Location Pinned at: Blue's Apartment
With: Zaina (@onxnights)
Based on: Living Louder - The Cab
“Okay, seriously,” She began, scooping another messy bite of ice cream into her mouth, “how is it socially acceptable for this to taste like literal happiness?” She groaned, pressing the pint against her chest like it was a lifeline. “We should just… quit life and live on Cookie Dough for the rest of eternity. No responsibilities, just… this.”
Blue glanced at Zaina, smudged eyeliner catching the light from the lamp, a grin tugging at her lips. “You can’t even tell me you don’t want in on this. Admit it: you’ve been eyeing this like a hawk since I opened it.”
She laughed, the sound warm and chaotic, like music spilling into quiet corners. “Honestly, this is the kind of girl’s night that the world doesn’t deserve, but we do. Just you, me, and the ice cream. And maybe some terrible rom-coms if we’re feeling ambitious.”
Blue leaned back, arms stretched along the back of the couch, the pint dangerously balanced between her knees. “So… what’s first? Ice cream war, or Netflix chaos?” She waggled her eyebrows, playful but lazy, already plotting the most indulgent night possible.
Location Pinned at: Coral's Canvas
With: James (@james-hayes)
Based on: Cool- Gwen Stefani
Blue rolled the rim of her cup against her lips, grimacing at the bitter black coffee she’d somehow spilled a little on the sleeve of her leather jacket. Typical. She’d come for the messy freedom of the Splatter Box, a few minutes away from stage lights and the constant hum of Atlas Harbour, but the first thing she noticed wasn’t the paint, it was James.
Not a 'hello, ex' kind of notice. A 'wait, how the hell are you here without making this weird' kind of notice.
She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, toes tapping faintly against the paint-speckled floor. “Well, well,” She started, voice low, teasing but careful, “look who decided to survive the chaos without calling me a maniac for life.”
Location Pinned at: High Tide Treasures
With: Lila (@onxnights)
Based on: Rich Girl - Gwen Stefani
Keiran hadn’t meant to stop.
She was supposed to be picking up a replacement bulb for a headlight and maybe a cold brew strong enough to punch through the leftover fog of a three-hour night’s sleep. But she passed by the familiar striped awning of High Tide Treasures, saw the handwritten “POP-UP TODAY” sign swaying in the wind, and, well.
She had a soft spot for things with a past. Things someone else had given up on.
So she killed her bike, shoved her helmet under one arm, and ducked inside the drifting maze of racks. The air smelled like sun-warmed fabric, old cedar, and a hint of sea salt blown in from the harbor. Wind chimes made from sea glass clicked overhead.
Keiran felt out of place instantly. Like she’d tracked in grease on her boots. Like someone was going to tell her she was touching the clothes wrong.
She brushed a smudge of charcoal off her thumb and wandered toward a rack of vintage band tees, flipping through the hangers with her rings clinking softly.
Then, she froze.
Standing at the other side of the rack was a woman she’d never seen before.
Tall-ish. Golden hair. Sharp eyes softened by warmth but sharpened again by something like power. The kind of power that came from knowing every rule in the room and being able to bend them without blinking.
Her outfit looked expensive in that effortless way money made things expensive. She didn’t seem like someone who needed a thrift pop-up. She seemed like someone who owned the yacht it was parked next to.
Keiran swallowed, pretending to study a faded Springsteen tee.
She cleared her throat, pushing a curl behind her ear, suddenly aware of the grease smudge on her jaw and the doodles on her jeans.
“Uh, hey.” She greeted, voice low, casual only because her heart refused to be. “Careful with that one.” She nodded at the dress Lila was holding: a pale vintage slip trimmed in lace. “The owner says it’s from some estate sale up the coast. Belonged to a socialite or something.”
A small shrug, a ghost of a smirk tugging at her mouth.
“Figure you’d appreciate a warning before you accidentally pick up something haunted.”
“I’m Keiran." She added, thumb hooking into her belt loop out of habit. “Mechanic over at Portside Motors. I fix cars. And… crash into vintage shops, I guess.”
She lifted her helmet slightly in a half-wave, half-shield.
“And you look like you actually belong here. Which is impressive. Most people don’t.”
“You new in town,” Keiran asked quietly, “or did I somehow miss someone like you walking around Blythe Cove all year?”
Location Pinned at: Blythe Cove Book Swap
With: Charlie (@charlieburkhardt)
Based on: Coffee Talk - Broadside
Keiran didn’t do bookstores.
Not because she didn’t like reading, she did, secretly, usually at three in the morning with one leg hanging off her bed and the rest of the world asleep. But quiet places always made her feel like she didn’t belong. Like she walked too loud, breathed too sharp, took up too much space.
But she’d been riding her motorcycle in circles around town all day, trying to outrun a mood she couldn’t name, and somehow ended up parking right in front of Blythe Cove Book Swap. Maybe fate. Maybe boredom. Maybe just the universe reminding her she needed new charcoal pencils and a used copy of something depressing to scribble in.
The bell over the door chimed when she stepped inside, the warm paper-and-dust smell making her shoulders loosen an inch. It was cozy; string lights draped along wooden beams, handwritten recommendation cards tucked under stacks of secondhand novels, someone’s playlist humming through old speakers.
Keiran shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, trying to look like she belonged instead of like she’d wandered in by accident.
She turned down an aisle (poetry, of course) and nearly walked straight into someone.
A girl was standing there, back to Keiran at first. Keiran caught a glimpse of sharp cheekbones, tired eyes, and the kind of presence that felt… quiet but electric. Like a storm humming behind a soft sky.
Keiran blinked, stopped short, and cleared her throat, softly, awkwardly.
“Sorry." She muttered, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with oil-stained fingers. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I’m, uh… not great at making my footsteps quiet.”
Gaining the other's full attention, though Keiran didn’t know her name yet, had something warm, unfamiliar flicker in Keiran’s chest.
Great. Exactly what she needed. A pretty stranger in the poetry aisle. Perfect.
Keiran glanced at the book in Charlie’s hand, then back up.
Smirk, small. Hesitant.
“You’ve got better taste than most people who wander into this section." She commented, nodding at the shelf. “Usually it’s teenagers looking for breakup validation or guys pretending they’ve read Bukowski.”
