What Once Was!
Season 2: Birthday girl!
Johnny Sinclair x Fisher femreader!!
AU where Johnny is the one who lived instead of Candace and Beachwood is a near Cousins. TSITPXWWL AU
Masterlist S1
Prologue - 1 - 2 - 3
You lift the camera again, squinting through the little square viewfinder.
“Hold still,” you say automatically, already backing up a step to get them both in frame.
Jeremiah groans. “You’ve taken like twelve already.”
“Twelve blurry ones,” you shoot back, squinting at the screen. “Blake blinked in three and you were making a face in the rest.”
Blake laughs softly beside him, smoothing a hand over the skirt of her dress. It’s dark blue, almost midnight-colored. Jeremiah stands next to her in a tux that fits him suspiciously well for someone who usually lives in hoodies and flip-flops.
Behind them, the living room is warm and bright, lamps on, music low in the background, the faint smell of your mom's perfume drifting through the air.
She is standing a few feet away, leaning against the arm of the couch with a soft smile that says she’s already memorising this moment.
“Oh, this one’s the good one,” she says gently.
You shift the camera in your hands, squinting through the viewfinder as you study them critically.
“Blake, chin up a little, and Jere, stop leaning like that,” you say, lowering the camera just enough to glare at him. “You look like a crooked lamppost.”
Jeremiah straightens slightly, but only a little, clearly not convinced.
“It’s a pose,” he insists, trying to angle himself again like he’s on the cover of some imaginary magazine.
“A disaster, you mean,” you shoot back, lifting the camera again.
Blake snorts beside him as you adjust the focus, steady your hands, and press the button. The flash pops, bright enough that Jeremiah immediately recoils, blinking hard.
“Jesus, ow!” he groans, rubbing his eyes dramatically. “You’re blinding the future prom king.”
You lower the camera and give him a flat look. “You are not prom king.”
“Yet,” he corrects smugly, pointing a finger at you like you’ve just confirmed his destiny.
Blake laughs again, bumping his shoulder into Jeremiah’s. “He’s been saying that all week,”
Jeremiah doesn’t even try to deny it.
You roll your eyes but can’t help the smile tugging at your mouth as you lift the camera again.
“Alright, alright. Last one, so stand still this time.”
“Tell him that,” Blake says, nudging Jeremiah again.
“I am standing still,” Jeremiah protests, though he immediately shifts his weight again like he physically can’t help himself.
You sigh like a very tired professional photographer.
“Unbelievable,” you mutter, adjusting the focus again. “People pay good money for this kind of service, you know.”
“Good thing you’re doing it for free,” Jeremiah shoots back.
You pause just long enough to give him the most exaggerated, sarcastic grin you can manage, letting out a dramatic, fake little laugh, then you raise the camera again and snap the picture.
From behind you, your mom lets out a soft, warm laugh, the kind that carries that unmistakable note of fondness.
“Oh, they look so handsome,” she says, clearly charmed by the sight of them all dressed up.
Jeremiah immediately groans. “Mom.” But it’s impossible to take the protest seriously when he’s grinning so wide it nearly splits his face, if anything, he looks proud of himself.
Mommy’s boy, always has been.
At last, you take one final picture and lower the camera and glance at the screen, scrolling through the shots with your thumb. Your favorite is the one where your brother's leaning just enough toward Blake that they look natural instead of stiff.
Your mom steps forward then, the way mothers always seem to do at moments like this, unable to resist making one last round of adjustments and smooths down Jeremiah’s lapel, straightening it with careful fingers, then brushes at Blake’s shoulder, picking off imaginary lint that definitely wasn’t there.
“Take lots of pictures,” she says warmly, stepping back to admire them again. “And text me when you get there.”
“We will,” Blake promises gently, her voice soft but sincere.
Jeremiah leans down as your mom presses a quick kiss to his cheek, he doesn’t protest this time, just grins, all bright teeth and easy charm.
Then he looks over at you, and immediately the grin turns mischievous. “Happy birthday, loser.”
You give him the tightest, most sarcastic smile you can manage.
“Thank you,” you say sweetly, your tone dripping with fake gratitude. “Now get out.”
Jeremiah laughs, delighted with himself. The sound fills the entryway as he takes a few slow steps backwards toward the door, hands raised in mock surrender, still grinning, while Blake tugs lightly at his arm as if to remind him they’re already running late.
Your mom laughs softly behind you, clearly enjoying the whole scene far more than she should. "Have fun you two... but not too much!"
Jeremiah snorts at that as he finally reaches the door, one hand already on the handle and pulls it open, and the cool evening air slips into the house, carrying with it the faint sounds of a quiet neighbourhood night, cars passing somewhere down the street, music drifting faintly from a house a few doors away.
Blake steps out first, straightening his jacket as he moves onto the porch, glancing down for a second, making sure everything still looks right, he turns back toward you and grins.
“Happy birthday, Y/N!”
“Thanks,” you say, smiling back, waving your hand at him like you’re shooing him away. “Now off you go.”
Jeremiah grins wider, clearly pleased with the reaction, and lifts his hand in an exaggerated, dramatic salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
Blake chuckles from the porch, giving Jeremiah a light nudge with his shoulder like 'come on already', before heading down the steps toward the car.
Jeremiah finally turns to follow him, jogging a couple of steps to catch up as the two of them head down the walkway.
The door swings shut a moment later with a soft thud and it’s just you and your mom.
She watches the door for a moment, like she’s making sure they actually left, before she turns to you with a small smile and slips an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into a gentle side hug, squeezing you lightly.
After a moment she tilts her head slightly, studying you.
“You know,” she says gently, “it’s not too late if you decide you want to go.”
You huff a quiet laugh as she pulls back just enough to look at you properly, one eyebrow lifting a little and continues, clearly already picturing it. “I’m sure you’ve got something in your closet that could work. And if not, you could always use one of my dresses.”
You let out a small laugh at that. “Mom.”
“I’m serious, we could do your makeup real nice, curl your hair a little—”
“Mom.”
She stops, though the hopeful look doesn’t quite disappear.
“It’s fine, I went last year. It’s really not that special,” you say, shrugging a little.
Your mom gives you a look then, the kind that says she doesn’t fully believe you, or maybe just wishes you wanted more for yourself tonight, but she doesn’t push, only smooths a hand over your arm.
“Well,” she says, drawing the word out as she shifts gears, “if you’ve decided you’re skipping prom, and and if you also insist on refusing a party for your eighteenth birthday—”
You glance at her, narrowing your eyes a little at the accusation in her tone.
“—then I think I should at least be allowed to spoil you in some other way. What do you say to me making your favorite dinner tonight?”
You turn toward her properly now, the corners of your mouth lifting almost instantly, a grin breaking through before you can stop it.
“That depends,” you say, suspicion and delight mixing in your voice.
She laughs. “Depends on what?”
“Depends on whether I get full dessert privileges.” Grinning back.
Your mom arches an eyebrow, already amused. “Full dessert privileges?”
“Yes,” you say, nodding like this is a perfectly reasonable negotiation. “Meaning cookies, and cake. Not one or the other, both.”
That earns a proper laugh from her, the kind that always fills the hallway. “Both? On the same night?”
“It’s my birthday,” you point out, like that settles everything. “I feel that’s a fair and just request.”
“Oh, naturally, how could I possibly deny such a compelling argument?” she says, playing along.
You grin wider now, the earlier heaviness lifting almost completely.
“So that’s a yes?”
She gives you a look like you already know the answer. “Yes, that’s a yes. You can bake cookies and a cake, and I’ll make dinner.”
Your face brightens immediately, and this time there’s no hiding how pleased you are.
“Okay,” you say, a little more eagerly than you meant to. “Yeah, deal, dear mother.”
Your mom laughs softly at the dramatic title, clearly pleased anyway. She squeezes your shoulder once more before turning toward the kitchen.
“Alright then,” she says as she walks ahead of you, “my baby girl gets her feast tonight.”
You roll your eyes at that but follow her anyway, setting the camera carefully on the little hallway table as you pass, the house feels warmer now, more alive again as the two of you drift toward the kitchen.
Soon the quiet is replaced by the familiar sounds of cooking.
