What once was!
Season 2: November and options!
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 - 4
The email had been sitting open on Ms Bennett’s computer for nearly five full minutes, and she was still smiling at it in the measured way school counsellors smiled when they were trying to make a waitlist sound like an opportunity or a rejection sound like character development.
This smile was a bright, real one, the sort that people got when something impossible had become almost possible.
You sat across from her with your knees pressed together and your hands tucked beneath your thighs, watching the Harvard crest glow at the top of the screen.
“Well,” Ms Bennett said at last, skimming the email again, then back at you.
You shifted in your chair. “That’s not a sentence.”
“No, it is me exercising great restraint,” she said, there was laughter tucked into her eyes.
“That’s worrying.”
“It should be," She smiled at you, "I have very little of it left.”
You tried to smile, mouth moving in the right direction, but you bet it didn't reach your eyes.
Ms Bennett tilted her head the slightest bit, eyes knowing as she leaned back in her chair, folding her hands together over her stomach. “Do you understand what this means?”
“It’s not an acceptance.” Your gaze stayed fixed on the email at the Harvard crest sat at the top of the page.
The words beneath it blurred together every time you tried to read them yet again.
Mr Bennet let out a small laugh and went on, “Supposed not, it is, however, Harvard telling you, in extremely polished institutional language, that they are very, very interested in you.”
You looked back at the screen. Very interested.... That was such a strange phrase.
People were very interested in antique furniture, in weather systems or true crime documentaries narrated by men with suspiciously soothing voices and celebrity scandals and whatever odd thing had become popular on TikTok that week.
“It says they look forward to reviewing the rest of my application,” you said at last, pointing vaguely at the screen.
Mrs Bennet folded her arms loosely across her chest and raised an eyebrow. “It says more than that... luckily, I’m paid to read between lines.”
You gave her a look. “Are you?”
“Among other things.” She glanced at the email again, and her smile softened into something warmer. “This is a likely letter, or as close to one as they can make it without using those exact words. It does not guarantee admission, no, but universities like Harvard do not send messages like this to students they are casually considering.”
You swallowed, the word guarantee stayed in your head because it was bullshit; nothing was guaranteed, not Harvard or next summer. Not your mother sitting at the kitchen island with a mug of tea, asking you what you wanted for dinner as if dinner mattered, as if any of it mattered more than the fact that she had started needing to sit down halfway through conversations.
You pushed that thought away so hard it almost made you dizzy; nonetheless, the feeling rose in your chest anyway.
"Right..." you murmured, straightening in your chair and nodding to yourself, as though saying it aloud would make it simpler. "A likely letter."
Across the desk, Mrs Bennet watched you for a moment.
"You should be proud. A very small percentage of applicants receive these," She held up her fingers, leaving barely a sliver of space between them."Like one per cent small."
You let out a quiet breath through your nose. "I am."
Mrs Bennet looked at you for a moment, carefully, as if deciding whether to let you have the lie or gently take it from your hands.
You looked away first, gaze landing on the row of university pennants pinned along the office wall, all places that existed comfortably in the realm of possibility.
"I am," you repeated, quieter this time.
The lie wasn't complete; that was the frustrating part.
You were proud and happy; you remembered every late night, every essay and exam, you remembered staying up until one in the morning rewriting applications, impossible standards and pushing yourself further than anyone had asked you to.
You remembered falling asleep on textbooks after cheer practice and your other extracurriculars, and working so hard your teachers had started telling younger students to be more like you. You knew how many students would kill for an email like this.
You were proud, but pride wasn't the thing sitting heaviest in your chest.
Mrs Bennet was silent for a few seconds, long enough to make it obvious she wasn't going to let you escape with the answer.
Her office had never felt so small before.
Usually, it was cluttered in a comforting way. Stacks of forms arranged in neat piles. A corkboard full of college brochures and scholarship deadlines or the bowl of peppermint candies on the corner of her desk that everyone pretended they did not come in specifically to steal from, today, every detail seemed too sharp.
“I believe you,” she said at last. “But I also think you look like someone just handed you a tax audit.”
A short laugh escaped before you could stop it. It startled you more than it amused you, coming out cracked at the edges and disappearing almost immediately into the quiet office.
“That’s very specific.”
“I’ve been doing this a long time.”
You looked down, smoothing one hand over your skirt even though there was nothing wrong with it. “Do most people look like this when Harvard emails them?”
“No,” Mrs Bennet said gently. “Most people cry.”
Your mouth moved before you had time to think better of it.
“I can cry.”
She gave you a soft look, “I know you can.”
You blinked, taken aback, then looked down at your lap where your fingers had twisted the hem of your sweater into a tight little knot.
Mrs Bennet said it softly, without accusation, without teasing or trying to make you feel exposed and somehow that made it worse. If she had laughed, you could have laughed too; had she pushed, you could have pushed back, but she only looked at you like she remembered every late slip, every meeting, every too-bright smile you had walked into this office wearing since your mother was first diagnosed years ago.
You pressed your lips together.
Outside her office, someone’s locker slammed, a boy laughed too loudly in the hall, the bell had rung almost ten minutes ago, but the school had not fully settled into class yet.
Inside the office, Harvard waited on the screen and Ms. Bennett waited too.
“I worked really hard,” you muttered at last. "I know that sounds stupid—"
“It doesn’t.”
You let out a breath and shook your head, already annoyed with yourself. “No, it does. Obviously, I worked hard. Everyone applying to Harvard worked hard, that’s the whole point.”
You rubbed at your brow, pressing two fingers between your eyes as if you could smooth the thought into something less tangled.
“I just mean— I wanted this for a long time,” you said finally, your voice quieter now. “And I am happy.”
Ms Bennett nodded once, but did not rescue you from the silence. You looked back at the email at the crest that blurred slightly, making you blink until it sharpened again.
“I think maybe I’m just waiting for it to process, that’s all,” you said, looking back at her with a tiny smile, latching onto the explanation the second it appeared. It sounded reasonable, mature, even. “It doesn’t feel real yet.”
“That can happen.” Relief loosened something in your chest because, for one brief second, you thought you had found the right answer, one that even you could use to lie to yourself, but then Ms Bennett added, “But I don’t think that’s all.”
You crossed your arms. “I’m fine.”
Ms Bennett looked at you once again, and maybe if it had been anyone else, you could have managed it.
Had it been a teacher who only knew your grades, or one of your father’s friends who called you impressive, or one of the well-meaning mothers who still asked about Susannah with their voices already halfway to pity, you could have kept your face arranged.
But Ms Bennett had known too long, had watched you obsess over grades when most people were worrying about football games, seen you and your brothers balance hospital visits and exams, seen you walk into school after sleepless nights and somehow still turn in assignments on time.
She knew exactly what you looked like when you were fine, and this wasn't it.
Ms Bennett’s voice softened. “How is your mother?”
Your arms loosened from where they'd been folded tightly across your stomach, and you looked away toward the window beside her desk.
There were so many answers like fine or tired, going through it, still beautiful, making jokes, still making plans and pretending not to see you watching her hands shake when she reached for a glass.
The shrug you gave her was a terrible answer, but it was also the only honest one you had.
Ms. Bennett went quiet for a moment.
"I see."
Your throat tightened instantly, and you hated that because it meant she understood too quickly, and you did not have to explain, which somehow made everything worse.
“She’s okay,” you decided finally, but even as you said it, you hated how thin it sounded.
Mrs Bennet’s eyes stayed on you, gentle but not fooled. “Okay.”
“Yeah. She’s— she’s okay.”
The word felt worse the second time.
Okay. A word people used when they did not want to explain hospital appointments, pill bottles, your mother’s brave face, you and Jeremiah doing taxes on the kitchen table, your own stupid habit of counting the bad days like they were clues to some answer nobody would give you.
You looked back at the screen because the email was easier to look at than Mrs Bennet.
“She was really happy,” you said after a moment. “When I told her about the email.”
Ms Bennett’s gaze softened as she listened to you rant.