Keiran shifted her weight, boots squeaking on the wood floor.
“…I’m Keiran, by the way. I’m new-ish.”
She motioned vaguely toward the window. “Mostly live in the garage at Portside Motors.”
Her voice dipped a little softer, almost curious without meaning to be.
Location Pinned at: Sea Mist Spa
With: Nyla (@onxnights)
Based on: Glamorous - Fergie
QT wasn’t a “spa person.” At least, that’s what she claimed every time someone suggested she needed to “unwind.” She didn’t unwind, she delegated, she organized, she planned, she problem-solved. Rest was a luxury, and she typically preferred her luxuries to come in the form of good wine and a locked door.
But even QT had limits, and tonight she’d hit one.
So here she was: sitting in the hushed, warm lobby of Sea Mist Spa, ankles crossed, manicure perfect, pretending not to be overwhelmed by the soothing waterfall wall that was definitely doing too much.
Her phone buzzed.
She ignored it.
If she looked at one more work notification, she’d combust.
QT exhaled slowly, letting her head fall back against the plush chair. The eucalyptus steam drifting from the nearby diffuser was starting to loosen the tension in her shoulders; just enough that she noticed how tired she actually was.
Across the room, someone moved. Light footsteps. A rustle of soft fabric. QT’s eyes flicked open, automatically drawn toward the sound.
“Okay.” She said aloud (not to Nyla, not exactly) more like to the universe that had thrown her a curveball. “I swear I walked in here to relax, not to be witnessed while I’m this close to dissolving into a stress puddle.”
A small, rueful smile tugged at QT’s mouth.
“Please tell me you’re the person who’s supposed to fix me,” She pouted lightly, “or at least the person who can tell me where the tea is before I start chewing the furniture.”
Location Pinned at: Portside Motors
With: Nate (@nathanhayes)
Based on: Vroom vroom - Charli XCX
QT hated the sound her car had been making all week; some awful grinding, rattling hybrid noise that definitely wasn’t there before she hit that pothole on Tidewater Boulevard. She hated even more the fact that she had to rearrange her entire afternoon to deal with it. But what she really hated?
How embarrassingly relieved she felt when she pulled into the gravel lot of Portside Motors and spotted Nate’s SUV out front.
The shop door was propped open, warm air spilling out along with the smell of motor oil and that metallic tang QT always pretended she didn’t like. She stepped inside carefully, heels clicking against concrete, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, tote bag tucked close like the world’s most organized shield.
QT paused in the entrance.
Just long enough for her presence to be noticed.
Just short enough that she could claim she wasn’t staring when she spotted him.
“Please tell me you have time." She announced, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. Her tone was light, but her brows lifted with a very clear plea she’d never admit to. “Because my car sounds like it’s trying to perform its last rites.”
QT rolled her eyes before he could comment.
“Yes, I know," She added, stepping further in, “I look like someone who has no business near a place that smells like machinery and masculinity. But desperate times.”
She gestured toward the lot with a little sigh.
“It’s making this awful noise whenever I turn left. Or breathe near the steering wheel. I figured you’d know what it is instead of me googling it and convincing myself the entire frame is falling apart.”
“So…” She trailed, tilting her head just slightly, “Think you can squeeze me in? Or should I schedule an appointment with someone less… competent?”
Location Pinned at: The Salty Mug
With: Reese (@reesekeller)
Based on: Girl, so confusing - Charli XCX
QT wasn’t expecting company. Not this early, not today, and definitely not while she was still trying to convince herself she liked Blythe Cove’s brand of 'quiet.' She’d claimed a corner table at The Salty Mug, the only place in town with matcha that didn’t taste like regret. Her notebook lay open in front of her, pages filled with precise handwriting, color-coded tabs, and a half-finished client plan she’d rewritten twice already.
She was mid-sip (iced matcha, honey, oat milk, the usual) when the air shifted. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… enough.
QT felt it before she looked up.
A presence. A body. A gaze.
And when she finally lifted her eyes, Reese was standing in line, head tilted slightly, curls catching the soft morning light like a halo no one should look that good in. QT had seen her around: once on the boardwalk, once at Tideview Heights, once in the lobby with a smirk that lingered longer than it should’ve. Reese had that energy: effortless, magnetic, the kind of charisma that made strangers write bad poetry. Then again, every member in that band had the same pull.
QT didn’t stare. She observed.
(Which, to be fair, looked a lot like staring.)
She looked back down at her planner, pretending to read a sentence she already had memorized. In actuality, she was attempting to figure out how to break the ice.
Click. Her nails tapped the cover.
Adjust. She straightened her gold chain.
Breathe. She inhaled slow, grounding.
“Morning." QT said, voice smooth. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
She closed her notebook with one careful motion, giving Reese her full attention: measured, warm, and just sharp enough to feel intentional.
“Are you grabbing coffee,” QT started, head tilting, “or following me?”
A friendly tease.
A smile, small but warm.
The kind that said she already knew the answer, and was curious what Reese would do about it.
Location Pinned at: Park outside of Tideview Heights
With: James (@james-hayes)
Based on: Today - Smashing Pumpkins
The late afternoon sun hit Blythe Cove in that warm, honey-gold way Derek always pretended not to like, but secretly kept track of in the margins of his field notes. He was perched on the low stone wall outside Tideview Heights, sleeves rolled up, glasses slipping down his nose as he scribbled something in his leather notebook with quick, neat strokes.
He didn’t notice James at first.
What he did notice was the sudden shadow that cut across the page, swallowing the neatly sketched vertebra mid-line. Derek blinked up, pen still poised, the corners of his mouth tightening in the familiar expression he wore whenever someone interrupted his thought process.
“...Oh. Hey." He greeted, pushing his glasses back up out of reflex. His voice softened once his eyes adjusted. “I didn’t think you’d be back around this part of town today.”
Derek’s gaze flicked between him and the horizon, as if trying to recalibrate something inside himself.
Realizing he hadn’t said enough, Derek cleared his throat and tapped the pen against his notebook. Once. Twice.
“You, uh… caught me in the middle of something riveting." He added dryly, lifting the journal so James could see the half-finished drawing. “Triassic vertebrae. Very exciting stuff. Really explains the crowds.”
There were no crowds. Just a couple of seagulls and the lingering smell of salt.
