybe because everything about it felt too quiet, too lived-in, too full of things that mattered to people who weren’t you.

You crossed the doorway like a thief in church.

Inside, the air was cooler. It smelled like linen and old wood, a faint trace of salt, and something warm, lemons, maybe, or the tail end of breakfast. The floors were wide-planked, scuffed with years of feet. The light was soft, filtered through gauzy curtains.

Cozy in a way you hadn’t expected.

You tried to make yourself small, shoulders tucked in, arms wrapped tight around your bag, thankfully now more dry than you had been in a while but still moist, for lack of better words.

Johnny stepped past you without looking and disappeared down the hall.

His mother (you still didn’t know her name, and that somehow made everything worse) turned slightly and called over her shoulder, calm but firm, “Willy, can you grab a towel for her? From the upstairs linen closet?”

“On it!” Willy chirped, taking off at full speed, feet thudding up the stairs like a kid on a mission.

You stood there in the entryway, hugging your damp self and trying very hard not to let your eyes dart around too much. But it was hard not to look. The mismatched framed photos on the walls. The stack of mail on the table. A pair of shoes kicked off haphazardly by the stairs.

Johnny’s mom turned back to you, offering a smile that was warm but just a little too practiced, like she’d hosted a hundred kids before and still hadn’t decided whether to treat you like one of them.

“Don’t just stand there, sweetheart. Come in, come in.” She motioned toward the living room, where the cushions were sunken just slightly from use. “You’re soaked. Make yourself comfortable—well, as comfortable as you can be when you’ve just been rescued from a sinking boat.”

You forced a smile, stepping gingerly inside, trying not to leave a trail behind you. “Sorry about the water.”

“Oh, please,” she waved it off. “This house has seen worse. Sand, blood, tears—you name it.”

That made you pause.

Not because of the mess, or the chaos she was describing, but because your mind had gone straight to the accident.... The blood. The tears. The silence that followed.

You didn’t mean to let it show, but something must’ve flickered across your face, because she glanced at you again, just a little too long, just sharp enough to notice.

Then, as if gently redirecting, she added, “Boys growing up around here. It's never quiet, and it’s never clean. You’re fine.”

You could tell by the slight shift in her tone, the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, that it was a touchy subject. Something with weight behind it and you, soaked to the bone and feeling like an intruder, didn’t want to press on bruises you couldn’t see.

So you steered the conversation away, let out a soft huff of laughter, and said, “Wouldn’t I know. I’ve got two brothers, one older, one younger. It’s like living in the middle of a never-ending wrestling match.”

That earned a real smile from her, not big, but a little softer, a little less careful.

“Oh, the middle child and the only girl”, she said knowingly, as if that explained everything. “Poor thing. No wonder you ran off to sink yourself in the ocean.”

You grinned and shrugged. “It was either that or throw one of them in it.”

She laughed, and just like that, the tension cracked. Not gone, but gentler now, like maybe you could be a little more than the girl in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Footsteps pounded back down the stairs, and Willy appeared, holding a towel over his head like a victory flag.

“Mission accomplished!” he announced proudly, handing it to you with a grin.

You took the towel with both hands, dripping all over the floor despite your best effort not to. “Why, thank you, Captain Waffle. You’re a lifesaver.”

He puffed up with pride. “I am known for my heroic deeds.”

“Are you also known for naming yourself after breakfast?” you asked, raising a brow as you started patting down your hair.

“Obviously,” he said with a shrug, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Waffles are elite. Pancakes are just lazy waffles.”

You bit back a laugh as you wiped your forehead. “Can’t argue with logic like that.”

Willy hadn’t stopped talking.

He was sitting criss-cross on the rug across from you, narrating something about a swordfight he once staged with a garden rake and a traffic cone. You were perched on the edge of the armchair, towel wrapped around your shoulders like a sad, soggy superhero cape, doing your best to keep up.

“So then I told Johnny it wasn’t cheating, because technically the hose wasn’t loaded yet, and—” He stopped suddenly. “You’re not listening.”

“I am,” you said, smiling weakly. “There was a hose and a rake. Some kind of epic betrayal.”

He gave a dramatic sigh, but forgave you with the ease of a ten-year-old already onto the next story.

You were saved by the soft clink of a mug being set down.

Miss Sinclair, stepped into the room holding two mugs. One she handed to you.

“Tea,” she said. “Didn’t have hot chocolate, but it’s sweet. Figured you needed something warm.”

You took it with both hands, grateful for the heat seeping into your fingers. “Tea's perfect, thank you, Miss Sinclair.”