“She cried, like, actual tears. Jeremiah screamed so loudly I think half the neighbourhood heard, and Conrad even came back from brown to hug me that same day.”
Ms Bennett smiled faintly.
“And Mom kept talking about moving day” Your mouth trembled, so you pressed your lips together hard. “Like she could already see it, and started talking about dorm rooms before I'd even read the letter"
The room changed around you, or maybe you changed inside it.
“We’ve talked about Harvard since I was little, at first it was just one of those things parents say because their kid reads too much and corrects adults at dinner, you know?"
Mrs Bennet's mouth twitched, a small smile appeared despite herself.
“I can imagine.”
“But then I got older, and it became real; we made plans.” Your voice went quieter. “Stupid ones.”
“I doubt they were stupid, hon.”
“They were,” you said, but there was no bite in it. “She said she’d take me shopping for dorm stuff, and I told her I wasn’t letting her buy me anything with inspirational quotes on it. She said she’d visit every week and embarrass me by taking pictures of everything, she wants to get coffee near campus and pretend she's crying after move-in like she did with Connie.”
You looked up at the ceiling quickly when your eyes started to burn.
“She said she’d wear a Harvard sweatshirt even if it made her look like one of those unbearable college moms.” Your breath shook once. “And now I think about going, and all I can see is everything she won’t be there for.”
Your eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling because if you looked down, if you looked at Mrs Bennet, if you looked at that email again, you were afraid something inside you would crack wide open.
“I know that’s awful,” you said quickly, voice strained. “Because she’s here, she’s still here, and I’m acting like—”
“You’re not acting like anything.”
Mrs Bennet’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the panic before it could build.
You blinked hard, a tear slipped anyway making you wiped it away fast, almost angrily.
“I just hate that I think about it,” you admitted. “And that she starts talking about moving day, and I can’t just be happy. She looks so excited, and all I can think is, what if she doesn’t get to do it?”
Mrs Bennet did not flinch.
You wiped under your eye again before anything could fall. "I know Harvard is Harvard, people would kill for this, and I’m.... just sitting here acting like it’s bad news. It feels bad,” you took a deep breath and blinked to look at the woman. “That’s the awful part because it feels like someone handed me this thing I wanted more than anything, and now I can’t touch it without thinking about her not being there.”
Ms Bennett leaned forward slightly. “Good news can still hurt when it belongs to someone who is sick.”
Your throat closed, and you looked back at the screen.
Harvard.
The word had always sounded bright before, now it sounded like your mother’s voice saying, my brilliant baby girl, while both of you pretended there would be time.
“I thought I’d get this and everything would feel worth it,” you said. “All the work, the stress and all the nights I stayed up... I- I thought I’d feel like I won.”
“And you don’t?”
You shook your head, mouth pressing tight before admitting,“I feel like I’m already missing her,”
Ms. Bennett’s expression changed and you hated how gentle she looked.
“I don't want to be here and think about doing all of it alone.”
“You won’t be alone.”
“I know.” You swallowed, then huffed, sniffling a bit, “That’s not what I mean.”
You know Conrad would be there, Jeremiah would probably call every other day, your father would check in, Johnny would be on campus with you, Laurel would be as attentive as she can, Belly and Steven would probably visit... Life would continue.
The point was that there was only one person you wanted standing in those memories. Only one person had been there from the beginning.
"I'm... scared."
Outside, the school kept moving, lockers, voices, shoes against tile. Life, continuing completely unaware that yours felt suspended.
It was an awful thing to be afraid of, and an even worse thing to admit out loud.
“I’m scared Harvard is going to become this haunted thing,” you huffed as more tears managed to escape you. “And I know that sounds dramatic.”
“It doesn’t.” You looked up, her expression was gentle, but there was something firm underneath it. “It sounds like you love your mother.”
It was no grand revelation, just the truth; nonetheless, your face crumpled again, and you had to look away.
Without thinking, you brought your hand to your mouth, pressing your thumbnail against your front teeth. An old habit, one your mother had spent years trying to break you of.
You used to do it before spelling tests, before recitals, before her doctor appointments, when you were younger, she'd gently pull your hand away and replace it with a granola bar, a pencil, a stress ball, anything to keep your fingers occupied.
For years you'd barely done it at all; now it was coming back, anxiety had found an old d,oorway and remembered how to get inside.
Mrs Bennet's eyes flicked down to your hand, then back to your face, but she did not snap at you to stop, nor did she make it into another thing you had to feel embarrassed about.
Instead, she reached slowly toward the tissue box and nudged it closer.
You lowered your hand almost immediately, ashamed anyway. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
You nodded, took a tissue, more to have something to hold than anything else, and twisted it between your fingers.
“I hate this feeling,” you whispered.
“Sometimes fear does that,” she said. “It makes you mourn things before they happen, because your mind thinks that if it imagines the worst clearly enough, it can somehow prepare you.”
You looked down at the tissue in your hands. “Does it?”
“No,” she said gently. “Not really.”
A weak, miserable laugh escaped you. “At least you’re honest.”
“I try.”
"It's just..." Your voice cracked again.
You pressed the heel of your hand against your eyes, trying to stop the tears that kept coming no matter how many times you wiped them away.
"Planning for Harvard now feels..." You swallowed hard. "Suffocating."
You wiped at your face again, embarrassed by how pointless it was when more tears kept coming anyway and for a while, Ms Bennett let you breathe, then, with a bit of hesitation, she opened the drawer beside her desk.
“I wasn't going to bring this up, I don't usually do, actually,” she said.
You gave a weak, watery laugh. “That sounds ominous.”
"It isn't ominous," Mrs Bennet replied calmly, though there was a carefulness in her tone that didn’t quite reassure you.
You narrowed your eyes slightly, studying her. "That is exactly what ominous people say."
She smiled gently, but there was something serious in it, then she pulled out a thin folder and placed it on the desk between you.
You frowned. “What is that?”
"UCAS," she said, turning the folder so the letters faced you. The acronym meant absolutely nothing. "It's the undergraduate application system for universities in the UK, like Cambridge. Oxford. LSE. UCL... a few others.”
You blinked, stared at her, then at the folder, then back at her. You've heard those names before, Universities you'd looked at once or twice out of curiosity, usually late at night when you had fallen down some academic rabbit hole and started comparing programs for no real reason, then immediately dismissed because they weren't Harvard.
Because Harvard had always been the plan.
So seeing Ms Bennet calmly place a folder for an entirely different continent on the desk while you were actively crying felt slightly surreal.
Your frown slightly, "Ms Bennet, why do you have that in your desk?"
"Because sometimes I have at least one student who thinks there are only eight colleges in the world... or because they know they aren't."
A reluctant smile tugged at your mouth.
"I don't think that."
She raised an unamused eyebrow, then went on, "I know Britain is far--”
You let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “That is one way to describe another continent.”
“It is far,” she repeated, not letting you hide behind the joke. “And it would be easier, in many ways, to look somewhere here. There are plenty of extraordinary universities in the United States that would be more than happy to have you.”
“Then why are you handing me this?” You looked at her carefully.
Ms Bennett leaned back slightly, considering you in that quiet, unnerving way of hers and said
“Because I do not think this is only about prestige, if it were, we would be having a very different conversation.”
You looked down, Harvard still glowed on the screen behind her, crimson, official and almost yours.
Ms Bennett continued. “You have already proven you can aim high; that is not the question.”
You frown, still not understanding, “Then what is the question?”
“The question,” she said at last, her steady gaze on you, “is whether you need a future that has not already been imagined.”
"What?"
For someone supposedly intelligent, you were struggling horribly to keep up. You gestured vaguely between the Harvard email glowing on her computer screen and the folder she'd placed on the desk.
“I don't understand what that means.”
Ms. Bennett’s voice softened. “If I gave you a list of other schools in Boston, New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, or even California, they might be excellent. They might be easier to explain, easier to visit and for your family to understand.”
“Sounds great,” you said weakly.