Cabinets opening, drawers sliding, the soft clatter of bowls being set on the counter.
You end up on opposite sides of the kitchen like you often do, your mom at the stove pulling ingredients out of the fridge while you claim the baking side of the counter.
Flour, sugar, chocolate chips, eggs.
“So,” your mom says casually as she ties her apron, glancing over at you. “Eighteen years old.”
You make a face as you pull a mixing bowl down from the cabinet. “Don’t start.”
She chuckles, pulling a pan from the cupboard. “I’m just saying, it feels like yesterday you were barely tall enough to reach the counter.”
“Pretty sure that was last year,” you reply, grabbing the bag of flour and setting it beside the bowl.
You start gathering the rest of what you need, opening drawers for measuring cups and spoons, pulling butter from the fridge and setting it beside the mixing bowl. Soon your side of the counter looks like a small baking explosion waiting to happen.
Your mom begins chopping something at the other counter while the stove warms up, and the two of you talk back and forth easily across the kitchen.
“What are we baking first? The cookies or the cake?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder at you.
You lean against the counter for a second, pretending to think hard about it. “Cookies, because if the cake fails, at least we still have cookies.”
Your mom laughs, shaking her head as she pulls things out of the fridge.
“That is a very practical strategy.”
“Thank you, mother,” you reply with a dramatic little grin.
You grab one of the many aprons hanging off the side hook by the pantry door, one of the ridiculous ones your mom has collected over the years, this one reads Grill Daddy in big looping letters.
You pause for a second, holding it up.
Right, this one’s not technically hers.
It used to be your dad’s, back from when he still lived here, when some weekends meant him dragging the grill out to the backyard and inviting half his office over for loud cookouts that lasted until well after sunset, he used to wear the apron like it was some kind of badge of honor, flipping burgers and hot dogs like he was hosting a cooking show.
You remember the message he sent you earlier today.
Happy 18th, babygirl. Proud of you.
There’d been flowers too, a bouquet delivered that morning, still sitting in a glass vase on the dining table.
You stare at the apron for another second, then you sigh quietly and tie it around your waist. Sometimes you can’t stand the man, other times… It’s more complicated than that.
You smooth the fabric down over your shirt like it’s just any other apron.
“I pride myself on my foresight,” you say lightly, patting the front of it like it’s part of a professional uniform.
Your mom glances over at you and shakes her head, amused. “Of course you do.”
The kitchen settles into a comfortable rhythm after that. Cabinets open and close, bowls clink against the counter, the soft scrape of a knife against a cutting board fills the room as your mom starts preparing dinner.
A beat of quiet passes before your mom speaks again.
“You’re really not even a little sad about missing the dance?” she asks, focused on what she’s chopping.
You shrug, cracking the egg open and letting it slide into the bowl with a soft plop.
“I mean… not really,” you say, wiping your hands on the apron. “I already went last year. It’s basically the same thing again, same music, same decorations, same awkward dancing. It’s fine, most of my friends graduated with Connie anyway.”
She hums thoughtfully, though she doesn’t argue.
“Well,” she says after a moment, “their loss.”
You grin a little at that and start measuring flour into the bowl, leveling the cup carefully against the edge. “Exactly.”
The kitchen slowly fills with the quiet music of cooking and baking, the scrape of the whisk against the bowl, the soft thump of a cupboard closing, the faint sizzle beginning from the pan heating on the stove, the smell of butter warming in the air starts to spread through the room.
You’re just about to reach for the vanilla when—
Ding-dong.
The doorbell rings, the sound cuts clean through the kitchen, causing both you and your mom to pause.
Your whisk hovers over the bowl mid-stir while she stops in the middle of slicing something on the cutting board.
You glance toward the hallway, your brow furrowing slightly.
“Were you expecting someone?” she asks, looking over at you.
You shake your head slowly, a little puzzled. “No…”
The doorbell doesn’t ring again, but the silence that follows suddenly feels a little curious. It’s probably Amazon, honestly... or Conrad, even though you told him not to come tonight.
You know your brother, if he decided he was going to drop by for your birthday, there’s a very good chance he ignored whatever you said and showed up anyway with some last-minute gift and that annoying “I was in the neighborhood” excuse he usually uses.
Your mom wipes her hands lightly on the kitchen towel hanging from the oven handle.
“I’ll get it,” she says, already stepping away from the counter.
You nod absently, watching her disappear down the hallway toward the front door, then glance toward the little speaker sitting on the kitchen counter, one of those small wireless ones your mom uses all the time, and reach over to tap your phone, connecting to it.
A moment later, music fills the kitchen. Waterloo Mamma Mia's version, obviously.
The opening beat bursts through the speaker, instantly filling the quiet space that had settled after the doorbell.
You smile faintly and turn back to the bowl, whisk moving through the batter again, from the hallway, you can faintly hear the front door open, voices follow, you can’t quite make out the words, just the low murmur of conversation drifting down the hallway while you stir.
The music gets louder as the chorus builds, and a second later, your shoulders begin swaying just a bit, because how can you hear the Mamma Mia soundtrack without a little shoulder shimmy?
You hum along under your breath as you mix the batter, moving your hips slightly with the rhythm while you reach for the vanilla bottle.
My, my At Waterloo, Napoleon did surrender Oh, yeah And I have met my destiny in quite a similar way
You pour a splash in without measuring and keep stirring, and mom’s voice, which carries down the hallway, slightly muffled by distance and music.
You barely register it.
You toss chocolate chips into the bowl, folding them into the dough with a wooden spoon now, the music growing louder as the next part of the song kicks in.
Waterloo Couldn't escape if I wanted to Waterloo Knowing my fate is to be with you
You grin, pointing the spoon toward the speaker like you’re performing to an audience of absolutely no one.
My, my I tried to hold you back, but you were stronger Oh, yeah And now it seems my only chance is giving up the fight
And how could I ever refuse I feel like I win when I lose
It smells like vanilla and butter now, that unmistakable sweet smell of cookie dough coming together.
You spin slightly on your heel as you reach for the bag of brown sugar, the saxophone bursts through the speaker, and you lean into it, doing a small dramatic sway of your shoulders because if ABBA demands a performance, you deliver.
Wa-Wa-Wa-Wa-WaterlooFinally facing my Waterloo
Behind you, somewhere down the hallway, you hear the faint sound of the front door closing, you barely notice, the music is louder. You grin using the spoon like it’s a microphone.
Ooh-ooh, Waterloo Knowing my fate is to be with you
You tap the spoon against the bowl in rhythm, completely absorbed in your very serious baking-and-singing routine.
Ooh-ooh, Waterloo…
“Honey,” your mom’s voice calls gently from the doorway.
You keep singing for half a second longer as she continue.
“Look who dropped by.”
You turn automatically, still mid-lyric.
Knowing my fate is to be with you—
Oh.
Standing a few feet away, just inside the kitchen entrance is Johnny Sinclair Dennis.
Finally facing my Waterloo...
You stare at him, and of course he stares back, his eyes, though, move briefly, from your face… to the spoon… to the apron… then back to your face again.
His lips flatten, and for a second, he looks like he might keep it together, then the corner of his mouth twitches; he’s clearly losing the fight not to laugh.
The last time you’d seen him was over FaceTime a couple nights ago, one of those “studying late” calls that hadn’t really involved much studying at all.
You slowly clear your throat, lowering the spoon fully now. “…Hi,”
Johnny exhales a quiet laugh through his nose, his eyes flick to the speaker, that's now playing Super Trouper, then back to you again.
“…ABBA?” he says lightly.
You shrug like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Obviously.”
You wipe your hands on the apron before narrowing your eyes at him slightly, tilting your head “What are you doing here, weirdo?”
Johnny grins immediately, like he’d been waiting for that exact response, one shoulder lifts in a casual shrug. “Your birthday, isn’t it?”
“Yeah…” you say slowly, suspicion creeping into your voice as your eyes narrow a little more. “But I never told you where I lived.”
Johnny rocks back slightly on his heels, looking far too pleased with himself. “I may have asked your brother for help.”
Your eyebrows shoot up instantly.
“Which brother?” you ask flatly. “So I know who to castrate.”
Johnny grins and lifts both hands slightly in surrender, still smiling.