She gave the barest flicker of a smile and sat across from you on the edge of the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, mug resting neatly in her lap.

Willy, meanwhile, had taken over again, launching into a dramatic retelling of the time he “accidentally on purpose” fell off the dock and swam all the way to the buoy and back just to prove a point to someone named Noah. You weren’t sure who Noah was, but apparently, he was “a doubter” and also “probably jealous.”

You offered the occasional nod and hum, but your eyes kept drifting back to Miss Sinclair, quiet, composed, thought perhaps a bit bohemian, watching the scene unfold like she was used to this exact kind of chaos.

After a moment, she said gently, “The family boat can take you back to Cousins, but it might be a little while. The driver’s making some arrangements.”

You nodded, brushing a wet strand of hair off your face, the towel now resting across your lap like a safety net. “I don’t mind waiting. As long as I’m welcome.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “You are.”

Before you could say anything else, Willy shot up from the floor like he’d been waiting for permission to explode.

"Yes! Let’s play a board game!” he shouted, already halfway to the hall. “I’ll get Johnny!”

You barely had time to open your mouth before he was gone, his voice echoing down the corridor. “JOHNNY! WE NEED YOU! IT’S IMPORTANT!”

You glanced back at her, Miss Sinclair, still nameless and caught the subtle twitch of her lip. Amusement, maybe, maybe exasperation. It was hard to tell with people like her.

“I’m sorry,” you said automatically, not even sure for what.

“Don’t be.” She sipped her tea, composed as ever. “He’s been… stuck here with nothing much to do, adrift in a way. Having you here, however unexpected, feels like a little joy I didn’t know he needed”

You blinked at that, surprised not just by the words, but by the softness behind them. It wasn’t warm exactly, but it wasn’t cold either, like she’d momentarily let the curtain slip.

You grinned at her, maybe a tad awkward from not really knowing what to say, “I’m glad I could help. Even if I did arrive by shipwreck.”

She actually laughed at that, just once, low and surprised, like it had snuck up on her.

Before anything else could be said, Johnny reappeared, wordless and resigned, setting the Monopoly box on the coffee table with the same energy someone might use to place a coffin and Willy trailing behind him like an overly enthusiastic shadow.

Willy plopped down on the floor. “Okay, ground rules,” he declared, fanning the colorful bills the way magicians fan cards. “No hoarding railroads, no making Mom bail you out, and the loser has to do a victory dance of shame.”

Johnny sat down wordlessly on the floor, starting to set up the board like this was just another Tuesday.

You followed, towel still loosely wrapped around you, settling cross-legged at the coffee table. The steam from your tea curled between you and the boy who had fished you out of the water like he hadn’t once planned on speaking to you again.

As Willy was handing out money with reckless abandon, Miss Sinclair rose from the sofa.

“I’ll leave you to it. Shout if you need snacks.” Her gaze met yours for a heartbeat: You good? The warmth behind it surprised you, so you nodded. She disappeared down the hall, soft footfalls fading into the house.

You curl your legs under you, the towel still damp around your waist, and reach for the dog token before Willy could claim it. He gasped like you’d stolen a sacred artefact.

“Oh, it’s on,” he whispered dramatically. “Roll for first!”

The dice tumbled. Johnny’s landed on a two; yours on double sixes. Willy whooped, announcing you the starting player and spinning the board so GO pointed your way.

“Lucky,” he muttered, mock-grumbling as he counted out your starter cash.

You moved the dog two spaces and landed on Baltic Avenue. You grimaced at the watery smudge still creeping along your sleeve. “Guess my luck’s turning around.”

“Don’t speak too soon,” Johnny said, voice low but finally aimed at you. “Baltic’s a money pit.”

You raised a brow. “You sound like you know from experience.”

He shrugged, eyes on the dice. “Some things you learn the hard way.”

Any silence pricked the air. Willy filled it by narrating every move like a sportscaster: “AND THE CROWD GOES WILD AS JOHNNY ROLLS A FOUR—ADVANCING TO THE MOST OVERRATED UTILITY ON THE BOARD!”

He was in full showman mode, and you played along, not because you were dying to dominate Monopoly, but because Willy’s enthusiasm was oddly contagious, and maybe, deep down, you figured the distraction was doing you good too.

“And I will build TWO houses on Boardwalk,” Willy declared, nearly knocking over your tea with the force of his slam. “Your move, shipwreck girl.”

You feigned deep contemplation. “I don’t know… I feel like I should consult my lawyer.”