A smile flickered across her face.
“But would they feel different enough?”
You frowned and opened your mouth, ready to argue, but no words came out. Because now, unfortunately, you sort of understood what she was saying, not in a way you could explain back to her without sounding ridiculous but enough.
Enough that your eyes dropped to the UCAS folder again, and the room seemed to tilt slightly around the idea.
"You've spent years working toward difficult," Mrs Bennet continued. "You're not afraid of hard work, or of competition."
A faint, humourless smile pulled at your mouth; no, those had never been the problem.
"You certainly aren't afraid of leaving home."
Your smile fell into pursed lips; the tears on your cheeks had started to dry, leaving your skin feeling tight and uncomfortable, but you didn't bother wiping them away anymore.
Mrs Bennet glanced down at the UCAS folder for a moment before looking back at you. “I’m not saying England is the answer. I am not even saying you should go, I know you still want Harvard."
Your eyes drifted immediately to the email still glowing on her computer screen, the crimson crest, the likely letter, the dream.
“I do,” you admitted quietly.
Because, despite it all, you did want it badly.
Mrs Bennet nodded. “I know, and I don't think you're questioning Harvard.”
You frowned.
“Then what am I questioning?”
For a moment, sadness crossed her face. "I think you're questioning whether you can survive loving something that has become tangled up with losing someone.”
You could hear the blood rushing in your ears, but it was true.
"I’m handing you another version of your future,” she said carefully. “Something farther away, something less tied to all those old conversations, might give you room to breathe.”
The words made sense, and you hated that
“So England is, what, emotional ventilation?”
Mrs Bennet’s mouth twitched. “Not the term I would use in a recommendation letter.”
A weak laugh slipped out of you, and you gaze at the email.
“A different country would not make grief disappear," Ms Bennet murmured gently, "I would never pretend that. You would still miss her. You would still have bad days. You would still carry all of this with you, but it may give you a place where every street corner is not already part of a memory.”
Your gaze dropped to the folder again. Another version.
“What would I even study?” you asked softly.
“Well,” she said, opening the folder, “you’ve spoken about law for years, and if still the long-term goal, there are several paths. Law itself, of course, but also politics and philosophy. Something analytical. Cambridge has an excellent Economics course, and it would open the door a bit better at Harvard Law later, if you still want it”
“Cambridge,” you repeated.
Ms Bennett turned one of the pages toward you. “You would have to work hard.”
You gave her a look through wet lashes. “When do I not?”
“Fair point..."
You stare at the folder, re-reading the acronyms, could feel the weight of the folder sitting between you on the desk.
"The Oxbridge deadline is soon," Ms Bennet said carefully. "If you wanted to apply, we'd need to move quickly."
You leaned back slightly, putting a little more space between yourself and this new doorway she had just opened.
"I didn't say I wanted to apply."
Mrs Bennet raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“I still have Harvard.” You gestured vaguely toward the email still glowing on her computer screen. “And I applied to other colleges too.”
Mrs Bennet nodded, understanding, but she nudged the UCAS folder a little closer across the desk anyway.
“You don’t have to choose England, but if there is any part of you that thinks you may need more than one version of your future, then I do not want you realising too late that you had another door and let it close because you were afraid to look at it.”
You pursed your lips “I just... don’t want to choose the thing that hurts less just because it hurts less.”
Mrs Bennet’s face softened. “That would be a very human thing to do, but there is a difference between running from grief and giving yourself a place where you can still grow around it.”
You should have pushed the folder back, should have said Harvard was enough, laughed at the entire conversation, thanked her for her time, grabbed your things and gone back to class like the girl who had received the best news of her life.
Instead, you stared at the folder, at the neat black letters printed across the front yet again.
UCAS.
A door, nothing more than a door with no strings attached to anyone, and looking at another door did not mean closing the one you had spent your whole life walking toward.
Ms Bennet folded her hands together. "Apply. That's all I'm asking. If they offer you a place, you can decide then, for now, you're not choosing a university, you're simply keeping a door open."
You pursed your lips, eyes moving between her and the folder, and reached out before you could think too hard about it, and pulled the folder toward yourself.
“I'll...” Your voice caught, you cleared your throat. “I'll send an application.”
Mrs Bennet nodded, her expression softened. “You don’t have to decide anything beyond that.”
You nodded, more to yourself than to her. UCAS folder sat in your lap, it still felt impossible somehow, but Ms Bennet was right, an application wasn't a commitment.
You tightened your grip on the folder and gave a small nod.
“...Okay.”
By ten in the morning the house already smelled like cinnamon, butter, and impending disaster.
"Conrad!"
"I'm literally helping!"
Thanksgiving at your house was never quiet. The television was already on in the living room, volume a little too high, some parade coverage bleeding into the kitchen every time someone opened the swinging door. Jeremiah was supposed to be setting the table and was somehow nowhere to be found. Conrad had been assigned three separate jobs, was doing a little of all of them badly, much to your annoyance and kept smiling down at his phone... Probably Belly.
Which was another dilemma entirely, and one you had absolutely no interest in meddling with before noon.
You were currently doing roughly half the cooking your mother had originally planned to do herself. Not because she had asked you to, no, she would never ask, that was the problem.
She was still trying to be Susannah Fisher, the holiday queen, floating through the kitchen in a soft sweater with cinnamon on her hands and excitement in her smile. Only now she moved a little slower than she used to, pausing every so often before crossing the room, lingering just a second too long in front of the oven as if gathering the energy for the next thing.
So, naturally, you had started intercepting things in subtle but determined ways.
Took over basting the turkey because you "wanted to." Volunteered to peel potatoes, stir sauces, carry trays, and do anything that kept her from standing too long, without making it obvious what she was doing and other things like tell your brothers what to do, how to do it and where to go.
Your mom simply smiled, squeezed your shoulder as she passed, and thanked you like you were doing her a favour instead of quietly trying to keep the morning from wearing her out.
Jeremiah chose that exact moment to burst through the back door. "I found the tablecloth!"
You blinked away from the vegetables . "…Where was it?"
"The garage."
"The garage?" Conrad echoed from across the kitchen, glancing away from the stove.
Jeremiah shrugged as though that answered every possible follow-up question. "Don't ask me. Thanksgiving stuff migrates."
The house was starting to look like a small theatrical production that happened to involve turke. There were flowers on the table before breakfast, candles your mom insisted smelled like “late November”, even though Jeremiah said they smelled like a craft store having a nervous breakdown.
And this year, she was determined to make everything as perfect as possible because Laurel, Steven and Belly were coming, the house would be full before long, and if your mom had anything to say about it, every candle would be lit, every dish would be warm, and every person who walked through the front door would feel like they'd come home.
You knew better than anyone how much that meant to her, and you wanted her to have it.
Jeremiah was already halfway back toward the hallway when you looked up again.
"Well?" you called after him.
He paused dramatically. "What?"
"Go and set the damn table, I asked you an hour ago."
Jeremiah groaned so dramatically you would have thought you'd asked him to build the table from scratch.
"I will, my God."
“Then go.” You motion to the hallway.
“I literally just got back.”
“From the garage, not war, twerp!”
Jeremiah threw the tablecloth over one shoulder and looked toward your mother with the expression of a deeply persecuted younger brother.
"Mom, tell her to stop being so annoying."
Without even looking up from the bowl she was whisking, Susannah smiled. "You probably should've set the table an hour ago."
"I was looking for it," He defended himself.
"And now your getting on my nerves!" You pointed at him with the knife, "Go set the freaking table, so help me God, Jeremiah."
Jeremiah looked at your mom again. “Are you seeing this?”
Her shoulders shook with silent laughter as the doorbell rang.
For one glorious second, the house went quiet except for the bubbling pot on the stove and the faint music playing from the living room.
Susannah looked toward the hallway, smiling already. “That might be Laurel... she came earlier than I thought."
“I’ll get it,” Conrad said at once, setting the spoon down.
“Wash your hands first,” you said automatically.