“I’m not telling you.”
You open your mouth to push further when a voice cuts through the moment.
“Oh, come on, Y/N.”
Your mom finally steps fully into the kitchen, clearly having enjoyed the entire exchange from the doorway far longer than she probably should have. She walks back toward the counter where she’d been cooking earlier, giving you a mildly disapproving look as she picks up the knife again and resumes chopping the vegetables she abandoned.
“We don’t treat guests like that, I thought you were raised better.”
“Guest?” you repeat.
Your mom doesn’t even look up from the cutting board. “Well, yes, he’s staying for dinner and dessert, a birthday dinner should have guests.”
She nods once toward Johnny, the decision has already been finalised. “Aren’t you, Johnny?”
Johnny, who looks mildly entertained and a little surprised by how quickly he’s been absorbed into the evening, glances between the two of you before giving your mom an easy smile.
“Well, if I’m invited, Mrs Fisher.”
“Course you are,” she replies immediately with a smile, the kind one your mother always has and people love.
The music from the speaker continues quietly in the background, another ABBA song humming softly under the conversation, while the cookie dough sits forgotten on the counter.
You look between the two of them, then let out a short, incredulous laugh. Not that you mind Johnny being here, far from it, but you had honestly assumed the early birthday text he sent that morning was the extent of it.
You tilt your head toward the row of aprons hanging nearby.
“Fine, but if you’re staying, you’re working.” Your eyes flick back to him with a small, challenging smile. “Aprons are right there, pick one, Johnny boy.”
He follows the direction of your nod, turning to inspect the line of aprons hanging neatly against the wall.
“Huh,” he murmurs.
“Don’t get overwhelmed, it’s just fabric.”
Johnny glances back at you, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Some of us take these decisions seriously.”
Your mom lets out a quiet laugh from the cutting board without even looking up.
Johnny finally pulls one free from the hook, holding it up for inspection before slipping the strap over his head. It’s slightly too small for him, sitting a bit higher on his torso than intended, but he doesn’t seem to care.
He smooths the front of it down with both hands, then looks up at you.
“Well?” he asks lightly, the edge of teasing unmistakable now. “Do I pass inspection?”
Kiss the Cook.
Of course it is.
For a moment, you just stare at it, lips pressed together, biting lightly at the inside of your cheek as you fight the very real urge to smile. Your eyes lift slowly...
Johnny is already looking at you, and he’s grinning, that smug, crooked little grin that not only drives you insane but says he’s fully aware of what’s happening here and is enjoying every second of it.
Little shit.
“Well?” he asks, completely innocent.
Before you can answer, your mom turns around from the counter, knife still in hand.
“Oh!” she says brightly the moment she spots the apron. Her face lights up with delight. “That one is one of my favorite.”
Thank you, Mom, truly, nothing like a little public commentary to give you a moment to quietly exhale and question your life choices.
Johnny glances down at the words again, he’s only just innocently, realising what they say, then looks back up at her.
“Is it?” he asks politely.
“Yes!” she says, nodding enthusiastically. “I bought that one years ago at a little shop near the pier. I always forget we still have it. Glad you brought it out of retirement.”
"Its my pleasure, Mrs Fisher," He looks at you, and there it is again, that stupid, crooked grin slowly pulling at the corner of his mouth.
You try to keep a straight face, like you really do, but your own grin sneaks back before you can stop it, forcing you to turn away quickly and focus very hard on the bowl of dough in front of you. You pick up the spoon again, stirring with unnecessary dedication, like the fate of the entire cake depends on it.
Behind you, your mom waves a hand dismissively.
“Oh, call me Susannah,” she says warmly.
Johnny laughs softly at that. “Susannah it is, then.”
She beams at that, clearly pleased, before turning back to her cutting board, humming softly to the song.
Johnny shifts a little closer to the counter beside you, resting one hand lightly on the edge near where you’re working. The movement is casual, simply getting comfortable, but it puts him close enough that you’re suddenly very aware of him there.
“Well,” he says, gesturing faintly toward the spread of ingredients on the counter, “what’s my assignment, chef?”
You glance sideways at him, grin mirroring his, same crooked edge, same barely contained amusement, and you wordlessly push the bag of chocolate chips across the counter toward him.
Johnny looks down at it, then back at you.
“…White chocolate chips,”
“Yes,” you say patiently, like you’re explaining something obvious.
He picks the bag up, turning it over once in his hands. “And my task is…?”
“Fold those in properly,” you say, nodding toward the bowl. “And don’t eat half of them.”
Johnny looks mildly offended. “I wouldn’t—”
You watch him pop one immediately into his mouth and let out a laugh before you can stop yourself. “Unbelievable.”
“What?” he says through the chocolate, completely unapologetic.
You shake your head, still grinning, and nudge his shoulder lightly with your elbow. “You lasted two seconds.”
“Quality control,” he says, already reaching for the spoon.
He nudges you back in return and begins doing exactly what you told him, folding the chips carefully into the dough, suddenly become the most obedient kitchen assistant in existence.
Johnny works the spoon through the dough, turning it over, making sure the chips disappear into the mixture instead of clumping together.
The kitchen slowly settles into that warm, busy rhythm that always seems to happen when people cook together.
Flour dusts the counter in soft white patches, bowls clink, the mixer whirs for a few seconds before your mom turns it off again, at some point the music from the living room drifts in faintly, something old and cheerful, the kind of song your mom always plays when she paints.
You roll dough between your hands and drop the cookie balls onto the tray.
Johnny stands beside you, carefully measuring flour like this is a very serious scientific experiment.
“You’re overthinking it,” you tell him.
“I’m not,” he says, leveling the measuring cup with intense concentration. “Baking is precise, isnt it? Thats what my grandmother used to say.”
Across the counter Susannah stirs a pot, the smell of garlic and butter filling the room as she works on your favorite dinner. Every once in a while she glances over at the two of you with the quiet, satisfied smile of someone who is enjoying the scene far more than she lets on.
Johnny pours the flour into the bowl.
A small puff of it rises immediately.
You cough, waving away some flour “Nice,”
“Not my fault,” he says.
“You dumped it.”
“Dumpted it? Oh, it was enthusiastic pouring.”
You laugh, grabbing the spoon again and stirring while he watches, leaning his hip against the counter, a few minutes later the cookies are sliding into the oven.
Johnny crouches down beside you while you push the tray in and asks “So that’s it?”
“You wait.” You told him with grin, amused.,
“That’s the whole job?”
“For cookies, yes.”
He looks disappointed. “That’s anticlimactic.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” you say, straightening. “You’ll get another chance to prove your culinary genius.”
Johnny raises an eyebrow as you dust your hands together and gesture toward the counter behind him, where the chaos of baking still sits, flour, bowls, the empty bag of white chocolate chips, and the half-mixed frosting waiting its turn.
“We still have a cake,” you say.
The oven door shuts with a soft thump, and a few minutes later the cake batter is ready.
You hold the bowl while Johnny scrapes the sides with the spatula, carefully getting every last bit.
“You’re taking that very seriously.”
“I don’t want to ruin your birthday cake,” he says, completely earnest, sending you a small look.
You pause for a second at that, grinning, that warm feeling in your chest comes out, as it usually does when you're around him, then quickly look back at the bowl. “Well… good.”
Susannah walks past and taps his shoulder lightly. “Johnny, sweetheart, if you keep scraping like that you’ll earn permanent kitchen privileges.”
Johnny looks up. “Am I supposed to I that that as a threat or an invitation?”
She laughs as she opens the fridge, “Depends if you behave.”
Eventually, the cake goes into the oven beside the cookies, Johnny stands beside you, looking around like he’s taking in the whole scene, the messy counter, warm light, the smell of dinner cooking and quiet clatter of your mom as she went to put the table.
He exhales softly through his nose, then after a moment “You know, this is the first time I’ve ever actually baked anything.”
You turn your head toward him. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
You blink at him, you shouldn’t be surprise knowing how he grew up, but alas, “Not even like… cookies as a kid?”
“Nope.” Johnny shrugs grinning at bit.
You huff a laugh, nodding and glance at the oven. “Well then congratulations, you’re officially a baker now, Johnnyboy.”