Derek shut the notebook gently, thumb tracing the worn edge as he finally made space beside him on the wall: an unspoken invitation. A tentative one.
“So… what brings you over here? I figured you’d be off doing literally anything more interesting than listening to me talk about fossils again.” His tone was teasing but quiet, the kind he only used when he wasn’t afraid of the answer.
Location Pinned at: Portside Auto Body Shop
With: Nathan (@nathanhayes)
Based on: Numb - Waterparks
The backdoor slammed behind Keiran hard enough to echo, but she didn’t stop moving. The raven-haired woman stormed across the concrete like she could outrun the pressure building under her ribs, like she could shake Nathan’s voice out of her skull.
She couldn’t.
Of course she couldn’t.
Nathan had this way of getting under her skin without even touching her.
Keiran’s hands were trembling when she grabbed the edge of the railing, knuckles whitening as she leant into the cold metal. The Morales girl sucked in a breath like she'd been underwater too long.
“Don’t.” She snapped when she heard the door creak open again. She didn’t even have to look. “Just, don’t.”
Location Pinned at: Museum (out of town)
With: Zaina (@onxnights)
Based on: Girls Like You - Maroon 5
The museum was closing, the overhead lights dimming one by one, but Derek barely noticed. His focus was entirely on the woman curled up in one of the oversized lobby chairs, tucked into his coat like she was trying to disappear inside it.
He stopped a few steps away just to look at her, because honestly, he still couldn’t believe she was real. Or his. Or both.
“You know,” He started, voice warm with that soft, helpless smile he only ever wore around her, “every time I think this place can’t get any better, you show up and prove me wrong.”
He walked over, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of her head before she could tease him for staring. “You look better in my jacket than I ever will." He murmured. “It’s almost unfair.”
Derek sank into the chair beside her, letting their knees knock together as his hand found hers, letting himself melt into the comfort she always brought with her. “Long day,” He sighed, nudging her shoulder gently, “but coming out here and seeing you? That fixes all of it. Every single time.”
He brushed his thumb across the back of her hand, tracing little circles like he was memorizing her all over again.
Her engagement ring caught the low light, sparkling between them. Derek’s gaze lingered on it for a moment before drifting back to her face: soft, certain, endlessly in love.
“Wanna head home, sweetheart?” Derek asked, voice gentle. “Or do you wanna stay here a little longer and let me spoil you with attention while the dinosaurs supervise?”
Location Pinned at: Sandpiper Point Beach
With: Reese (@reesekeller)
Based on: Chasing Cars - Snow Patrol
The sand was cool beneath Savannah’s palms as she leaned back, letting the night breeze lift a few strands of her hair. Her car was parked a few feet away, headlights off, the faint ticking of the cooling engine the only reminder they hadn’t been here long. They always ended up in places like this: quiet corners, half-lit fields, anywhere the rest of the world seemed to forget about.
“Good view.” The blonde murmured, nodding up at the sky. The stars weren’t unusually bright, but something about the space between them felt soothing. “Kinda makes everything feel… slower.”
She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to. Reese knew her well enough to read between the lines, and she hoped the other wouldn’t tonight. Or maybe she hoped Reese would. She wasn’t sure.
A firefly drifted near them, glowing once before disappearing again. Savannah followed it with her eyes, then glanced toward Reese; quickly, casually, like she was checking the time.
“You ever notice,” She started, picking at a shell wedged in the sand, “how it’s easier to breathe out here?” A small shrug. “With no noise. No plans. Just… this.” Us. She wanted to say it with her full chest, but couldn't find the words.
Her voice was light, almost airy, but her pulse tapped at her throat. She didn’t turn toward the other again, but she could feel Reese's presence: steady, familiar, a comfort she pretended she didn’t lean into as much as she did.
“I’m glad you’re here." She added, quieter, as if it were just another observation.
Like the stars.
Like the breeze.
Like something she wasn’t supposed to examine too closely.
She lay back on the sand, hands folded on her stomach, looking up.
“You make the quiet feel... different." She said with a small smile that she wasn't sure the other could see.
⋆.˚ ☼⋆𓇼｡ AHOY, MATEY! Do you hear SAY IT AIN’T SO BY WEEZER, by any chance? Must be DEREK HARDING. Word around the cove is that HE could be really CRITICAL, but also very CONSIDERATE when you get to know HIM. The PALEONTOLOGIST (OUT OF TOWN) has been staying over at TIDEVIEW HEIGHTS for HIS WHOLE LIFE, now. Time sure does fly being 28. Looking like MASON GOODING must be tough around all these tourists - and it doesn’t help giving off those WIDE-RIMMED GLASSES THAT ACT AS A LENS INTO WONDER, A LEATHER FIELD BOOK THAT’S FRAYING AT THE CORNERS, GOLDEN SUNLIGHT FILTERING THROUGH JUNGLE CANOPY, EARTH-TONED SHORTS ROLLED UP AT THE ELBOWS, AND THE GENTLE CLICK OF A PEN IN THE MIDDLE OF CHAOS vibes, either. Well, what’s a CAPRICORN CIS MAN to do? ｡𓇼⋆☼ ˚.
Overview
Name: Derek Harding
Nicknames: D, Doc Harding, Fossil Boy (derogatory, by locals who like him)
Age: 28
Birthday: January 3, 1997
Zodiac: Capricorn (sun), Cancer (moon), Libra (rising)
Sexuality: Straight - Engaged
Nationality: American
Languages: English (fluent), French (conversational)
Hometown: Blythe Cove, New Jersey
Current Residence: Tideview Heights, Blythe Cove, NJ
Snapshot
Faceclaim: Mason Gooding
Height: 6’1”
Weight: 178 lbs
Build: Lean, athletic “climbs things he shouldn’t” build
Hair: Soft black curls, often wind-tousled
Eyes: Warm brown with gold flecks
Scars: Small scrape on his jaw from falling in a ravine; faint fieldwork scars on shins
Tattoo(s): A tiny fossilized ammonite behind his left ear (his only “rebellion”), Coordinates of an important dig site on his ribs
Clothing: Earth tones, linen button-ups, distressed work pants, hiking boots, cargo shorts, field vests, soft sweaters, occasionally a lab coat. Always has rolled sleeves, always looks slightly sun-kissed, and always carries a bag full of something scientific (brushes, journals, maybe a fossil or two).