He looked at you and lifted his hands as if to prove they were clean and you squinted.
“Fine, go.”
Jeremiah leaned closer to your mother and whispered loudly, “She’s lost it.”
Go set the table,” you shot back.
“I will!"
Conrad disappeared down the hallway, and Jeremiah didn't move an inch toward the dining room; instead, he beelined for the cooling rack, stole another bun, and bit into it far too soon and immediately regretted it, puffing little breaths through his mouth while stubbornly refusing to spit it out.
“Mom,” you complained, throwing both hands in the air. “I'm about to kill him.”
Susannah didn't even look up from the cranberry sauce she was stirring.
"Jeremiah, honey, don't start eating now," she said, shaking her head fondly. "You'll be too full for turkey later."
Jeremiah looked genuinely offended by the suggestion. "I'll never be too full for turkey.
You pointed at the dining room. “Table. Now.”
Jeremiah took another bite of the roll instead and for one long second, you just stared at him as he chewed, a man with no fear of death.
Before you could actually throw the rolling pin at him, Conrad came back into the kitchen holding a pie box.
“Not the Conklins”
Behind him was Johnny, who was holding two more pie boxes stacked carefully in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other.
He stood there in his Harvard sweatshirt, taking in the scene with the polite, cautious expression of someone who had walked into a room and immediately understood he had missed at least three arguments.
Conrad glanced back at him as he went to put the pie on the fridge “I warned you.”
Johnny’s eyes moved from the rolling pin on the counter, to Jeremiah holding half a dinner roll, to you standing there with flour on your sleeve and murder in your eyes.
“Should I come back later?”
“Yes,” Jeremiah said at once. “Save yourself.”
“Ignore him.” You sent your brother a glare before stepping forward to take the pies from Johnny.
Your fingers brushed his around the boxes, and for a second the kitchen noise seemed to dip.
You caught his gaze, “Hi,”
Johnny’s smile changed and whispered back,“Hey”
Susannah wiped her hands on a towel, her whole face brightening in that way that made the room feel warmer. “Johnny, sweetheart, you’re early.”
Johnny’s smile shifted from you to your mom “I hope that’s okay.”
“Of course it is.” She moved toward him, already reaching for the flowers. “And you brought flowers. Look at you.”
Johnny handed them over with a careful smile. “Happy Thanksgiving, Susannah.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Susannah accepted the flowers like he had brought her something much more precious than a bouquet. “Happy Thanksgiving. These are beautiful.”
“They’re from the little shop near campus,” Johnny said. “The woman there said they were autumnal.”
Jeremiah, still chewing, leaned slightly toward Conrad. “Autumnal.”
“Let me go find a vase to put them in.” She said before taking the flowers somewhere deeper into the house.
“Well,” you said, setting the pie on the fridge next to where Conrad place the other, “good thing you’re early.”
Johnny’s attention returned to you, for one hopeful, foolish second, he looked like he thought you meant something sweet.
Maybe that was why you were so glad to see him, not that you needed a reason (you always were) but you’d invited him a few days earlier after he’d mentioned that his mom, Ed, and Will would be spending Thanksgiving with Ed’s family, you’d invited him without really thinking about it. The alternative had been spending the holiday at his grandfather’s grand estate with Aunt Bess and the twins, something that hadn’t exactly filled him with enthusiasm. It hadn’t taken much convincing after that.
Unfortunately for him, you were also covered in flour and operating on nerves, cinnamon, and the determination to make this day as perfect as possible.
“Because we’re behind,” you finished matter-of-factly.
His hopeful expression deflated just enough to be funny. “…Right.”
Jeremiah, still chewing on the stolen roll, leaned against the counter like he had not been given a single instruction all morning.
“Careful,” he told Johnny. “That’s how she gets you.”
You pointed at him immediately. “You. Table.”
Jeremiah groaned “Oh, my god!”
“And you’re supposed to be helping him,” you said ignoring Jeremiah, turning your finger on Conrad next.
“I was!”
You send him an unamused look “Sure. If checking your phone every five minutes counts as productive.”
“Belly texted.”
Your expression softened before you could stop it. Of course she had.
You knew Jeremiah well enough to notice the tiny shift in his face every time her name came up, no matter how hard he pretended otherwise.
Things were… better, at east on the surface.
A few weeks ago he’d told Conrad he had his blessing to be with Belly, and for the first time in months the house hadn’t felt like it was balancing on a fault line.
But you knew better than to believe peace meant healed.
You were angry for Jeremiah. How could you not be?
The way everything had happened had been awful and messy and embarrassing. The kind of hurt that made even Thanksgiving feel like it was sitting on top of a fault line.
But you couldn’t really blame or be mad at Conrad either, not entirely.
He hadn’t known everything and Conrad loved Belly with the kind of hopeless, consuming certainty that made him stupid and careful and impossible all at once.
Were you mad at Belly? well, you weren’t entirely happy with her, nonetheless, you will keep it cute, like the old times for your moms sake.
You cleared your throat, “The decorative pumpkin don’t care who you texted.”
Conrad opened his mouth to defend himself.
You didn’t let him turning to Johnny, you nodded toward your brothers. “You’re going with them.”
Johnny blinked. “Me?”
“You will help them finish the decorations,” you said nodding. “And you’ll make sure these two don’t slack off.”
Johnny glanced between you and them before a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“So… supervision.”
“Congratulations.” You smiled sweetly. “You’ve been promoted.”
After a beat, Johnny nodded. “Yeah, all right.”
You send him a smile “thank you”
Jeremiah stared at him as he finally climbed down from the counter.
“Been here thirty seconds and folded immediately.”
Johnny looked at him, then glanced toward you, who had already gone back to cutting vegetables.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Thirty seconds, and I already understand the chain of command.”
Jeremiah scoffed as he make his way out the kitchen “Unbelievable.”
Conrad clapped Johnny once on the shoulder as they started following Jeremiah toward the dining room.
“Welcome to the front lines.”
Johnny nod solemnly. “I appreciate it.”
Your mom came back with the flowers arranged in a vase, setting them carefully beside the sink before lingering there a moment.
When you looked up, she was watching you with that soft, knowing expression on her face.
“What?” you asked, already suspicious.
She blinked innocently. “Nothing.”
“Mom.”
“I’m serious.”
You gave her a look.
She smiled anyway, reaching for a pair of kitchen scissors to trim the flower stems. “He fits in here.”
You automatically glanced toward the dining room, where Jeremiah’s voice carried loudly through the house.
“I’m just saying, tablecloth wrinkles are part of the rustic charm.”
“They’re not supposed to be diagonal, Jere.”Conrad replied flatly.
Then Johnny’s voice followed “Maybe if we pull it from this side.”
There was a brief scrape of wood against the floor, followed by Jeremiah saying, “Wow. Management has spoken.”
You couldn’t make out what Johnny said next, but it earned a scoff from Jeremiah followed by Conrad’s unmistakable laugh.
Against your will, the corner of your mouth twitched.
“Yeah,” you said, turning back to the dough. “He’s useful.”
“That wasn’t what I said.”
“It’s what I heard.” You sing sang
Susannah laughed softly and moved to hug you. “I love you, baby girl.”
“Moom!” You complained but hugged her right back.
By late afternoon, the house had reached the dangerous stage of Thanksgiving where everything smelled good, everyone was slightly overheated, and your mother had started saying things like we’re right on schedule in a tone that meant you absolutely were not.
Laurel had called to say they were fifteen minutes away.
Jeremiah had finally set the table, Conrad had disappeared to shower after your mother told him, very sweetly, that he smelled like onions. Johnny had somehow survived decoration duty.
You, however, looked like you had been attacked by a bag of flour so you went to change and might’ve drag Johnny with you.
Your room was blessedly quieter.
Still a bit messy, because you had been too busy micromanaging Thanksgiving to care. A half-open drawer, a stack of college brochures on your desk you had not meant to leave visible, a pair of heels kicked near the closet, a dress hanging from the wardrobe door.