Johnny looks you, oddly pleased by that, “Thank you, its really an honor.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.” You smirk as you say it, leaning your hip against the counter, arms loosely folded, watching him like you’re already expecting him to fail at something.
Johnny’s grin lingered, softer than smug now, he leans back against the counter beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost brush, the Kiss the Cook apron sitting ridiculously well on him in a way that annoys you on principle.
“Bit late for that,” he says, looks over at you. “I think making your birthday cake’s already done terrible things to my confidence.”
You huff a laugh, looking away before your smile gets too obvious just how much you liked his eyes on you.
By the time everyone finally sat down, the kitchen had mostly recovered from the disaster you and Johnny had made of it.
Mostly.
A thin line of flour still clung to the edge of the counter, and there was a streak of frosting by the sink, leftover evidence of the near brawl you and Johnny had gotten into over decorating the cake, which he’d only won by resorting to tickling. The cooling rack by the stove was already packed with cookies, the smell of them filling the whole kitchen.
The cake, though, sat undisturbed beneath a clean dish towel, saved for later, your mom insisting that birthdays were meant to be taken slowly.
The dining table, meanwhile, looked like she had been planning this all week instead of deciding it half an hour ago.
Your favorite dinner was set out in the middle, still steaming slightly, with serving spoons tucked into every dish and your mom’s good plates pulled from the cabinet. There were folded napkins, candles she had actually lit, and the flowers your dad had sent that morning sitting in their vase near the far end of the table.
You had tried not to look at them too much. Johnny noticed anyway, but he didn’t say anything.
He just pulled out his chair beside you, and sat down like he hadn’t completely invaded your birthday dinner and been adopted within fifteen minutes.
“So,” she said brightly, setting the last bowl onto the table before taking her seat. “Did Y/N tell you she used to have the chubbiest little cheeks when she was small?”
Your fork stopped halfway to your plate.
Johnny’s eyes flicked to you immediately, a slow smile started pulling at his mouth.
You pointed your fork at your mom. “No.”
Your mom blinked innocently. “No what?”
“No embarrassing stories.”
Johnny leaned back a little, suddenly far too invested, which made you regret every decision that had led to him sitting at your kitchen table.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, voice mild but amused. “I think I’d really like to hear this one.”
“Course you would,” you muttered, shooting him a playful glare.
Your mom looked utterly thrilled.
“She was the sweetest little thing,” she said, smiling to herself. “All big eyes and soft little cheeks. People used to stop me in the grocery store just to tell me how pretty she was. She looked like one of those porcelain dolls, except louder.”
Johnny laughed at that, “Louder?”
“She had plenty of opinions, even if most were incomprehensible back then” your mom said solemnly.
Johnny’s grin widened, slow and deliberate as he glanced back at you. “So not much has changed, then.”
“You’re getting very comfortable for a guest.” You said it sweetly, but there was a warning threaded neatly underneath.
Johnny didn’t flinch, if anything, he leaned into it.
“I thought I was kitchen staff,” he said, meeting your gaze, easy and challenging all at once.
“Kitchen staff can be fired.”
“Not before dessert, surely.”
Your mom reached for her glass, looking at the two of you. “Absolutely not before dessert. He helped bake.”
Johnny’s grin tipped just a little more in his favor.
“See?” he said, gesturing lightly toward your mom like he’d just been handed official clearance. “Protected by management.”
You let out a quiet, disbelieving huff, leaning back in your chair. “Unbelievable.”
“And indispensable, apparently.”
You rolled your eyes, but grinned anyway, reaching for your glass before Johnny could look too pleased with himself.
Your mom’s attention shifted toward him then, still smiling as she settled more comfortably in her chair.
“So, Johnny,” she said, in that tone that sounded casual but never really was. “Y/N told me you’re from New York?”
Johnny glanced at you briefly, eyebrows lifting slightly.
You gave him a tiny shrug, as if to say, what, did you think I never mentioned you?
“Yeah,” he said, turning back to your mom. “I grew up there.”
“And now Boston, how are you liking it?” she asked warmly.
Johnny leaned back a little, thinking about it properly instead of giving some easy, automatic answer.
“It's nice, quieter, I guess. People actually stop at crosswalks. That threw me off for a while.”
“I can imagine.” Your mom laughed softly at that.
You snorted softly looking at him. “Boston is not quiet.”
Johnny turned his head toward you, brows lifting just slightly. “Compared to New York? It absolutely is.”
“That’s because you people treat chaos like background noise. Sirens, people yelling, taxis honking every two seconds—”
“—that’s ambience,” he cut in, completely serious.
You stared at him and your mom laughed again, a little brighter this time.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I am,” he said, shrugging one shoulder, not even a hint of shame about it. “You spend enough time around it, it just… blends in. It’s like white noise. Kinda weird when it’s not there, actually.”
You shook your head, a small smile breaking through anyway. “That’s insane.”
Your mom’s smile widened and she continued. “And Harvard itself? I hear about it so much from this one that I’m curious what it’s like when you’re actually there.”
He looked back at your mom, mouth curving faintly. “It’s… good.”
You snorted softly. “Convincing.”
“It is,” he said, glancing back at you. “I’m just trying not to sound like one of those people who says Harvard like it should come with its own spotlight.”
Your mom laughed softly at that. "But it does thought."
Johnny leaned back slightly in his chair, one hand loose around his glass. “Yeah, I mean, it’s impressive, classes are insane, though. Everyone talks like they swallowed three textbooks before breakfast.”
“That’s because half of them probably did,” you said grinning before bringing your fork to your mouth.
“Exactly,” he said, pointing lightly at you. “Finally, someone understands.”
“Well,” Your mom said gently, reaching for her napkin, “just remember that getting used to it is part of the work. You don’t have to arrive already perfect.”
He gave her a quieter smile. “I’ll try to remember that.”
Your mom smiled and took a sip from her glass before tilting her head. “And what are you studying again?”
“Economics,” Johnny said.
You knew economics didn’t sit in him the way something chosen would've. It sounded good, respectable, sensible. The kind of thing people nodded at approvingly for a Sinclair, the kind of thing grandfathers liked.
Johnny reached for his glass again, expression casual enough to pass.
Your mom nodded, impressed. “Oh, that’s wonderful. Difficult, I imagine.”
“Depends who you ask,” Johnny said lightly. “Some people seem to enjoy the suffering.”
“And you don’t?”
His mouth twitched. “I prefer getting through it.”
You let out a small laugh despite yourself.
Your mom’s gaze shifted between the two of you, still warm, still pleased, before settling on you with that bright, hopeful fondness that made something in your stomach tighten before she even spoke.
“Well, it’s lucky you’ll already have Johnny to guide you once you’re there,” she said gently. “At least he can point you toward the right professors.”
You pressed your lips together and gave a small nod, choosing, for once in your life, to keep your mouth shut.
The words settled a little too heavily in your stomach.
Once you’re there.
You reached for your glass, taking a sip mostly to buy yourself a second, then set it down and turned your attention back to Johnny with a forced brightness that was almost convincing.
"So, have you been to that Harvard pizza place that's like insanely famous?"
Johnny looked at you for a second, he knew you well enough to catch the shift, but he didn’t call it out, didn’t hint at it, only leaned into it like you wanted him to.
He only leaned back slightly, playing along.
“Noce's? No, not yet.”
You stared at him “Johnny, you’ve been there for like three months and you haven’t gone to Noce's?”
Johnny’s mouth curved. “I’ve been busy.”
“That’s embarrassing.”
“Oh, leave him be, Y/N,” your mom said, waving a hand lightly. “It’s not like Noce's is Vicolo.”
“Mom, you really have to stop comparing every pizza place to our little corner Italian restaurant.”
That earned you a look, and just like that the two of you slipped into it, light, familiar bickering that had no real edge to it. You insisted Vicolo wasn’t the universal standard for all things pizza, she argued that it absolutely was and always would be, and somewhere in the middle of it you both started talking over each other, half-serious, half-laughing, as if this was a debate you’d had a hundred times before.
Across the table, Johnny didn’t interrupt, didn’t try to jump in; he just glanced between you both, a quieter smile settling in as he watched it unfold, taking in the rhythm of it, the ease, the way it all fit together without effort.