Details: Wide-rimmed glasses, a pen always tucked behind his ear, constantly scribbling in a leather field notebook, pockets full of interesting rocks, wears a simple silver bracelet from his mother.
Scent: Sandalwood, sun-warmed cotton, faint graphite, fresh pine, and dusty books.
Color palette: Warm umber, moss green, sandstone, sun-yellow, soft cream.
Makeup: None, but always has a smudge of dirt somewhere without noticing.
Academics
Degree(s):
B.S. in Earth Sciences
Ph.D. in Paleontology (vertebrate specialization)
Certificate(s):
Field Safety Certification
Wilderness First Aid
Museum Curation Techniques Program
Behavioral
Disorder(s): None formally diagnosed; struggles with workaholism
Stability: Rock-solid, except around emotions
Phobia(s): Deep caves, disappointing people he cares about
Coping skill(s): Cataloging things, long hikes, journaling, reorganizing his workspace
Habit(s): Clicks his pen when thinking, pushes his glasses up constantly, mumbles facts under his breath, infodumps when excited
Favorites
Food: Shrimp linguine
Drink: Iced americanos
Place: The abandoned cliffside overlook where he goes to think
Sound: Pencil scratching on paper
Song: “Say It Ain’t So” by Weezer
Show: Cosmos (both versions)
Book: The Lost World by Michael Crichton
Movie: Jurassic Park (he hates the inaccuracies, but loves it anyway)
Feeling: The thrill of uncovering something untouched for millions of years
Aesthetic: Sunlit academia; dusty boots, field notes, artifacts in pockets, curiosity woven into skin
Biography
Derek Harding was born and raised in Blythe Cove, though he rarely felt rooted anywhere but the shore cliffs where he spent his childhood digging for fossils in the sand. While other kids played games, Derek cataloged shells and pressed seaweed between notebook pages. His parents (a quiet librarian mother and a boisterous fisherman father) fueled his curiosity, letting him turn the garage into a makeshift “museum” by age ten.
Academically gifted but painfully shy, he buried himself in science to avoid the chaos of adolescence. When he left for college, he excelled fast: research internships, field studies in Utah, fossil prep labs, and eventually a full doctoral scholarship. His brilliance wasn’t loud, it was steady, meticulous, and quietly driven.
But after finishing his Ph.D., Derek returned to Blythe Cove instead of chasing prestige elsewhere. Part of it was for his aging parents, and part of it was something more instinctual: the Cove was home in a way no dig site ever was. He began working remotely with museums and universities, cataloging fossils and writing papers while living tucked away in Tideview Heights.
Locals know him as the “gentle scientist,” the guy who knows every tidepool like a friend and teaches kids about trilobites at the summer festival. But they also know he keeps to himself: critical, intense, and deeply private. Derek cares passionately (too passionately) and often hides that intensity behind dry humor, awkward politeness, and endless work.
Despite growing up here, he still feels like an outsider in a town full of loud personalities and glittering stories. But he’s steady, dependable, and earnest. In a place filled with chaos and reinvention, Derek is the grounding force: the quiet constant.
And though he studies the ancient past, he has no idea that the most important chapters of his life might be happening now, right here, in Blythe Cove.
Personality
Derek is an introvert with the soul of an adventurer. Calm, steady, observant, but brimming beneath the surface with a relentless curiosity that borders on romantic. He’s critical in that Capricorn way: precise, perfectionistic, always dissecting details. But he’s also kind, thoughtful, and deeply considerate, even if he struggles to express it without overthinking.
He’s awkward around emotions, terrible at flirting (unless he doesn’t realize he’s doing it), and tends to infodump when excited. He softens significantly around people who show him genuine interest or ask about his work.
He thinks in layers, feels in seismic shifts, and grounds himself through ritual: cataloging samples, clicking his pen, sketching fossils. He loves fiercely but slowly, committing with the intensity of someone who doesn’t waste devotion lightly.
Headcanons
Always carries at least two pens and loses both
Infodumps endearingly when someone asks a science question
Sleeps in soft cotton tees that smell like books
Keeps a pressed leaf in every journal he owns
Teaches local kids science without being paid
Forgetful with meals, punctual with everything else
Has perfect handwriting
Gets nervous around extremely confident people
Wears glasses even when he doesn’t need them (habit now)
Always stops to observe interesting rocks
Speaks softly until he’s passionate, then he sparks
⋆.˚ ☼⋆𓇼｡ AHOY, MATEY! Do you hear CAN’T STOP BY THE RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS, by any chance? Must be KEIRAN MORALES. Word around the cove is that SHE could be really MOODY, but also very ARDENT when you get to know HER. The MECHANIC (IN TOWN) at PORTSIDE MOTORS has been staying over at CASPARYN QUARTER for 1 YEAR, now. Time sure does fly being 25. Looking like MELISSA COLLAZO must be tough around all these tourists - and it doesn’t help giving off those CHIPPED BLACK NAIL POLISH, DOODLES ON THRIFTED DENIM JEANS, THE FEELING OF BEING IN-BETWEEN DREAMING AND AWAKE, WHISPERED CONVERSATIONS IN THE EARLY AM, AND BRUISED KNUCKLES REVVING A MOTORCYCLE vibes, either. Well, what’s a SCORPIO CIS WOMAN to do? ｡𓇼⋆☼ ˚.
Overview
Name: Keiran Morales
Nicknames: Kei, K, Morales, Rook
Age: 25
Birthday: November 11, 1999
Zodiac: Scorpio (sun), Taurus (moon), Aquarius (rising)
Sexuality: QueerNationality: Puerto Rican-American
Languages: English (fluent), Spanish (fluent)
Hometown: Kissimmee, Florida
Current Residence: Casparyn Quarter, Blythe Cove, New Jersey
Snapshot
Faceclaim: Melissa Collazo
Height: 5’3”
Weight: 115 lbs
Build: Petite but strong; compact muscle
Hair: Dark brown, wavy, usually in messy claw-clips or loose curls
Eyes: Hazel-green
Scars: A few from minor bike accidents, one burn mark on her forearm from the shop
Tattoo(s): A tiny crescent moon on her middle finger, “Perdida / Encontrada” on her sternum
Clothing: Faded band tees, thrifted denim jeans covered in doodles and patches, oversized flannels, grease-smudged coveralls, and scuffed combat boots. She loves layered tank tops, moto jackets, fingerless gloves, and silver jewelry that looks stolen from someone cooler. Often smells faintly of engine oil and sea salt.