Willy gasped. “There are no lawyers in Monopoly! Only the strong survive!”

You glanced over at Johnny, who was still half-slouched, but now watching you both with that almost-hidden flicker of amusement in his eyes.

A few rounds later, he finally spoke. “You can’t put hotels on Reading Railroad, dumbass.”

Willy froze mid-action. “You just cursed.”

“You’re breaking the entire economy,” Johnny said, snatching the tiny red hotel out of Willy’s hand and flicking it onto the pile. “It’s like watching capitalism cry.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So you are paying attention.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t say I wasn’t.”

A few circuits later, Willy built two houses on Baltic just to say he’d “gentrified the cheap side.” When Johnny landed there, he groaned, flopped backward, and called the whole game corrupt. But then Willy started chanting, “Cap-tain Waf-fle! Cap-tain Waf-fle!” and it was impossible not to laugh, especially when you joined the chant, beating a soft drumroll on the coffee table. Johnny’s shoulders shook, an actual laugh, quiet, rusty, like he’d forgotten the mechanics, but undeniably real.

He sat up straighter after that.

Then came the bidding war for the last railroad. Johnny, suddenly animated, slammed the thimble down as a “hand grenade bid.” You and Willy burst into dramatic screams. Miss Sinclair paused in the doorway, eyebrow raised, but the corner of her mouth lifted before she disappeared again, no doubt grateful the ghosts had been replaced by shrieking children.

By the hour mark, Johnny was leaning forward, elbows on knees, eyes sharp in a way that felt… alive. He ribbed Willy for buying houses on St. James instead of investing in utilities (“Diversify, Captain Waffle, come on!”). He side-whispered strategies to Willy, half conspiracies, half trash talk, and when you accused the two of collusion, Johnny actually grinned: broad, teeth showing.

He was... handsome.

The towel around your waist slipped sometime during all the commotion; you barely noticed. Your tea went cold; nobody cared. The living room echoed with dice rattles, triumphant shrieks, catastrophic groans and every time Johnny cracked another sarcastic jab, the air felt lighter.

When Willy finally bankrupt-spiraled on your hotel-heavy orange set, he collapsed backward, hands to heart, tongue lolling for dramatic death. Johnny applauded the performance.

“Guess the shipwreck girl’s pretty ruthless,” he said, eyes catching yours for half a breath.

“Guess the thimble isn’t as harmless as it looks,” you fired back.

He huffed a laugh, no brood in sight now, just a faint flush of adrenaline and amusement.

Willy popped upright, already resetting pieces. “Best two out of three?”

Miss Sinclair returned with a fresh pot of tea, arching a brow at Johnny’s now-animated state. He just shrugged, as if it were no big deal that a drenched stranger and an over-caffeinated ten-year-old had dragged him out of the fog, even if for a little while.

She then called your name, “The boat’s ready.”

You blinked, standing a little too fast. The towel slipped again, your legs stiff from sitting cross-legged too long. “Oh—right. Thank you.”

Willy let out a groan so loud you winced.

“Noooo,” he whined, flopping backward onto the rug again. “She just got here! Can’t she stay? Or—or come back tomorrow? Please?”

Miss Sinclair gave him a look. “Willy—”

“No, really! I was having fun!” He turned to you, eyes wide with genuine, kid-level heartbreak. “You will come back, right?”

You opened your mouth—probably to say something neutral and noncommittal—but then Miss Sinclair looked at you in that quiet, assessing way again and said, casually, like she hadn’t been planning it all along:

“Well, if you’re going to be around Cousins for the summer… maybe you’d consider watching him a few days a week? He’s got more energy than the rest of us combined and clearly adores you.”

You blinked. “I—uh…”

“She means babysitter,” Johnny said dryly, not looking up from the mess of Monopoly money he was now organizing by color.

“I know what she meant,” you shot back, too surprised to filter.

Miss Sinclair’s expression didn’t shift much, just the slightest arch of an eyebrow, like she’d already expected the sass. “I’ll pay you, of course. Something fair.”

"Please please pleaseee," Willy was all but throwing the most vicious puppy dog eyes you've ever seen, second only to Belly's.

You hesitated, thought you really wanted to say yes because you now needed money for a new camera and probably a new phone too, and shifted the towel more securely around your waist. “I… if the hours are flexible, I could.”

It felt rude to even suggest a condition, especially standing there in her house, still damp from the ocean and halfway into a board game coma but you had to.

“You see, my mom signed me up to be a debutante at the club this summer and—”

Johnny, who had just managed to fit the Monopoly lid back on the box, snorted. “A debutant?”