By the time dinner gave way to dessert, the easy noise of the table had settled into something softer.
Plates had been cleared, glasses half-empty, napkins folded and unfolded beside them. The cookies had been moved onto a plate in the middle of the table, still slightly warm, and the cake sat in front of you with candles pressed carefully into the top. Your mom had gone a little overboard, of course ( eighteen candles, because apparently symbolism mattered) but she looked so pleased with herself that you didn’t have the heart to complain.
Then she lit them one by one, the little flames caught, trembling gently in the dining room light.
And started singing sweetly, with the kind of warmth that made your chest ache a little, and Johnny joined in after a beat, a little quieter, a little amused at first, but it softened as he went.
You let out a small, breathy laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you looked down at the cake, then up again.
Your mom was watching you with that tender, watery-eyed look she got sometimes when she seemed to remember too much at once, every birthday, every year, every version of you and your brothers that had sat at this table before. Her smile wobbled just slightly at the edges, and that made something in your throat tighten.
So you looked away which was a bad idea because your eyes landed on Johnny.
He was still singing, his smile not as teasing as it had been before. The candlelight flickered across his face, catching in those unfairly blue eyes of his, making them look softer than usual, almost impossibly clear and for a second it felt like the room had gone quieter than it actually was.
You felt your cheeks warm, not embarrassed exactly, but more out of awareness of him, of your mom, of the fact that this was your birthday and they were both sitting here, singing to you.
By the time the song finished, you were smiling properly now, a little shy, a little breathless in a way you didn’t fully understand.
“Okay,” you said softly, glancing between them. “That was actually kind of nice.”
Your mom laughed gently, reaching for your hand for a second, squeezing it.
“Make a wish, babygirl.”
You looked back at the candles, the warm, steady flames and for a moment, you let yourself linger there.
You knew, with a quiet ache that settled somewhere deep beneath your ribs, that the thing your heart wanted most wasn’t the sort of wish birthday candles could grant. Still, you closed your eyes for the smallest second, because you had to wish it anyway and blew the candles out in one breath.
The flames disappeared all at once, leaving thin curls of smoke drifting upward, the room settling back into its soft, familiar light.
Your mom clapped softly, smiling in that proud, almost teary way again. Johnny followed a second later, quieter, he hadn’t quite let go of the moment yet.
You leaned back in your chair, exhaling lightly, a small smile still lingering on your lips.
“Good lungs,” Johnny said lightly, glancing at the cake. “Impressive technique.”
You let out a small laugh, grateful for the ease of it, for the way he unknowingly slipped something light back into the moment without breaking it.
“Thanks, years of practice,” you said.
Your mom reached for the knife.
“Alright,” she said warmly, her voice bright again, like the moment hadn’t just softened around the edges. “Who wants cake?”
You huffed a small laugh, already reaching to steady the plate as she moved it slightly closer.
“Big shock, me.”
Johnny leaned back in his chair, one hand lifting lazily. “I’ll take a slice. Kitchen staff perks.”
You snorted and sent him a quick look while your mom smiled, shaking her head as she adjusted her grip on the knife.
She stood, and she paused for a second, looking dizzy and you saw the way her hand pressed a little harder into the edge of the table.
Your smile faltered before you could stop it. “Mom?”
She blinked, like she was refocusing, and let out a quiet breath through her nose.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, already waving a hand like she could dismiss it. “Just—give me a second, honey.”
But you were already pushing your chair back, and Johnny straightened too, his easy posture gone in an instant, eyes flicking between the two of you.
“Hey,” you said softly, moving closer. “What is it?”
Your mom laughed lightly, as she pressed her fingers briefly to her temple.
“Nothing, just got a little dizzy, that’s all. I stood up too fast earlier.”
You didn’t fully believe that, never fully believed that anymore.
“Are you sure?” You asked, quieter now.
She nodded, still smiling, still trying to make it feel normal. “Yes, sweetheart. I’m fine. I just—” she reached for the edge of the table, steadying herself for half a second longer than she probably meant to. “I think it’s time for my medicine, that’s all.”
Reality, slipping in like it always did, abruptly.
Johnny didn’t say anything, but you could feel it, how still he’d gone beside you, how his attention sharpened, he didn’t know the rules of this moment yet but knew enough not to interrupt it.
“I’ll get them,” you said immediately.
Your mom shook her head, already pushing herself up carefully. “No, no, I’ve got it.”
“Mom—”
“I’m fine,” she repeated, softer this time, reaching out to squeeze your arm briefly as she passed you. “Really. Sit, enjoy your cake. I'll just go lay down for a little while, okay?”
Then she glanced at Johnny, giving him a quick wink and a smile, as if to say don’t let her spiral while I’m gone.
"I'll be back before you know it, babygirl."
With that she disappeared up the stairs, the sound of her footsteps faded quicker than you liked.
For a second, neither of you moved.
The dining room still smelled like sugar and warm cake, the candles now just thin trails of smoke curling upward, but the air felt different, because something had been gently pulled out of it.
You stood there for a second, staring after her, your chest tight in that familiar, frustrating way, like there was something you should be able to fix but couldn’t.
Johnny, for his part, didn’t push, knew enough not to make you explain it.
You stayed standing beside the table, eyes fixed on the staircase, hands curling loosely around the back of your chair.
“She’s... fine,”
“I figured,” he said after a moment, making you glance at him, and he was already looking at you.
And more than anything, you were grateful it wasn’t pity. Johnny knew better than that.
He knew what pity looked like on people who didn’t want it, knew the way it lingered too long, the way it made everything feel smaller, heavier. He’d had his own share of it, enough to recognize when it wasn’t welcome, so he didn’t give you that.
Just a quiet kind of understanding that didn’t ask anything from you; instead, he reached for the knife your mom had left behind.
“Well,” he said, glancing at you, “Seems Ive been promoted from kitchen staff to cake assistant.”
You let out a small breath that might have been a laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction as you sank back into your chair.
“I see. Big responsibility, huh?”
Johnny tipped his head, already angling the knife like this was something to take seriously. “High stakes. I’ve been warned about your standards.”
That pulled a real laugh out of you, and Johnny’s smile softened when he heard it. You looked at him again, and something in your shoulders loosened, just a little.
“Cut the cake, Johnny.”
“Yes, chef.”
He leaned in slightly, one hand bracing the cake as he pressed the knife through it, slower than necessary, focused in a way that almost made it funny.
You watched him without meaning to, the way he concentrated, the faint line between his brows, as if this actually mattered to him, even if it was just cake.
He slid the first slice onto a plate and set it in front of you with a small tilt of his head. “For the birthday girl.”
You glanced down at it, then back up at him with a small smile.
“Impressive,” you said lightly.
“I aim to please.”
“Dangerous mindset.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, stepping back just enough to give you space, but not really moving away.
You picked up your fork, cutting into the edge of the slice, and took a bite.
It was good, better than you expected, considering.
Johnny watched your face, trying not to be obvious about it.
You swallowed, keeping your expression carefully neutral for a second longer than necessary.“…It’s fine.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Fine?”
You let your mouth twitch. “Alright, it’s good.”
“Thank you,” he said, like he’d been waiting for that, then cut himself a slice and took a bite, nodding once to himself. “Yeah… baker life it is.”
You laughed again.
By the time you and Johnny migrated to the living room, the kitchen looked and dining room were mostly like themselves again, dishes washed, counters wiped down, the chaos of earlier reduced to a few lingering crumbs and the faint smell of sugar still hanging in the air.
“So,” you said, already reaching for the remote. “Movie?”
“Your birthday, your choice.” Johnny followed you in without hesitation.
You glanced back at him with a small grin “Dangerous offer.”
He shrugged, sitting on the couch, “I’m feeling brave.”
“You say that now.”
You dropped onto the couch right next to him and scrolled through the options for a few seconds before landing on Roman Holiday.
Johnny looked at the screen, then at you. “Old movie?”
“Classic movie,” you corrected.
“Is this where you pretend to be sophisticated?”
“I’m not pretending, this is an actual great movie,” you told him, then huffed. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen it, Johnny boy.”
Johnny’s mouth twitched. “I’ve… seen clips.”