Details: Always has chipped nail polish, carries multiple pens for doodling on anything, wears mismatched earrings, has a septum ring, chews cinnamon gum, uses electrical tape as a temporary fix for everything, and keeps her hands stained with charcoal from sketching.
Scent: Black cherry, tobacco leaf, warm cedar, motorcycle exhaust, and ocean air.
Color palette: Oil-slick black, rust red, smoky charcoal, deep teal, muted cream.
Makeup: Smudged eyeliner, dark lip balm, flushed cheeks from working in heat; barely-there but effortlessly cool.
Academics
Degree(s): None but attended trade school
Certificate(s): ASE Certified Automotive Technician, Motorcycle Repair Certification
Behavioral
Disorder(s): Cyclothymia (mild mood swings), chronic overthinking
Stability: Depends on how much sleep she got
Phobia(s): Deep water, losing control of a vehicle
Coping skill(s): Fixing things with her hands, sketching, long night rides, music loud enough to drown her thoughts
Habit(s): Runs her tongue along her teeth when irritated, picks at her nail polish, zones out mid-conversation when inspiration strikes
Favorites
Food: Empanadas (especially her Tía’s)
Drink: Black coffee with too much sugar
Place: The autobody shop right after closing
Sound: A freshly tuned engine purring
Song: “Can’t Stop” by Red Hot Chili Peppers
Show: AtlantaBook: The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
Movie: Girl, Interrupted
Feeling: The second the motorcycle engine roars to life; that split-second rush of control, freedom, and danger
Aesthetic: Grunge-soft; grease-stained hands, sunset rides, thrifted denim sketches, moonlit rebellion
Biography
Despite her quiet, steel-spined reputation, Keiran Morales carries a past far more chaotic than anyone in Blythe Cove suspects. Before she ever rolled into town, she spent several turbulent years working as a notorious getaway driver; pulled into the underground scene through a mix of circumstance, razor-sharp reflexes, and a dangerous craving for direction in a life that felt like it was going nowhere. She got good fast, too good, earning a reputation for threading cars through impossible gaps, staying ice-calm under pressure, and driving like she didn’t care if the road swallowed her whole. It was intoxicating, reckless, illegal… and unsustainable.
Her turning point came the night everything went wrong: a wet road, a bad call, and a violent crash just outside Blythe Cove that should’ve ended everything. Metal shrieked, glass exploded, and Keiran’s world spun out like a record suddenly snapped in half. But instead of waking up in handcuffs, she woke up to a lifeline. A longtime family friend of the Hayes found her at the crash before anyone else did. They dragged her out, kept her breathing, and quietly covered the pieces of her past that might’ve buried her future.
With their help, Keiran didn’t land in jail, she landed a job. The Hayes family vouched for her, bringing her into their autobody shop as a mechanic trainee, no questions asked in public spaces, plenty of hard truths behind closed doors. She walked in with trembling hands and a stubborn jaw, introduced not as a criminal but as a rookie. The nickname “Rook” stuck almost immediately: first as teasing, then as respect. Rookie driver. Rookie mechanic. Rookie rebuilding her entire damn life from the ground up.
Now, Keiran Morales is doing everything she can to turn over a new leaf, rebuilding engines while quietly rebuilding herself. She avoids talking about the crash, the crime, or the life she left behind, but the scar down her side and the faint hitch in her breath when rain hits asphalt say enough. She’s learning, slowly, that redemption isn’t loud or cinematic. It’s quiet, repetitive work: bolts tightened, oil changed, choices made differently this time.
Blythe Cove doesn’t know the full story. They just know the woman in grease-stained overalls who works late, keeps her head down, and never misses a shift.
But some still call her Rook, and she’s trying to earn the name for the right reasons now.
Personality
Keiran is all sharp edges wrapped in softness she doesn’t know how to show. She feels deeply but speaks sparingly, preferring actions to words. She’s moody in the way storms are: building, shifting, rolling in quietly until suddenly her emotions take up the whole room.
She is artistic, introspective, and sensitive beneath her grunge exterior. She hides her care behind sarcasm, hides her vulnerability behind hoodies and smudged eyeliner, and hides her steadiness behind pretending not to give a damn.
But she does. She gives too many damns.
When she loves someone, friend, lover, or otherwise, she’s ride-or-die, fixing their car at midnight, remembering their favorite snacks, showing up when they didn’t ask. She’s heat, devotion, and stubborn loyalty.
Socially, she’s awkward but magnetic. People are drawn to her mystery, her quiet intensity, the softness she doesn’t even realize seeps out when she’s focused on something.
Emotionally, she struggles with dips in mood: periods of hyper-focus followed by exhaustion. She bites back tears until her throat burns. She rages in silence. She calms through movement, sound, and touch.
But she’s resilient. She’s learning balance. And she’s discovering that Blythe Cove might just be the place where she can stop running from herself.
Headcanons
Draws on everything: cups, receipts, denim, her own arms
Rides her motorcycle when she can’t regulate her emotions
Loves thunderstorms but hates the ocean’s deep water
Collects band tees from thrift stores religiously
Sleeps in sports bras and boxers
Falls asleep to music playing quietly under her pillow
Is shockingly gentle with animals
Cries only when she’s alone: full body, silent tears
Keeps her tools organized her way; touch them wrong and she’ll glare for days
Has a sketchbook filled with people she’s too nervous to flirt with
Chews cinnamon gum when anxious
Twirls a lock of hair when she’s flustered
Drives with one hand, rings clinking on the gear shifter
Talks quieter when she really cares about what she’s saying
Writes unsent letters she hides in her motorcycle’s storage compartment
⋆.˚ ☼⋆𓇼｡ AHOY, MATEY! Do you hear BITCH, I’M NICE BY DOECHII, by any chance? Must be QUORI ‘QT’ TADINI-BLYTHE. Word around the cove is that SHE could be really STANDOFF-ISH, but also very PERSONABLE when you get to know HER. The MENTAL PERFORMANCE COACH & WELLNESS COORDINATOR (OUT OF TOWN) has been staying over at TIDEVIEW HEIGHTS for 4 MONTHS, now. Time sure does fly being 30. Looking like RYAN DESTINY must be tough around all these tourists - and it doesn’t help giving off those PLAYING OUT DAYDREAMS IN 8-COUNTS, GOLD ACCENTS WITH EVERY OUTFIT, THE SOUND OF STILETTOS ON MARBLE FLOORS, POM-POMS ACCUMULATING DUST IN THE BACK OF ONE’S CLOSET, AND A SIGNATURE SMILE THAT LEAVES EVERYONE SPEECHLESS vibes, either. Well, what’s a GEMINI CIS WOMAN to do?｡𓇼⋆☼ ˚.