You turned to him, brows raised. “You say that like I admitted to ritual sacrifice.”

He leaned back against the couch, arms crossed, lips twitching. “No, it’s just... unexpected. You don’t seem the type.”

Heat prickles across your cheeks. “Yeah, shocker—I’m multidimensional.”

“That means what I think it means?” Willy asks, eyes huge. “Like, gowns and fancy dances and learning how to balance books on your head?”

You nodded. “Pretty much."

“The hours will be as flexible as you need,” Miss Sinclair said, as she drinks more tea. “You can work around rehearsals, fittings, whatever. We’ll make it fit.”

You exhale. “Okay, then—yes. I’d like that.”

Willy lit up again like a firework. “Yesss!! You can come tomorrow and we’ll play every game and maybe explore the other side of the island—wait, do you like treasure maps?!”

You laughed, genuinely caught off guard. “I guess I do now?”

Johnny shook his head, but this time when he looked at you, the smirk stayed a little longer. “You’re gonna regret this.”

You met his eyes. “Probably. But not as much as you’re gonna regret landing on my hotels next time.”

He chuckled and rolled his eyes before standing up, brushing imaginary dust from his jeans like the last hour hadn’t completely betrayed his broody mystique.

“You talk a big game for someone who mortgaged half their properties to buy a single orange set,” he said, tossing the thimble back into the box with casual aim.

“That single orange set ended your capitalist empire, and you know it,” you called after him.

Willy scrambled up between you both, arms flapping like wings. “Okay! New plan! Tomorrow we play Life or Clue or Battleship. Ooh, pirate Battleship—”

“Slow down, Captain Waffle,” you said, ruffling his hair.

“I’m serious,” he insisted. “I’m gonna draw up a whole schedule. Color-coded and everything.”

“Oh god,” Johnny muttered from the doorway, but you caught the smile before he could hide it.

Miss Sinclair watched the exchange between you and her sons with that ever-intrigued but measured expression. “We’ll send the boat for you around ten. If that works?”

You nodded, heart still strangely buoyant. “Ten works.”

She extended a hand, firm, businesslike, but not cold. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, Miss Sinclair. Actually,” you added, a little breathless, like the whole day was still catching up to you.

Her eyes crinkled slightly at the edges, just enough to register as something warmer than polite approval. Then she stepped back, nodding once.

Behind you, Willy was already listing tomorrow’s itinerary at lightning speed (“First we battle, then we snack, then we craft weapons—not real ones, I promise, Mom—then maybe make Johnny wear a crown—”), and Johnny was pretending not to hear a word of it, arms crossed and expression unreadable.

But when you turned to go, he said, offhandedly, “Try not to trash any more boats tonight, debutant.”

“Do try to watch more movies, Richie,” you called, dragging the name out just enough to make it sting playfully.

That caught him. His head tilted slightly, and there it was, that barely-there smirk, the one he probably didn’t even know he was wearing.

And you left that house dripping in the low late afternoon sun, exhausted, still a little sunburned and a lot overwhelmed, but lighter, somehow.

By the time you reached Cousins, the sky was blushing into gold, and the beach was alive again, towels scattered, the faint scent of grilled something in the air, and your bike still chained up exactly where you left it, as if the day hadn’t completely unraveled and reassembled your world.

You biked back fast, wind drying your curls and kicking up little streaks of sand on your calves. Your heart beat a little louder the closer you got to the house.

You flung the front door open with a bang, footsteps echoing through the sun-warmed hallway as you stepped into the kitchen, your mom, your brothers, Lauren, Steven and Belly. The room was warm, loud, chaotic in that Fisher-summer kind of way, with someone opening a bottle of soda too fast and Steven yelling about something on the stove.

As soon as you stepped inside, the screen door banging shut behind you, your mom turned from the kitchen sink, eyes going wide as she took in your rumpled clothes, tangled hair, and the towel still clinging to your waist like a badge of shame.

“Y/N Fisher, where in God’s name were you? I was two seconds away from calling the sheriff.”

The whole kitchen fell silent. Belly looked up from her drink. Steven froze mid–chip bite. Lauren paused mid-sentence. Your brothers turned in unison like they were part of a synchronized panic team.

"Don't tell me you actually fell in the water?" Said Conrad, that even in his mocking, there was relief to see you home.

You just grinned, stepping fully into the chaos like it was your stage. “You all won’t believe what just happened to me.”

And with that, your summer officially began.

Part 2 - Part 3

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