You pointed the remote at him. “Do you want to be uninvited from movie night?”
“I didn’t realize I was formally invited.”
You scoffed, reaching for the blanket draped over the arm of the couch and tossing it over both of you. “You’re on probation.”
Johnny glanced down at it, then back at you, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “Probation comes with benefits, apparently.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
"Wasn't planning on it." He adjusted the edge of the blanket a little, enough that it actually covered you properly, too, and settled back against the couch, his shoulder brushing yours again, this time a little more intentionally.
You pretended not to notice.
The movie played on, soft music filling the room, Audrey Hepburn moving across the screen in that effortless way that made everything feel slower, simpler.
The opening credits began, the black-and-white glow spreading across the living room.
The movie played on, soft and grainy in black and white, Audrey Hepburn moving through Rome like the whole world had been made gentler just for her.
You watched, mostly, because every few minutes, your eyes drifted toward the stairs.
Johnny noticed the second time and by the third, he shifted slightly beside you, the blanket pulling a little tighter over both your laps.
“Hey.” his voice came low, careful.
You blinked, looking back at the TV like you had been watching the whole time. “What?”
“She’s okay,” Johnny said, softer this time, like he didn’t want to push it but wasn’t going to ignore it either.
Your fingers curled a little tighter into the blanket in your lap, the fabric bunching under your grip. You nodded quickly, almost automatic. “I know. I do—it’s just…” You exhaled, a small, frustrated breath. “I can’t help it.”
His hand came up, hesitating just briefly before settling over yours where it was knotted in the blanket. He didn’t try to pull it away or loosen your grip, just rested there, thumb brushing once, absent-minded.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re not worried, it’d be weirder if you weren’t.”
You let out a small breath, your shoulders dropping a fraction at that, like something in you had been braced and didn’t need to be anymore.
“She’s fine,” he repeated, softer this time, not dismissive, or brushing it off, “And you’re right here. If anything changes, you’ll know.”
His thumb moved again, a quiet, steady rhythm against your hand.
“And until then, you don’t have to sit there like you’re waiting for something to go wrong,” he murmured, glancing at the TV before looking back at you.
There was a faint hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, gentler now.
“Besides,” he added, nudging your shoulder lightly with his, “I refuse to let the Roman Holiday over something that’s already under control.”
You huffed a small laugh, the tension easing just a little. “Fine, okay—but only because of Audrey Hepburn.”
“Right,” Johnny said, nodding seriously. “Not because I made an emotionally mature point.”
“Definitely not.”
Your smile lingered for a second before fading into something softer and the movie kept going, but neither of you were really watching now.
Johnny glanced down, then seemed to remember something. His posture changed slightly, small enough that anyone else might have missed it, but you were already looking at him.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
He looed at you, hesitaded for a bit, then reached one hand into the pocket of his jacket, which had been tossed over the arm of the couch earlier, and pulled out a small box.
Your eyes dropped to the little, deep blue jewellery box.
Your stomach did something strange. “Johnny…”
“It’s not—” he started quickly, then stopped himself, huffing a quiet laugh like he was annoyed at how fast he’d spoken. “I mean, it’s not a big thing.”
You looked from the box to him. He was trying to look casual and failing, obviously.
His shoulders had gone just a little too still, his fingers turning the box once before he held it out to you.
“I was going to give it to you earlier, but then your mom opened the door instead of you, and then there was you with ABBA, and an apron, and I sort of lost the moment.”
You stared at him for a second, and despite everything, you laughed softly. “Yeah, that’ll happen.”
His smile flickered, nervous and pleased at once. “Happy birthday.”
You took the box carefully, it felt heavier than you expected.
For a moment, you just held it, looking down at the velvet, suddenly aware of him watching you in a way that made your chest feel too small.
“You didn’t have to get me anything,” you said.
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know,” he said again, quieter this time.
You sent him a small, somewhat shy smile before opening it and inside was a bracelet.
Gold, delicate without being flimsy, the kind of pretty that didn’t shout for attention but caught the light anyway. A single charm hung from it, small, finely made, shaped like an old wooden boat, with tiny engraved lines made to look like planks, a little curved hull, a sail barely suggested in the shape.
For a second, you didn’t speak and only stared at it.
Johnny shifted beside you.
“It’s from my mom’s shop,” he said, too quickly again, like he needed to explain before the silence swallowed him. “Well—not from the display or anything. I asked her jeweler to make the charm. The bracelet was already there, but the boat was—”
He stopped, then rubbed a hand lightly over the back of his neck and you finally looked up.
He looked nervous, like actually nervous.
Johnny Sinclair Dennis, who could charm just about anyone in under ten minutes, suddenly couldn’t seem to figure out where to put his hands.
“It’s like the boat that brought you to Beachwood that day.”
Your breath caught a little while he glanced at the bracelet, then back at you.
“I don’t know,” he said, and this time the words came out more honest, less polished. “I just thought… it might be a nice reminder."
The room felt too quiet, even though the movie was still playing, it had become distant, simply light and sound at the edge of everything.
You looked down at the bracelet again as memories of that first dat came rushing back.
The water, the sun, the strange little turn of fate that had brought you there. Him, before he was your Johnny.
“It’s beautiful,” you said, and your voice came out smaller than you meant it to.
Johnny’s eyes searched your face. “Yeah?”
You nodded, still looking at it.
“Yeah.”
His shoulders loosened like he’d been holding his breath and you let out a soft laugh, because if you didn’t, you might actually cry, and that was absolutely not happening.
“You’re annoyingly thoughtful, you know that?”
His mouth curved, but it was gentler than usual. “I’ll try to be worse.”
“Please do.” You lifted the bracelet slightly, then glanced at him. “Help me put it on?”
Johnny blinked once, looked at you and nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”
You held out your wrist, and he took the bracelet from the box carefully, his fingers brushing yours as he did, and for once, neither of you made a joke about it.
He leaned closer, concentration returning in that same ridiculous, careful way he’d had cutting the cake.
His fingers were warm against the inside of your wrist, the charm swung once, catching the light.
It took him two tries; on the first, the clasp slipped and yu bit back a smile.
“Don’t,” he muttered, still focused.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“Nah uh, just reflecting.”
That made him glance up at you, and the two of you smiled at the same time, then the clasp clicked into place, though Johnny’s hand lingered for half a second before he let go.
You lifted your wrist, watching the little boat settle against your skin, it looked delicate there and strangely perfect.
“Thank you,” you said softly.
Johnny’s gaze stayed on the bracelet for a moment before lifting to your face. “You’re welcome.”
His hand was still near your wrist, your hand still loosely in his, and when you looked up at him, the distance between you suddenly felt smaller than it had any right to.
It a slow, almost hesitant lean; he wasn’t entirely sure if he should, but wasn’t stopping himself either and you didn’t move, matter of fact you lean a bit too, close enough that you could feel his breath, see the way his eyes flicked briefly to your lips and then back up again, like he was checking and it was when you felt the skin of his lips on your--
Knock. Knock. Knock.
You jumped, actually jumped, pulling back immediately like you’d been caught doing something you weren’t even sure had happened yet.
Johnny did not, which was somehow worse. He stayed exactly where he was for half a second, eyes still on you, mouth curved faintly like he was trying very hard not to look amused.
You stared at him, cheeks warm, heart doing something deeply unnecessary in your chest.
“I—” You cleared your throat, already sitting up too quickly. “Door.”
“I gathered.”
You shot him a look and he held up both hands, innocent.
The knocking came again, louder this time, followed by a muffled thump against the door.
Your brow furrowed at once because that was not normal knocking.
You tossed the blanket off your legs and stood, then hurried toward the entryway, behind you, Johnny followed more slowly, no longer teasing.
The second you opened the door, cool night air spilt into the house, and there, leaning heavily against the doorframe, was Jeremiah.
Still in his tux but tie crooked, hair messed up, crown tilted dramatically on his head.
His eyes brightened the second he saw you.
“Sis,” he announced, with the grave importance of a man delivering royal news. “I have returned.”
Beside him, Blake stood with one arm wrapped around his waist, doing most of the work of keeping him upright. His own boutonniere was half-crushed, his expression somewhere between apologetic and exhausted.