Overview
Name: Quori Tadini-Blythe
Nicknames: QT, Q, Coach Tadini
Age: 30
Birthday: June 10, 1995
Zodiac: Gemini (sun), Virgo (moon), Leo (rising)
Sexuality: Demisexual
Nationality: American-Italian
Languages: English (fluent), Italian (intermediate), French (basic)
Hometown: Queens, NYC, New York
Current Residence: Tideview Heights, Blythe Cove, New Jersey
Snapshot
Faceclaim: Ryan Destiny
Height: 5’7”
Weight: 128 lbs
Build: Toned, athletic, long lines; “Dramatic” body type
Hair: Jet black, usually sleek, braided, or pinned with gold accents
Eyes: Deep brown, sharp and assessing
Scars: A thin one along her right knee from competitive cheer; faint stretch marks from training seasons
Tattoo(s): A delicate gold-ink constellation (Gemini) on her ribcage, “Breathe” in tiny script on the inside of her left wrist
Clothing: Structured silhouettes, tailored trousers, silk blouses, and athletic-luxe pieces. Stilettos with metal heels, monochrome sets, fitted activewear, oversized blazers, gold jewelry, and occasionally a vintage cheer jacket she swears she “never meant to keep.” Her style is precision: clean lines, intentional details, and quiet luxury with an edge.
Details: Gold hoops, layered chain necklaces, stacked minimalist rings, precision-manicured nails (usually nude or chrome), a sleek smartwatch, and a leather planner she guards like a diary. Always carries mints, lip oil, and a tiny vial of essential oils.
Scent: Fresh jasmine, white musk, warm amber, a hint of clean laundry, and the faint sharpness of hair oil and metal heels.
Color palette: Champagne gold, slate gray, deep onyx, crisp white, and soft blush.
Makeup: Soft-matte base, sharp liner, long lashes, warm contour, glossed lips. “Effortless” that actually takes effort.
Academics
Degree(s):
B.S. in Kinesiology
M.S. in Sport Psychology
Certificate(s):
Certified Mental Performance Consultant (CMPC)
Trauma-Informed Coaching Certification
Breathwork & Somatic Regulation Certification
Behavioral
Disorder(s): High-functioning anxiety (self-managed), perfectionistic tendencies
Stability: Surprisingly steady, until she’s not
Phobia(s): Failure in front of an audience, losing her voice (literally or metaphorically)
Coping skill(s): Breathwork, structured routines, grounding exercises, quiet luxury rituals
Habit(s): Clicking her nails when thinking, adjusting her jewelry when anxious, pacing while on the phone
Favorites
Food: Lemon garlic pasta
Drink: Iced matcha with honey & oat milk
Place: The empty gym before sunrise
Sound: The tap of stilettos on polished floors
Song: “Bitch, I’m Nice” by Doechii
Show: Insecure
Book: The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk
Movie: Bring it On
Feeling: That perfect moment when muscle, breath, and focus align: the world going silent right before the leap
Aesthetic: Luxury athleisure meets quiet storm; gold details, structured calm, and choreography written on the backs of receipts
Biography
Quori “QT” Tadini-Blythe has always lived at the intersection of discipline and glamour. Born and raised in Queens to a fiercely driven single mother, QT learned early that excellence wasn’t optional, it was the only language spoken in her household. Naturally gifted with rhythm, precision, and an almost unnerving ability to read people, she gravitated toward dance the way some kids gravitate toward air. By seventeen, she was choreographing for local studios; by twenty-one, she’d earned a coveted spot with the Knicks City Dancers, and by twenty-four, she made history as one of the team’s youngest-ever captains.
The years under Madison Square Garden’s lights shaped her: the pressure, the media polish, the rigorous conditioning schedules, the endless performing with a smile even on broken ankles or broken hearts. QT loved it fiercely, but it also took something from her: the constant expectation to be perfect, the politics of professional entertainment, the toll it took on her identity. She’d always been good at motivating others, at holding space, at keeping her team sharp both mentally and physically. Eventually, she realized she cared more about the people than the stage.
So she pivoted. She got certified in mental performance training, sports psychology foundations, and wellness coaching, using everything she learned from her dancer years to help elite performers stay balanced, grounded, human. Her client list grew fast (athletes, dancers, high-achievers burning out from the inside) and her reputation followed.
When an opportunity came to work remotely as a mental performance coach & wellness coordinator, QT took it as a chance to breathe away from NYC’s relentless pulse. That’s how she ended up in Tideview Heights, where she’s lived for the last four months; long enough to become a local mystery, but not long enough for anyone to figure her out.
Now at 30, she moves through the town with the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly who she is: a former prodigy, a polished powerhouse, a woman who traded spotlights for self-preservation. QT still dresses like the world is watching (gold accents, clean lines, stilettos echoing like punctuation) but her life is softer now, more intentional. She’s still the captain at heart, just leading a different kind of team: the people who come to her broken and leave with their spark reignited.
And though the pom-poms from her Knicks days gather dust, the fire that made her unforgettable on the court?
That never dimmed.
Personality
Quori is a paradox in motion: a woman who radiates poise yet carries the quiet storm of someone who built herself from pressure. She is observant to the point of unnerving, always reading micro-expressions, tone shifts, and the tension in someone’s shoulders before they speak. Her standoff-ishness is a shield; not coldness. She simply prefers to assess before she invests.
But when she lets someone in, QT becomes deeply personable: warm-toned humor, disarming sweetness, and a grounded presence that makes people feel safe. She is the person others confess things to without meaning to, the one who remembers small details and asks the right questions. Still, vulnerability is something she offers in small, deliberate doses.