Johnny stepped inside and paused near the threshold, polite enough not to wander.
“You know,” he said, “when you said come with me, I assumed there was going to be a task.”
“There is.”
You shut the door halfway, not all the way, because you were not insane and your brothers were downstairs with mouths.
Johnny glanced at the dress. “Am I steaming something?”
You grabbed the towel you used that morning “No.”
“Carrying something?”
Throw it on the dirty clothes basket “No.”
“Being murdered?”
You send him a grin and a shrug “Possibly.”
His mouth twitched.
You crossed to your closet and started searching for the cardigan you had planned to wear, only to remember you had thrown it somewhere during the morning crisis involving the missing candles.
“You’re hiding.”
Johnny blinked. “I’m hiding? From whom?”
You grabbed a pair of jeans,“My dad.”
That made him go still for a second.
“Your dad’s coming?”
You sighs and nodded “It’s Thanksgiving.”
“I know, I just thought—”
“That maybe he’d skip the family holiday centered around my sick mother and the children he emotionally confuses on a regular basis?” You pulled a sweater from the closet, frowned at it, and threw it onto the bed “No such luck”
Johnny nodded understanding, and leaned back lightly against your desk, hands in his pockets. “Do you want me to leave before he gets here?”
You looked over your shoulder, he was trying to sound casual but did not quite manage it.
“What? No.” You said looking at him as if he’d grown three heads. “No,” you said again honestly, then sighed. “It’s just….”
Johnny waited as you turned back to the closet, suddenly very interested in two nearly identical sweaters.
“My dad’s is weird about people.”
Johnny frown “Weird how?”
“Weird as in he’ll either barely acknowledge your existence or decide he likes you because you’re a Sinclair and you go to Harvard.”
Johnny’s expression shifted. “Ah.”
“Yeah.” You pulled out a blouse, stared at it, then put it back.
“And if he likes you for that, I’m going to get annoyed. And if I get annoyed, Conrad’s will notice and if he notices, he’ll say obviously something and if he says something, Jeremiah will either try to calm everyone down or make it worse and then my mom will pretend she’s not tired while trying to make everyone feel comfortable.”
You stopped moving and the room went quiet around the sentence, downstairs, someone laughed.
The holiday continued without you.
Johnny’s voice was softer when he spoke again. “So you brought me upstairs to avoid a chain reaction.”
You looked at him, lips pursed then admitted.
“Yes.”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “That’s very strategic.”
“Well, I’ve been running this house like the militia all day, apparently.” You huff.
“I heard.”
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself.
Johnny’s gaze drifted briefly to your desk, and the slight tilt of his head made you follow it.
Your stomach tightened immediately.
The Harvard folder was still there, half-hidden beneath a sweater and beside it sat the UCAS papers. You hadn’t meant to leave either of them out.
Johnny noticed your expression before he looked back at the folders and almost immediately, he dropped his gaze, giving you the chance to pretend he hadn’t seen anything at all.
“…Got into Harvard?”
You worried your bottom lip between your teeth before shaking your head.
“Not exactly.” A small shrug. “It’s a likely letter.”
His eyebrows lifted. “That’s … basically Harvard’s way of saying, please don’t commit somewhere else.”
A quiet laugh escaped you.
“That’s pretty much what my counselor said.”
He smiled at you, “Congratulations.”
He didn’t say it loudly, didn’t make a joke or make it into a big moment, just… Congratulations and somehow, that made it feel more real than everyone else’s excitement had.
“Thanks.”
His eyes drifted back to the desk for only a second. “And…” He nodded toward the other folder. “UCAS?”
You looked at it too, words came slower this time. “I’m… keeping my options open”
Johnny didn’t look surprised, curious, maybe “thought Harvard was the plan?”
“It is. it’s just…” you pursed your lips trying to come up with something that’s not the truth or at least not all of it. “I…”
The words refused to come.
You could explain it, I mean you’d spent almost an hour trying to explain it to Mrs. Bennett but saying it out loud again somehow felt impossible.
Johnny watched you for another second then, very quietly, he rescued you from it.
“You don’t have to tell me.”
The knot in your chest loosened just enough for you to breathe again, eyes meeting his blue.
“…Thanks.” You smiled, a little small and a little self-conscious. “I’m just… not sure I can explain it yet.”
“You don’t have to.” The answer came easily, without expectation.“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “And, for what it’s worth, I think having options is a good thing.”
You stood there for a second, still holding a dress you hadn’t actually decided to wear, feeling suddenly very aware of him in your room.
Johnny glanced at you again before gesturing toward the dress.
“You should probably change.”
You blinked. “Oh.”
Right.
“I can wait in the hall,” he offered immediately, already pushing himself away from your desk.
“No, stay.”
The words came out before you’d thought about them. Both of you froze.
“…I mean—” Heat climbed into your cheeks “Just…”
You looked around your room as if the explanation might be written on one of the walls.
“Turn around.”
Johnny’s eyebrows lifted but his eyes shinned with a bit of amusement “…That’s considerably less confusing.”
A laugh escaped you despite yourself. “Shut up.”
“Gladly.”
He turned without another word, facing your bookshelf with exaggerated dedication, his hands disappearing into the pockets of his jeans.
“I’m looking exclusively at your copy of Pride and Prejudice,” he announced solemnly.
Smiling despite yourself, you slipped behind the wardrobe door to change.
“How noble of you.”
“It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”
You changed quickly, grateful he could not see your face. The room felt smaller with him in it, but not uncomfortable but like… charged, for lack of better words.
Familiar in a way you were not ready to name.
As you pulled the dress over your head, Johnny said, still facing the bookshelf, “For the record, I don’t want your father to like me because of my last name either.”
Your hands slowed at the zipper and for a moment you just stood there, the fabric sitting awkwardly at your back where you couldn’t quite reach it, looking at the back of his head.
“Really ?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged lightly, though you only saw the movement from the corner of your eye.
“I’d rather he’d judged me as the guy who’s in his daughter’s bedroom while she changes than the grandson of Harris Sinclair.”
A surprised laugh slipped out of you and the sound made Johnny instinctively glance over his shoulder.
The second he realized you were still adjusting the dress, he looked away just as quickly, clearing his throat.
“Sorry.”
You couldn’t help smiling. “You can turn around now.”
Johnny hesitated.
“Actually…” You reached behind your back again, fingers fumbling for the zipper before letting out a quiet sigh. “I kind of need your help with this.”
“Oh.” He turned slowly, giving you every opportunity to change your mind.
His eyes landed on your face first.
“The zipper,” you clarified, unable to stop yourself from smiling.
He blinked “Right.” And stepped closer.
“May I?”
You nodded once and turned around, gathering your hair over one shoulder and the room seemed impossibly quiet, enough that you heard the Conklin’s arrived.
Johnny’s fingers found the small metal tab at the base of the zipper, he was careful.
The backs of his knuckles brushed your skin as he drew it upward, slowly, making sure the fabric didn’t catch.
You could feel the warmth radiating from him more than you could actually feel him touching you.
His cologne, clean, expensive, familiar now after the past few months, lingered in the small space between you, suddenly impossible to ignore.
“You have a habit of volunteering me for jobs,” he murmured, breaking the silence.
“You haven’t complained yet.”
“I haven’t had a reason to.”
His voice was close enough to your ear, making your skin tingle.
The zipper reached the top but his hand stayed there, for a moment more, fingers resting lightly near the clasp, not quite touching your skin, not quite pulling away either, but then, to your surprising dismay, he stepped back.
“There,”
“Thanks,” you said, your voice smaller than you intended..
“You’re welcome.”
Neither of you moved and funny enough , it wasn’t awkward.
Johnny’s gaze met yours for a moment before his gaze flicked over you once, then returned quickly to your face like he had manners and was making a heroic effort to remember them.
“It suits you,” he said.
Your chest did something profoundly unhelpful.
You looked down at the dress, smoothing invisible wrinkles from the skirt just to give your hands something to do.