“Hi,” Blake said weakly. “I’m so sorry.”
"Oh, boy."
Jeremiah squinted past you, noticing him for the first time, then his whole face lit up with drunk, delighted recognition.
“Johnny!”
Johnny lifted a hand. “Hey.”
“You did come,” Jeremiah said, pointing at him with wobbly enthusiasm, he then leaned toward Blake like he was sharing a secret, except he was very much not whispering. “That’s my future in-law—”
“Okay,” you cut in immediately, stepping forward and taking your brother from Blake’s hold before he could say anything else. "Thank you for bringing him home.”
Blake looked relieved enough to collapse. “Yeah, of course. I tried to get him to drink water before we left, but he said water was for people who lost.”
Jeremiah lifted a hand weakly. “Winners run on atmosphere.”
Johnny moved without being asked, stepping in on Jeremiah’s other side and catching him around the back before he could sag entirely against you.
Jeremiah blinked slowly, realizing he was suddenly supported by both of you, then he smiled.
“Oh,” he said, looking between you and Johnny with drunk satisfaction. “Look at this, two-parent household.”
“Shut up, you idiot, ” you muttered, adjusting his arm over your shoulder.
Johnny huffed a quiet laugh beside you, tightening his hold just enough to keep Jeremiah from listing sideways again.
You shot him a look and he gave you the smallest, most innocent shrug possible, which did not help at all.
Blake hovered by the door, still in his prom clothes, looking tired and apologetic. “Do you need me to stay and help?”
“No, no, you’re good,” you said quickly, because honestly, poor Blake had suffered enough.
Johnny’s grip tightened slightly around Jeremiah’s side as your brother swayed. “Yeah, we’ve got him.”
Blake exhaled, relieved, glancing between the two of you like he wasn’t entirely convinced but also knew better than to argue.
“Okay,” he said, stepping back onto the porch. “Happy birthday again, Y/N.”
“Thank you,” you said, managing a real smile despite Jeremiah slowly becoming dead weight against your side. “Get home safe, okay?”
“I will.”
Blake gave Johnny a polite nod, which Johnny returned, then headed down the steps toward his car.
You eased the door shut behind him, the click sounding louder than it should have, and when you turned back, Jeremiah was already fixed on Johnny—staring at him with the kind of heavy, glassy concentration that didn’t quite land anywhere.
His eyes narrowed a little, head tilting as if that might help him focus.
“You’re… tall,” Jeremiah announced, the word dragging at the edges.
Johnny paused, clearly caught off guard for half a second before a small, amused breath slipped out of him. “Uh—thanks, man.”
Jeremiah nodded, deeply satisfied with his own observation.
Johnny shifted his grip on him, steadying him as he swayed again, glancing over at you, he tipped his chin toward the hallway. “Alright, where are we putting him?”
“His room,” you said, with the air of someone who had done this before. “Come on.”
Together, you started guiding Jeremiah toward the stairs, his weight uneven between you, feet dragging just enough to make every step feel like a negotiation.
“Where’re we going?” Jeremiah mumbled, blinking hard.
“Your stinky room,” you said flatly.
Johnny adjusted his hold when Jeremiah listed too far to one side, his hand bracing firm at your brother’s ribs.
“You're getting the royal escort, dude,”
Jeremiah’s head lifted at once, suddenly alert in the way only drunk people could be alert about the least important part of a conversation.
"Hell yeah!"
“Shh,” you hissed.
Immediately, it became clear that going upstairs would be a problem.
Without waiting for anything, Jeremiah lifted his foot too high, missed the edge of the step entirely, and nearly took all three of you down with him.
“Whoa—” Johnny caught him hard, arm tightening as he hauled him back upright.
You grabbed onto the railing with your free hand, “Jere!”
“I’m fine,” Jeremiah said instantly, voice thick with confidence that was both entirely misplaced and wildly unhelpful.
Johnny steadied him for another second, then glanced over at you, “We might want to rethink the stairs.”
You let out a long breath instead, shaking your head a little as the tension eased out of your shoulders.
“No… I can’t let him sleep on the couch like that, and I definitely don’t want my mom walking into this disaster in the morning.”
At the mention of your mom, Jeremiah’s head snapped up like a switch had been flipped.
“Oh—mom,” he said, suddenly wide awake in the most inconvenient way possible. “Where’s mom? I wanna tell her about homecoming.”
You tightened your grip on his arm before he could try to turn around. “She’s asleep, so, no. Absolutely not.”
Jeremiah frowned at that, deeply offended on her behalf. “But I won.”
“She already knows you would’ve,” you shot back, steering him firmly toward the next step before he could spiral into a speech. “You can tell her in the morning… assuming you’re capable of leaving your bed.”
Johnny’s mouth twitched, but he shifted his grip anyway, bracing Jeremiah more securely. “Alright. Stairs it is.”
You nodded once. “Stairs it is.”
Getting him up them was horrible, not impossible, just horrible.
Jeremiah kept trying to help, which somehow made it worse. Every few steps, he put his foot down too hard, which made you wince each time, or too late, then overcorrected. Johnny took most of his weight without complaining, one arm firm around his back, while you stayed at Jeremiah’s other side, one hand locked around his wrist and the other on the railing.
“Left foot,” you said.
Jeremiah lifted the wrong one.
“Other left.”
He blinked down at his shoes. “Right.”
“No, left.”
Slowly, painfully, the three of you made it up the stairs. Jeremiah apologised to the bannister once, accused the carpet of moving twice, and paused near the top to announce that he needed “a minute with the architecture,” which you ignored entirely.
By the time you reached the landing, your arm hurt and Johnny was a little out of breath.
Jeremiah, somehow, looked pleased with himself. “See? easy.”
You turned your head slowly to look at him, eyes narrowing just enough to promise consequences. “I’m going to make your life absolutely miserable tomorrow. Just so you’re aware.”
Johnny, far less concerned with future revenge, shifted his hold again when Jeremiah sagged between you again, his attention already moving ahead. He glanced down the hallway, taking in the doors.
“Alright, which one’s his?”
You tipped your chin toward the end of the hall, where a door sat slightly ajar, a strip of light cutting across the floor. “That one. End of the hall.”
Jeremiah followed your gaze with exaggerated focus, squinting like the distance between him and the door was miles instead of a few steps.
“My room,” he declared, with quiet conviction.
You didn’t even look at him.
“Your disaster zone,” you corrected, already steering him in that direction before he could argue, or worse, stop moving altogether.
You and Johnny managed to get him the last few steps into his room, the whole thing more of a controlled drop than anything graceful.
Jeremiah’s room was exactly as you expected it to be: half-open drawers, clothes over the chair, one sneaker in the middle of the floor for no obvious reason, and the vague smell of expensive cologne trying and failing to cover teenage boy.
“Okay sit,” you said.
Jeremiah obeyed immediately, dropping onto the edge of the bed with a heavy bounce, shoulders slumping forward like his body had finally decided it was done for the night.
Johnny let go slowly, making sure he wasn’t about to tip over again.
You stepped in front of your brother and started tugging at the buttons of his tux jacket.
“Come on,” you muttered, fingers working the first button loose as you nudged at his arm. “Arm.”
Jeremiah lifted one arm immediately, the wrong one, though. You stopped mid-motion and just looked at him, that quiet, pointed kind of stare that said try again, and he switched at once.
Behind you, Johnny made a small sound, half cough, half laugh, pressing his fist lightly to his mouth like he was trying not to interrupt.
“What?” You shot him a look over your shoulder.
He took a second, like he was deciding whether to say it, then gave in anyway, voice low, edged with amusement. “That look.”
You frowned slightly. “What look?”
“That one,” he said, nodding toward Jeremiah, who was now sitting unusually still under your supervision. “Yeah… you’ve got that down already. You’re gonna be a terrifyingly good mom one day. Kid won’t even need the full countdown.”
A short laugh escaped you before you could stop it, more breath than sound, as you finally turned fully toward him, folding Jeremiah’s jacket with unnecessary neatness just to have something to do with your hands.
“I’m getting a drunk sixteen-year-old out of a tux at midnight. If anything, I’m not terrifying, I’m efficient.”