Her mind is always working. She is analytical, strategic, and brilliant under pressure. But she is also imaginative; she choreographs in her head, daydreams in entire performances, and sees life in rhythm and staging. Her childhood in cheer gave her a backbone of discipline, but her career in psychology gave her softness, nuance, and emotional intelligence.
Socially, QT is selective but magnetic. She’s the woman at a party who stands by the window sipping matcha until someone brave approaches, then shocks them by being unexpectedly engaging. She flirts with her eyes, smiles deliberately, and enjoys the tension of being slightly unreadable.
Emotionally, she is both grounded and fragile. She knows how to regulate others far better than she knows how to regulate herself. She craves closeness but fears collapse. She thrives in discipline but longs for spontaneity. She is a Gemini in the truest way: duality as identity, contradiction as truth.
Headcanons
Always smells clean, warm, and expensive, even after a workout.
Keeps her jewelry perfectly polished; adjusts it when anxious.
Writes client notes by hand in perfect cursive.
Her planner is color-coded within an inch of its life.
Does sunrise yoga on her balcony every morning.
Falls asleep best to the sound of rain apps or white noise.
Secretly loves trashy reality TV but would die before admitting it.
Dances when she’s alone - full choreography.
Has a scar on her knee she touches when she’s overwhelmed, grounding herself in survival.
Never leaves the house without lip gloss.
Drinks her matcha like it’s a ritual.
Overthinks texts, rewrites them, then deletes them entirely.
Her resting face can be… intimidating.
Keeps her old pom-poms in a box under her bed and never explains why.
Has a playlist called “Fix Your Posture” for days she needs structure.
Notices everything, even what you think you hid well.
⋆.˚ ☼⋆𓇼｡ AHOY, MATEY! Do you hear ONE OF THE ONES BY MAGGIE LINDEMANN, by any chance? Must be SAVANNAH-BLUE ‘BLUE’ MCALLISTER. Word around the cove is that SHE could be really UNPREDICTABLE, but also very REVELROUS when you get to know HER. The LEAD SINGER OF LIPSTICK REVOLVER & HEIRESS has been staying over at ATLAS HARBOUR for HER WHOLE LIFE, now. Time sure does fly being 27. Looking like MADELYN CLINE must be tough around all these tourists - and it doesn’t help giving off those THE FREEING MOMENT OF STICKING ONESELF OUT OF THE SUNROOF, 100+ UNREAD MESSAGES, GLITTER SPARKLING UNDER STAGE LIGHTS, WRITING LYRICS IN COLORED GEL PEN, LEAVING LIPSTICK SMUDGES ON STRANGERS’ NECKS vibes, either. Well, what’s a SAGITTARIUS CIS WOMAN to do?｡𓇼⋆☼ ˚.
Current Residence: Atlas Harbor, Blythe Cove, New Jersey
Snapshot
Faceclaim: Madelyn Cline
Height: 5’5”
Weight: 120 lbs
Build: Slender with gentle curves; “Romantic” body type
Hair: Naturally brunette but regularly dyes hair honey blonde
Eyes: Brown
Scars: Tiny ones all over from playing all "rough and tumble" growing up
Tattoo(s): Her father's racecar number in roman numerals behind her right ear
Clothing: Sun-faded denim rolled at the ankle, vintage T-shirts or neutral-colored tanks under flannel shirts, worn-in leather jackets, ripped denim, glittery tops, and scuffed boots mixed with expensive heirloom jewelry she wears like thrift. Her style is chaotic glam, all wind-catching silhouettes, smudged lipstick, metallic accents, and rebellious attitude wrapped in old-money leftovers.
Details: Layered chains (one from her dad), chunky rings on every finger, and chipped nail polish. She sports smudged eyeliner, glitter dust, vintage sunglasses at night, and designer pieces worn like thrift. Her boots are scuffed, her lipstick is always bold, and half her clothes are scribbled with lyrics in gel pen.
Scent: A mix of warm vanilla musk, cigarette smoke she never actually smoked, leather, ocean salt from Atlas Harbour, and a faint trace of cherry lip gloss.
Color palette: Black leather, electric cobalt, cherry red, metallic silver, and soft champagne gold
Makeup: No-makeup makeup; brown mascara and lightly lined eyeliner in brown paired with subtle lip gloss. Sometimes a slept-in smoky makeup look with glitter that gets everywhere when playing shows.
Academics
Degree(s): Associates in Liberal Arts
Certificate(s): None
Behavioral
Disorder(s): Borderline Personality Disorder & Bipolar II
Stability: Take a guess
Phobia(s): The pitch dark
Coping skill(s): Music for regulation, disassociation during stress, sensory anchors
Habit(s): Smokes cigarettes when stressed, sighs as a natural way to self-regulate, hums when conflicted or in thought
Favorites
Food: Smash burgers
Drink: Cherry cola and whiskey
Place: The racetrack after hours
Sound: Revving of engine - crowd cheering her name
Song: kinda smacks by royal the serpent
Show: Euphoria
Book: The Outsiders - S.E. Hinton
Movie: Baby Driver
Feeling: The exact moment the wind hits her face when she stands up through the sunroof; wild, weightless, and untouchably alive
Aesthetic: Driving at dusk with the windows down and no destination
Biography
TW death
Savannah-Blue Hart’s first home wasn’t a house — it was a racetrack.
Her birth father, Caleb Hart, was a rising NASCAR star known for being reckless, magnetic, and terrifyingly fearless behind the wheel. He was the kind of man who took risks no one else dared and lifted his daughter onto his shoulders during press photos without bothering to wipe the grease from his hands.
Blue adored him.
To her, he was heat, motion, adrenaline and speed became something sacred.
Her mother, Aimee, young and swept up in the hurricane of Caleb’s career, took Blue everywhere with him. Her earliest memories are sun-bleached and deafening:
falling asleep on stacks of warm tires
racing pit crew members down empty service lanes
Caleb tapping engine rhythms on his steering wheel
her tiny voice shouting, “GO, DADDY, GO!” as he revved up
He called her “Bluebird,” because she always leaned into the wind instead of away.
Then came the crash.
She was eight when Aimee got the call. The silence afterward (the way the house felt too still, too hollow) is what Blue remembers most. Caleb’s death wasn’t just losing a father; it was the extinguishing of the entire world she knew.