“It’s just a dress.”
Johnny smiled. “I know.”
The rest of the afternoon slipped by in the comfortable chaos only Thanksgiving seemed capable of producing.
Laurel arrived first, wrapped in nice coat against the November cold, Steven and Belly close behind her. The second your mother opened the door, the house somehow became even louder.
“Laurel!”
The two women hugged tightly, laughing before either of them had even said hello.
You were next. “Laurel.”
“Oh, sweetheart.”
She pulled you into one of her warm, familiar hugs, kissing the top of your head before holding you at arm’s length.
“You look beautiful.”
You snorted softly. “I think you mean exhausted.”
“That too.”
Steven barely waited his turn before pulling you into a hug of his own.
“Happy Thanksgiving.”
You laughed hugged him right back “Happy Thanksgiving.”
As you stepped back, Steven’s smile faltered for the briefest second, his attention snagging on the figure standing just behind you.
“Oh… hi. Uh… Johnny?”
Johnny met his gaze with an easy smile, extending his hand. “Hey, Steven.”
“Hey…” Steven accepted the handshake almost on instinct, his expression betraying a flicker of surprise as his eyes shifted between the two of you. “wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“I invited him,” you cut in before Johnny could answer.
Steven blinked once letting the boys hand go. “Oh.”
His surprise lasted only a heartbeat before he recovered, greeting Johnny with an easy smile.
“Well, It’s good to see you again.”
Johnny nodded “You too.”
“Johnny, how are you?” Laurel asked, offering him an easy smile and a nod of greeting.
Johnny returned it with one of his own. “I’m doing well, thank you. How have you been?”
“Good,” Laurel nodded. “Busy, but good. College treating you alright?”
He gave a soft laugh. “Keeping me busy, that’s for sure.”
“I imagine somewhere like Harvard’ll do that,” Belly said with a grin.
“It definitely lives up to the reputation,” Johnny admitted.
“Well,” your mom clapped her hands together, glancing toward the kitchen, “I’m glad you’re all here. The more people around this table, the better. Now help me with the turkey!”
Belly was the last you greeted, she hugged your mother first, then you, as she stepped back, her eyes drifted toward Johnny, then back to you.
One eyebrow lifted, you knew that look but ignored it completely.
The front door opened again a bit later.
“Sorry I’m late,” Adam called as he stepped inside, a bottle of red wine in one hand and the crisp November air following him into the foyer. “Traffic coming over the bridge was a nightmare.”
“You’re forgiven,” Susannah replied without looking up. “Only because you brought wine.”
“I know how negotiations.”
Jeremiah was the first to reach him, accepting a hug. “Hey Jere!”
Conrad came over next, exchanging the sort of one-armed hug that had become normal between them over the last few years, then Adam looked at you.
“There she is.”
He smiled, genuine if a little awkward, and opened his arms and you hugged him briefly.
“Happy Thanksgiving, dad.”
“You too, sweetheart.”
When you stepped back, his eyes landed on the unfamiliar blond standing nearby.
Adam looked between the two of you once, then smiled. “And you must be the boyfriend.”
Johnny blinked and you felt your face warm immediately.
“Dad.” You let out an embarrassed laugh. “No.”
“No?”
“He’s my friend.” You glanced at Johnny before looking back at your father. “We met over the summer in Cousins. I used to babysit his little brother during the summer.”
“Ah.” Adam nodded slowly. “Right. Your mom mentioned that.”
His eyes moved back to Johnny, studying him with polite curiosity now, he was trying to connect a name to a half-remembered conversation from months ago.
“The babysitting job,” he mumbled Ethan nodded again. “In that Beachwood island, wasn’t it?”
You blinked, a little surprised he remembered that much. “Yeah.”
Adam eyes turned to Johnny, bit of recognition.
Johnny stepped forward with an easy politeness that made the whole thing feel less humiliating but a tight smile.
“Johnny,” he said, offering his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Fisher.”
Adam shook it.
“Adam,” he corrected automatically, then gave you a small, amused glance. “And sorry about the boyfriend thing.”
Johnny’s mouth twitched, but he was kind enough not to look at you.
“Trust me, no harm done.”
Adam held onto the handshake for a moment longer, slowly, the pieces clicking together.
“So your family owns the place over there.” He paused, searching for the name. “Sinclair, wasn’t it?
Johnny’s expression shifted for less than a heartbeat, not enough for your father to notice but you, who knew better, did.
His smile tightened almost imperceptibly before he inclined his head. “Yes, sir.”
“Of course.” Adam gave a small laugh, pleased with himself for remembering. “The Sinclairs…”
You stiffened,but thankfully before your father could ask anything else, Susannah called from the dining room, “Adam, if you’re done making our guest stand in the hallway, come open the wine.”
Adam released Johnny’s hand and lifted the bottle slightly.
“Right, my one contribution.”
“One of very few,” Laurel called from the dining room.
Adam laughed, easy and unbothered, and moved toward the table.
You stayed where you were for half a second longer and Johnny looked at you.
You mouthed a Sorry.
He only shook his head once, almost amused, like he was telling you not to worry about it, I mean, and you knew it wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t even your father’s.
It was simply what happened whenever people recognized the Sinclair name.
Eventually, conversations began to drift toward the dining room as the last of the food was carried out of the kitchen.
The table looked exactly the way your mother and you had imagined it. Candles glowed softly between bowls of mashed potatoes and roasted vegetables, the autumn centerpiece sat proudly in the middle, and every serving dish had finally found its place after what had felt like an entire day of rearranging.
Your mom emerged from the kitchen carrying the turkey with both hands, wearing an expression of triumph as everyone instinctively stepped aside to let her through.
Right behind her came Laurel with the final casserole dish, while Adam followed carrying gravy and the basket of rolls.
Your mother set the turkey in the center of the table with a satisfied sigh before taking a step back to admire her work.
“Look at this amazing table!” she declared proudly, sweeping a hand toward the table. “Martha Stewart can kiss my ass.”
A ripple of soft laughter spread around the room.
Laurel set the casserole beside the potatoes and grinned. “I love it when you swear.”
You couldn’t help laughing as you looked over the table yourself. “Does ass even count as swearing?”
Steven snorted as he rounded the table
“No, it’s not— Susannah say motherfucker!”
“Steven.”
Laurel didn’t even sound angry, just deeply, deeply accustomed to him while another round of chuckles broke out.
“What?” he protested, already laughing. “You literally just said you loved it.”
“She motherfucking loves it,” your mom joked as she lowered herself into her seat, holding both hands out before anyone could keep teasing her. “Alright, everybody sit down, please. The food’s getting cold.”
Still chuckling, everyone finally began to settle around the table.
You ended up at the other head, your mom across from you, with Johnny on one side and Conrad on the other.
Your mom looked around the table, smiling softly. “So, let’s go around and say one thing we’re thankful for.”
Yours hand found Johnnys almost naturally, his fingers warm as they laced through yours and on your other side, Conrad reached over without a word, and you took his hand too.
You just sat there caught between the two of them, surrounded by the low hum of voices, the clinking of plates, the smell of turkey and sweet potatoes and all the familiar things that made the house feel full.
“Jere-bear?” your mom prompted, just like she did every Thanksgiving.
Jeremiah avoiding everyone’s eyes but you did noticed his gaze on belly.
“Uh, I’ll go last. How about that?”
Your brows drew together slightly, it wasn’t like him and you could tell from the set of his jaw that he was in some kind of mood.
Before anyone could push him, Johnny straightened a little beside you. “I’ll go, if you don’t mind.”
Your head turned toward him, eyebrows lifting.
Johnny glanced at you briefly, before looking back at your mom. “I mean, I’m the guest. Feels only fair I earn my plate.”
That earned a few chuckles around the table.
Susannah smiled at him warmly “Go ahead, sweetheart.”
He glanced around the table, suddenly the center of everyone’s attention. He looked almost sheepish for a second before a small smile settled on his face.