“Never said you weren't,” His gaze flicked over you for a second. “Just saying… it suits you.”
You grinned, about to joke about you as a mom, but Jeremiah beat you to it.
He was staring at Johnny now, eyes narrowed with the intense, misplaced focus of someone whose brain had chosen one thought and clung to it with both hands.
“You love my sister, don’t you?”
The room went quiet, Johnny huffed a laugh, short and caught off guard and for once, he did not have a clever answer ready.
You saw it anyway, the faint pink that crept up his face, almost hidden in the dim room but not quite. He kept most of his composure, but there was a second where his eyes flicked to you before he looked back at Jeremiah.
“Think you’ve had enough big thoughts for one night, man,” Johnny said lightly.
Jeremiah nodded slowly, like he respected that answer.
“Yeah,” he said. “Avoiding the question. Classic.”
“Jere,” you warned, tugging the tie loose now, a little too quickly.
Your brother’s gaze slid to you, then back to Johnny, he’d discovered he had an audience and no survival instinct whatsoever.
“He does, look at him.” Jeremiah said, with lazy certainty.
Johnny stepped back just slightly, giving you space, but you could feel it, that he was very aware of you now, even if he wasn’t looking directly at you.
"Stop making things weird." You told your brother.
“It’s already weird, he’s in my room.” He mumbled, sagging a bit.
“You’re the reason he’s in your room,” you snapped, pushing Jeremiah back by the shoulder so he’d stop trying to sit upright. “Now lie down.”
Jeremiah flopped against the pillows, still grinning like an idiot and you bent down, busying yourself with his shoes so you didn’t have to look directly at Johnny.
“Unbelievable, you get one plastic crown and suddenly you’re a prophet.”
Johnny let out a breath that almost became a laugh.
“I’m just insightful… like mom.” Jeremiah huffs with little energy.
You glanced at Johnny despite yourself and he was still looking at you, softer now, embarrassed but not running from it.
Your stomach flipped, so naturally, you turned back to Jeremiah and yanked one shoe off with unnecessary force. “Sleep,”
Jeremiah, finally, started to drift, eyes half-lidded, breathing evening out, crown abandoned somewhere near the nightstand.
“Bossy,” he mumbled.
You smoothed a hand briefly over his hair.
“Idiot,” you muttered back as you pulled the blanket a little higher over his shoulder and stepped back.
“Alright,” you said, brushing your hands together lightly. “Crisis handled.”
Johnny let out a quiet breath, like he’d been holding it without realizing, and glanced once more at Jeremiah to make sure he was actually down for the count.
“Impressive operation, minimal casualties.”
“Speak for yourself, my arm’s dead.” You smiled as you moved to the door, Johnny following behind you.
He pulled Jeremiah’s door mostly shut once you stepped into the hall, leaving it cracked just slightly.
You noticed, it was such a small thing, the kind of thing most people wouldn’t think twice about.
But your mom always left doors cracked when one of you was sick, or upset, or just not quite right. Enough privacy to sleep, enough openness to listen.
Johnny caught your glance, then looked at the door.
“Too much?” he asked quietly.
You shook your head. “No. That’s… good.”
The two of you went downstairs after that.
It was quiet in the way houses got late at night, every step a little too noticeable, every creak in the wood making the silence feel fuller. Neither of you said anything at first, and somehow that made it worse, the gift, the almost-kiss still sitting between you, Jeremiah’s drunken comment hovering right behind it like the world’s least subtle ghost.
You kept your eyes forward, very deliberately.
Johnny followed a step behind you, close enough that you were aware of him but not so close that either of you had to acknowledge it.
By the time you reached the bottom of the stairs, the living room was still glowing softly from the TV. Roman Holiday had continued without you, Audrey Hepburn now halfway through a scene you had definitely missed. The blanket was half-fallen onto the floor, one corner still tucked into the couch where you’d both been sitting.
You stepped into the room first and picked up the remote.
“Well,” you said, trying for casual and landing somewhere near mildly awkward, “we lost the plot.”
Johnny looked at the screen. “Pretty sure I never had it.”
That pulled a small laugh out of you, easing the air just a little.
“You weren’t trying very hard."
“I was learning.”
You shook your head, rewinding the movie a little more aggressively than necessary. “Hopeless.”
Johnny stood near the edge of the couch for a second, watching you. Not staring exactly, but close enough that you felt it.
So you threw the blanket at him, and he caught it against his chest, surprised.
“What was that for?”
“You looked like you didn’t know what to do with yourself.”
His mouth twitched. “And the blanket helps?”
“It gives you purpose.”
“Generous.” He places a hand over his heart.
“You’re welcome.”
Johnny sat back down, still smiling faintly, and spread the blanket over his lap, leaving enough of it for you when you dropped onto the couch beside him.
Not too close this time, but also not far enough.
The movie started again and for a minute, the two of you pretended very hard to watch it then Johnny glanced at you and you glanced at the screen harder until he looked away… so now you looked at him and at the same time, he looked back again and you both looked away at once.
It was horrible but it was also, unfortunately, a little funny.
You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. Johnny exhaled through his nose beside you, clearly fighting the same battle.
Finally, you huffed under your breath, shaking your head like you could physically reset the moment. “Okay. We’re being weird.”
Johnny let out a quiet laugh, something in it loosening, like he’d been holding the same tension and was glad you’d named it. “Yeah, a little. But that’s kind of our thing.”
“Stop it.” You shot him a look.
“Me?” he said, feigning innocence.
“Yes, you.”
“I’m sitting here.”
“You’re doing it weirdly.”
Johnny looked down at himself like he might be able to spot the problem, then back at you, mouth twitching. “I don’t know how to correct that.”
“Try being normal.”
“I was normal,” he said, his gaze slipping away for the briefest moment before finding you again, “right up until your brother decided to announce that I'm in love with you.”
You froze and so did Johnny. He blinked once, only just catching up to what he’d actually said, and then his attention snapped toward the TV a little too quickly, shoulders shifting as if he could physically distance himself from the sentence he’d just dropped between you.
Heat rushed up your neck before you could stop it, blooming across your cheeks. For a second, the only thing filling the space was the low murmur of the movie, some distant dialogue you couldn’t even begin to follow.
You felt it settle in your chest, that split-second pull in two directions, ridiculous, almost cinematic. One part of you, leaned toward him without thinking, drawn in by the feeling. The other, sharper, louder, cut straight through it, already lining up reasons, already insisting it didn’t mean anything, that it couldn’t.
You swallowed, dragging yourself back, clearing your throat like you could reset the moment.
“Right,” you said, aiming for casual, you gave an airy chuckle. “Well, he also couldn’t manage a staircase ten minutes ago, so I’m not exactly taking him as a reliable source tonight.”
You could tell Johnny glanced at you, but you didn’t turn to face him, eyes fixed on the screen.
“Good point,” he said lowly after a moment.
The movie carried on in soft black and white, voices blending into the quiet of the house. Outside, the night had settled completely, and upstairs, everything stayed still, the steady calm you’d been waiting for.
Under the blanket, your hand rested where it had fallen and so did his, both close enough that, after a second, your pinky brushed his.
It wasn’t deliberate… or maybe it was, the contact stayed light, barely there, the kind of thing that could disappear if either of you shifted even a little.
But you didn’t, and neither did he.
A/N:
…hey?! hey… how ya'll doing?
I’m sorry this update took so long, a lot has happened these past few months, and if I’m being completely honest, I’ve also been a bit stuck on where to take this season next.
So if you have any ideas at all, I’d genuinely love to hear them!
That said, if you’re still here… thank you, truly, thank you for the support, for the comments, for sticking around. It means more than I can properly put into words. <3<3<3
I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I was so unsure about what to have Johnny give her. I thought about a necklace, but a necklace is TSITP the whole thing, yknow? So I steered away from that and went with a bracelet instead. It just felt more them, something she can keep adding little memories to over time.
(And hey… maybe she'll wear it on her wedding day. Kidding. Unless—)
I also briefly considered having him “buy her a star,” but I don’t know… it felt a bit too grand for where they’re at right now. What do you guys think? What kind of gift would you have picked?
Once again, thank you all so much for reading and for all your support! It truly means everything to me.
See you next chapter 🤍
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