Grief hollowed Aimee out, and in the void, the McAllister family stepped in.
At a charity luncheon, she met Robert McAllister, a widowed real estate magnate with generational wealth and flawless etiquette. He offered everything Caleb never had: structure, stability, legacy, appearances. To Aimee, he was safety.
To Blue, he was the glass around a cage.
When they moved into the McAllister estate in Atlas Harbor, Blue was ten. She remembers her footsteps echoing in halls too big, too polished, too quiet. Robert and his two daughters greeted her with polite smiles, but Blue could tell instantly she was an anomaly — too loud, too messy, too alive.
They liked tea sets and equestrian lessons. Blue preferred climbing fences and tinkering with Caleb’s old tools.
They wanted poise. She wanted momentum.
They changed her last name, enrolled her in elite schools, wrapped her in pastel dresses, and tried, gently at first, then insistently, to buff out her rough edges.
But Blue wasn’t made for gloss.
She was built for grit.
The older she got, the more she resisted the life chosen for her.
At thirteen, she chopped her hair short.
At fourteen, she shoplifted her first leather jacket.
At fifteen, she filled her textbooks with neon gel-pen lyrics instead of notes.
At sixteen, she began sneaking out to grungy open-mic nights at the Harbor.
At seventeen, she joined a garage band: the spark that would become Lipstick Revolver.
Music became her lifeline.
Not the polished kind the McAllisters funded at conservatories, but the raw, messy, cathartic kind. The kind you scream. The kind you survive.
On stage, she felt like herself for the first time since Caleb died, that same wind-hungry kid perched on a pit wall, ready to take off.
Robert called her interests “a phase.”
Her stepsisters turned up their music to drown hers out.
But Atlas Harbor heard her.
Little by little, she became the rebellious heiress who’d rather crowd-surf at a dive bar than sit politely at a gala.
At nineteen, Lipstick Revolver officially formed, and Blue poured everything she was (and everything she’d lost) into it.
Her father lived in every part of her artistry:
the pacing of her songs mimicking acceleration
her bold, fearless stage presence
her refusal to soften grief in her lyrics
the glitter, smudged lipstick, and neon ink that turned chaos into control
But the band wasn’t only about Caleb, it was a rebellion against the McAllisters’ tight grip. A declaration that legacy doesn’t require obedience.
Her stepfamily hated the band’s name.
Naturally, she doubled down on it.
By her early twenties, Blue had become something of a local legend: the untamable heiress with lipstick on strangers’ necks, unread messages stacked in the triple digits, and a stage presence that hit like a spark to gasoline. She was the sunroof-screaming, stage-diving pulse of Atlas Harbor’s nightlife.
At twenty-seven, Blue is a walking contradiction:
a McAllister by name
a Hart by heart
a star by force
a mess by choice
a rebel by survival
She is unpredictable because she was shaped by extremes; engine noise and funerals, racetracks and dining rooms where elbows were never allowed on the table.
She is revelrous because she learned too young how fragile life is.
She is emotional because she carries grief like gasoline: volatile, powerful, ready to ignite at the slightest spark.
And she stays in Atlas Harbour because it’s the only place where both halves of her can coexist:
the track child
and the gilded rebel
colliding under glitter and stage lights.
Personality
Savannah-Blue is a collision of contradictions; a woman shaped by adrenaline, grief, and the constant tug-of-war between who she was born to be and who others tried to make her. At her core, she’s kinetic: she moves through the world like she’s still chasing the roar of her father’s engine, always hungry for sensation, velocity, and something real enough to shake her bones. She’s rebellious in a way that’s less about defiance and more about survival; structure suffocates her, expectations grate against her skin, and the moment someone tries to contain her, she’ll find the nearest escape route; through a window, down a fire escape, or onto a stage.
Emotionally, she is big. Blue feels everything at full volume: joy like champagne fizz, anger like a snapped guitar string, grief like an echo she can’t outrun. She’s impulsive, but with intention: she’ll kiss someone to make a point, dye her hair at 2 a.m. because silence scares her, or set a boundary with explosive honesty even if it burns. Loyalty is her religion; betray her and you’re out, but protect someone she loves and she’ll go to war for you without hesitation.
Socially, she’s electric. People orbit her because she’s unpredictable in the most addictive way; one part danger, one part comfort, one part glitter-stained disaster. She’s charismatic without trying, funny in a sharp-edged way, flirtatious without commitment, and effortlessly the center of gravity in any room. But when the lights are off, she’s introspective, nostalgic, and surprisingly gentle. She carries her trauma with a quiet kind of reverence, like it fuels her rather than ruins her.
Creatively, she’s relentless. Music isn’t a hobby; it’s the language she never had words for. She writes like she’s bleeding out the past, performs like she’s outrunning ghosts, and crafts an aesthetic that blends rebellion with glam; equal parts leather, glitter, and raw vulnerability.
Most importantly, she’s a woman who survived two worlds and learned to stitch them together on her own terms: a rebel forged in engine heat and gilded expectations, still chasing the wind that raised her.
Headcanons
Never walks, always moves like she’s in a hurry even when she isn’t, all momentum and restless limbs.
Talks with her hands, especially when she’s passionate or pissed.
Laughs too loud, the kind that makes people turn but also makes them want to laugh with her.
Flirty without realizing it, then flustered when someone flirts back intentionally.
Gets irritable when she feels boxed in, whether it’s rules, expectations, or too-tight clothes.
Curses like poetry, creative and dramatic.
Writes lyrics on anything: napkins, receipts, her own arms, bathroom mirrors in lipstick.
Can’t fall asleep without background noise, usually old race commentary or static.
Wears mismatched earrings; one is always something sentimental, like a gear-shaped stud.
Uses her guitar pick as a fidget item, spinning it between her fingers constantly.
Has a playlist for every emotion, including “I could win a race with my eyes closed” music.
Drinks her coffee absurdly strong, almost undrinkable.
Taps out engine rhythms on tables, walls, her thigh… like she’s keeping time with some internal motor.
Sits on counters instead of chairs.
Can’t keep houseplants alive to save her life—except one tiny cactus named Clutch.
Eats like she hasn’t eaten in days because she forgets meals when she’s writing music.