“Well…” Johnny began, clearing his throat as he sat up a little straighter. “I’m thankful for being invited,” he said, his voice calm and genuine. “Really. I know Thanksgiving is usually something you spend with family, so… it means a lot that you all let me be here.”
He paused for a moment, his eyes drifting toward you before returning to the rest of the table.
“And…” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’m especially thankful for one person who’s made moving to Boston a whole lot easier. She knows who she is.”
Conrad glanced down at his plate, pretending very hard not to smile. Jeremiah let out an amused huff, while Belly’s eyes flicked between the two of you with a grin. Steven’s expression shifted for half a second, Laurel’s smile softened, and your dad gave a quiet, approving nod.
You ducked your head, fighting the smile tugging at your own lips before looking back up with a laugh.
“Well…” you teased, nudging Johnny lightly with your shoulder, “I hope she knows how much pressure you’ve just put on her.”
That earned a few laughs around the table and Johnny only smiled, entirely unapologetic.
Your mom looked completely and utterly delighted.
“That’s a very good one,” she said warmly.
Johnny gave a small, almost bashful nod. “Thank you.”
You squeezed his hand and he squeezed back.
For one fleeting moment, with everyone talking over each other and your mother smiling at the head of it all, everything felt exactly as it should.
“…No, he caught me,” your mom admitted a little while later, laughing before she could even finish. “He caught me putting sugar in his green juice.”
Jeremiah groaned, though he was smiling. “Okay, Mom, you're ruining my healthy recipes. It is culinary blasphemy.”
“Not ruining” Susannah corrected. “Enhancing.”
Your dad scoffed from next to her “Yeah, like the moussaka?”
Susannah didn’t miss a beat.
“Hey, I still maintain it tastes better with little pieces of hot dog in it.”
“Oh, Beck, no,” Laurel grimanced, shaking her head. “If you're going to ruin a recipe, ruin it with steak.”
You pointed your fork at her. “No, no—you only say that because you’ve never actually tried it.”
Laurel pulled a face as your mom exclaimed triumphantly “See? She gets me.”
Johnny let out a quiet huff of laughter beside you, more relaxed now than he had been at the start of the evening.
“Oh, I don’t think she can talk much,” he said, glancing over at you with a small grin.
Your head turned toward him. “Excuse me?”
His grin only widened. “Remember Red Gate? When you tried to make Will that smoothie?”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Johnny.”
“No, no,” Conrad said, leaning forward. “I need to hear this.”
Steven pointed his fork between the two of you. “Yeah, you can’t just start a story like that and stop.”
Johnny looked entirely too pleased with himself. “It was supposed to be a banana-strawberry smoothie and turned out with the color of wet cement.”
Laughter rippled around the table and you threw him an offended look.
“He asked me to put Oreos in it!”
“Which would’ve been fine,” Johnny shot back. “If you’d stopped there but you added spinach, and peanut butter—“
“Ever heard of proteins?!”
He continued unbothered by your interruption “—and orange juice.”
You opened your mouth, then paused.
Conrad glanced over at you, eyebrows raised. “Orange juice?”
“You are definitely your mother’s daughter.” Said Laurel.
“It needed liquid!” You huff at the table chuckles and pointed out. “and for everyones information Will drank it,”
Johnny leaned back slightly, looking far too pleased.
“Will took one sip,” he corrected, “said it was interesting, and then asked if he could go play outside.”
“That poor kid was trying to escape.” Jeremiah chuckled.
Susannah grin, reaching for her glass. “I think it sounds inventive.”
Adam looked at her. “Of course you do.”
The conversation drifted easily from one story to the next, everyone chiming in whenever a memory sparked another.
Steven and Belly became the target first, forced to relive one of their more embarrassing childhood adventures before Laurel and your mom somehow managed to turn the attention onto themselves, laughing over a disastrous road trip neither of them could quite remember the same way.
Then the attention shifted to you, Conrad, and Jeremiah your mom and dad telling when you three were little and told him that crust would curl his hair so you and Conrad could finish his sandwiches the end result was Jeremiah peeing on Conrad’s lunch bag and cutting your dolls hair.
Laughter rolled around the table once again, everyone talking over one another until no one could remember who’d started speaking first.
For one perfect evening, the house felt untouched by everything waiting outside of it.
Eventually, though, pie was ate, plates were cleared away, and the evening began to soften around the edges.
Your dad was the first to leave, though not before asking Johnny about his major. The conversation somehow turned into Adam offering him an actual job at his company if he ever wanted one, Johnny had nodded to the offer politely, with that careful smile of his, while you fought the urge to roll your eyes at how predictable your father could be.
After that, everyone slowly drifted into different corners of the house.
Your mom and Laurel had disappeared into her bedroom, rummaging through the closet after your mom remembered an old outfit she’d found the other day, from upstairs, every so often, you could hear another burst of laughter.
Conrad had wandered off somewhere with Belly, Jeremiah was probably in the garage for reasons you didn’t feel like questioning, and Steven was in the living room trying to get the Wii set up.
You and Johnny stayed behind in the kitchen, finishing off the last of the leftovers. The two of you moved around each other with an easy familiarity, passing containers back and forth, finding lids without asking, the whole thing feeling strangely… domestic.
He chuckled at something you’d said as he snapped the lid onto one of the containers. A moment later, his eyes drifted to the watch on his wrist.
A quiet sigh escaped him. “I should probably head out.”
You nodded, even if part of you wished he didn’t have to. “I’ll walk you out.”
Johnny looked up from the container in his hands.
“You don’t have to.”
You smiled, taking it from him and setting it on the counter before bumping the refrigerator door shut with your hip.
“I know.” You reached for your sweater hanging over one of the kitchen chairs and slipped it on. “I’m going to anyway.”
The corner of his mouth lifted a little more.“Okay.”
Together, the two of you wandered toward the front door but not before Johnny detouring to say bye to your mom and laurel and Conrad and Jeremiah and Steven.
Johnny paused long enough to pull on his coat while you unlocked the front door.
The November air greeted you immediately, crisp enough to make you pull your sleeves over your hands.
“God,” you muttered, shivering. “Boston really commits to the whole winter thing.”
Johnny laughed softly. “What never lived here before?”h
“Every year I convince myself it won’t be that bad and every year I’m wrong” you huff as he smiled, falling into step beside you as the two of you made your way down the front walk.
His car sat parked beneath the streetlamp, the black paint catching the warm glow from the porch behind you.
You stopped beside the driver’s door and neither of you said anything for a beat. Neither of you seemed in much of a hurry to end it.
Johnny slipped his hands into his coat pockets, rocking back slightly on his heels then looked back toward the house where laughter still drifted faintly through the windows.
“…Thank you,” he said quietly.
You smiled. “For what?”
He gave a small shrug, his blue eyes finding yours.
“For today.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “I… I like your family. A lot.”
Something in the way he said it tightened your chest.
He looked back toward the house, where muffled laughter still drifted through the windows.
“They made me feel like I belonged, that doesn’t happen very often.” He admitted
You didn’t even have to think about your answer.
“Of course you belong here, Johnny boy.”
His eyes found yours again, and for a second, something soft and unguarded enough that it made your chest ache.
You reached up before you could think better of it, straightening the collar of his coat more out of habit than necessity, fingers smoothed over the fabric once, then lingered there.
“I’m really glad you came.”
Johnny looked at you for a long moment before smiling back. “Me too.”
Neither of you moved, behind you, through the windows, the house was still bright and loud and for one strange second, it felt like the whole world existed behind that front door.
But out here, beside Johnny’s car, everything was quiet.
The cold nipped at your cheeks, his breath fogged faintly between you and his eyes dropped, just for half a second, to your mouth.
You should have stepped back, every sensible part of you knew that.
Instead, you stood there, your hand still resting lightly against the collar of his coat as Johnny looked at you.
Slowly, so slowly you could’ve stopped him at any moment, he leaned in, those blue eyes never left yours, giving you every chance to pull away.
And you didn’t.
So when his lips finally found yours, warm against the cold November air, instinctively, your fingers curled into the fabric of his coat as you tipped your chin up, meeting him for that single, fleeting moment.
The kiss was impossibly gentle and it lasted no longer than a heartbeat.
A quiet breath escaped him against your lips before he drew back, not because he wanted to, but because he was waiting to see what you’d do next.
His eyes searched yours, open and quietly hopeful, as though the next moment belonged entirely to you.
It stole the air from your lungs, that look, the one that made your heart ache and your chest tighten all at once, that made you want to kiss him again… and terrified you enough not to.
As if your heart refused to let the moment end like that, you leaned up and brushed one last, lingering kiss against the corner of his mouth then dropped your hand from his coat and took a small step back.
“Drive safe,” you said, the words coming out softer than you meant them to.
Johnny looked at you, understanding settling over his face before he nodded.
“Yeah.” His voice was quiet too. “I will.”
“Text me when you get to the dorm?” You forced a small smile.
His mouth curved faintly. “I always do.”
“I know.”
He opened the driver’s door, then paused, one hand resting on the frame as he looked back at you.
“Happy Thanksgiving.”
Your smile softened despite yourself. “Happy Thanksgiving, Johnny.”
He got in after that, and you stepped back toward the curb as the engine came to life, low and smooth and expensive enough to make you roll your eyes even now.
Johnny noticed and through the window, he gave you a look to which you only lifted one hand in a small wave.
He smiled, shaking his head, and then pulled away from the curb and you stood there until the taillights disappeared down the street.
Only then did you press your fingers lightly to your mouth. It had been such a small kiss…
So why did it feel like something you had just lost?
As you stepped inside, the warmth hit you immediately, but it did little to settle the tangle of emotions still swirling in your chest.
You shut the door behind you and found Conrad and Jeremiah standing in the near the stairs, talking quietly.
They both looked up and you offered them an easy smile. “What’s up?”
“Mom wants you to come look through some old ‘90s baby tees she found,” Conrad said, jerking a thumb toward your parents’ bedroom. “Go before Belly steals all the good ones.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Nah. Maybe later.”
“Alright then,”Conrad nodded toward the living room instead. “Steven’s setting up the Wii.”
“I’m in.”
You looked over at Jeremiah. “You coming?”
Jeremiah gave a small shake of his head.
“Nah, I’m gonna call it the night”
You pinched his cheek before he could dodge you.
“Aww,” you cooed, pitching your voice up into that obnoxious baby voice you knew he hated. “Is little baby Jerebear too full?”
Jeremiah swatted your hand away at once.
“Stop.”
“Fine,” you laughed, rubbing your fingers together dramatically as though he’d wounded you. “Go to bed, just know you’ll be missing me absolutely wiping the floor with these two at bowling.”
Conrad let out a disbelieving laugh as he ruffled your hair. “You?”
“Excuse me?” You pushed him away “I’ve been training.”
You and Conrad had barely taken a step before Jeremiah spoke again.
“Uh… actually…” Something in his voice made you both stop.
You turned back but Jeremiah wasn’t looking at you, his eyes stayed fixed on Conrad.
“Can I talk to you for a sec?”
Conrad glanced at you before nodding. “Yeah. What’s up?”
You started to excuse yourself, already turning toward the living room to give them some privacy but then Jeremiah spoke again.
“Next time Belly’s coming over… can you give me a heads-up or something?”
Your hand stilled against the doorframe and turned back toward Jeremiah, the request catching you off guard.
Conrad frowned, clearly confused. “What do you mean? I thought you knew everybody was coming over.”
“Yeah, I did,” Jeremiah said, “But if you guys are going to be here together, then I don't want to be around.”
Silence settled over the room.
Conrad just stared at him, Jeremiah had said he was okay with it, so hearing this now left him confused.
Before the quiet could stretch any longer, you stepped in, hoping to ease the growing tension.
“Jere…” you said gently, your voice calm. “I get it, I really do. But come on, it’s Thanksgivi—“
“No, Y/N.” He gave a small shake of his head before looking over at Conrad. “It's better for everyone if we just keep some distance, okay? You do your thing and I'll do mine.”
You pressed your lips into a thin line, your gaze drifting between the two brothers.
Conrad was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable, then, with a faint nod, he simply said, “…Sure. If that’s what you want.”
With that, he turned on his heel began to make his way up the stairs. “Goodnight.”
You could tell it gutted Conrad.
He didn’t say anything at first, didn’t even move really, but you saw it in his eyes before he could hide it. That quick flash of hurt, the kind that slipped through before he had the chance to bury it under a shrug or some dry comment.
And God, you hated seeing him like that, you hated seeing both of them like that.
Jeremiah walking away like distance was the only thing keeping him together, Conrad standing there like he’d just been told he was still a problem even when he was trying not to be. It made something in your chest twist painfully, because this wasn’t some simple fight where one person was right and the other was wrong.
They were both hurting, and you weren’t going to take sides, you couldn’t when you loved them both too much to turn one brother’s pain into a weapon against the other.
So you stayed quiet for a second, letting the silence settle instead of rushing to fill it.
Then you looked over at Conrad, your voice softening. “Connie…”
He blinked, like your voice had pulled him back into the room, and gave a small shake of his head.
“It’s fine,” he said quickly.
But it wasn’t and you knew him too well for that.
You stepped closer, gentle enough that he could pull away if he wanted to, his gaze stayed fixed somewhere down the hallway, where Jeremiah had disappeared, his jaw tight and his shoulders tense.
“It’s not fine,” you said quietly. “But it doesn’t have to be fixed tonight.”
Conrad let out a breath, almost a laugh but not really. “Yeah. I know.”
You nodded, even though you weren’t sure he did.
Neither of you said anything, the sounds of belly’s laugh from upstairs moved around, all of it too oblivious and normal for what had just happened.
You reached for his hand and squeezed it once.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured.
Conrad looked down at your hand around his, then back at you. His expression softened, just barely. “You didn’t do anything.”
“I’m still sorry.”
Because what else could you say? You couldn’t make Jeremiah stay. You couldn’t make Conrad stop hurting. You couldn’t undo Belly or the summer or all the those things that happened that none of you knew how to talk about yet.
Moments like these made it so easy to resent Belly.
And you hated that they did. Every time you watched Conrad force himself to swallow his hurt or Jeremiah walk away because staying was too painful, a small, ugly part of you wanted someone to blame. More often than not, your mind landed on Belly.
And then, just as quickly, the feeling dissolved into guilt, because you knew it wasn’t fair.
Belly hadn’t asked for any of this any more than Conrad or Jeremiah had. She was caught in the middle of it too, trying to navigate feelings she probably didn’t understand herself.
You know that feeling all too well.
Besides… she’d been part of your life for as long as you could remember. She was family in every way that mattered, more like the little sister you never had than just your mom’s best friend’s daughter
How were you supposed to hate someone you’d grown up loving? You couldn’t.
So instead, you hated the situation, the impossible choices, and the silence that had settled between two brothers who used to be inseparable.
You just hoped, prayed, really, that this would all blow over sooner rather than later.
A/N
OMG!!!! Long ass chapterrrr but I hope hope hope you enjoyed it. Lowkey one of my favourites <3
So... I know I said she will be going to Harvard with Johnny? But at the same time, I wanted her to go abroad. well.... yeah... i think i found the solution to both of those pickles, thing is... it's going to be angsty </3
But hey!! New expiriencesssss!! lol
So, I know I should let y'all have a bit of reading comprehension, but I just can't keep this to meself, the part where they kiss? And she's holding his coat? touching him? That's her not wanting the moment to end, like clinging to it, actually. I mean, you never know if it's going to be the last... lol jk
Also, I'm loving Olivia R's new album... please it's so them!! Honeybee? On repeat when writing that kiss scene. So, listen to it while reading this part if you want!
Divider by cursed-carmine
See you next chapter 🤍
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