"i don't think anyone ever really saw me" stop it. "i don't want to burn again" with the added gut punch of johnny being gay and the sinclars religious. STOP IT . GAT'S FUTURE DREAM. THE FUCKING DOGS. MIRREN'S ART GALLERY. "'You're a child'/'i'm YOUR child'" NOOO. MIRREN COULD HAVE JUMPED OUT THE WINDOW BUT SHE WENT BACK FOR JOHNNY AND CADENCE. GAT COULD HAVE STAYED IN THE BOAT BUT HE WENT IN FOR THE LIARS. THEY WERE SIXTEEN AND DRUNK AND ANGRY THEY DESERVED SO MUCH MORE
summary when the liars sneak to a boat party their first night back on beechwood, a tiny shirt and one dance push johnny and his lifelong best friend past the edge of friendship for the first time
warnings little use of y/n, suggestive content/language
i’ve never belonged anywhere the way i belong on beechwood. not because my bloodline ties me to anything—i don’t have the sinclair jawline or the sinclair bank account or the sinclair name—but because tipper sinclair once sat beside my grandmother on a beach in the eighties and said, “our families should grow up together.”
and they did.
so even though i live nine months of the year somewhere that doesn’t smell like salt or lemon oil, i’ve spent every summer of my life here, running feral across this island with cadence and mirren, with gat and johnny, with the soft roar of the atlantic tucked behind every memory.
harris and tipper made sure i had a place in beechwood. my own room in clairmont, tucked beneath the slanted eaves, where the curtains lift like they’re breathing and the wooden floors always creak good-naturedly under my feet. where the bookshelf smells like dust and old paperbacks, and my pillow always smells faintly of the lavender sachets tipper tucks beneath the cases every june.
the aunties treat me differently, each in their own way. penny gives me brisk kisses on the cheek and says i’m “so grown,” like she’s half-worried about it. carrie hugs me too tightly and tells me i look “radiant, darling” in that floaty voice she uses after her second glass of wine. bess crushes me to her chest like i’m one of her own and immediately asks if i’ve eaten.
the littles cling to me every year like they’re rediscovering an old favorite toy. liberty begs for braids. bonnie wants me to jump off every rock with her. will demands a full audience for each lego dragon he builds.
but the liars—cadence, mirren, gat, and johnny—they are the drumbeat of my summers. the pulse beneath the sunburns and saltwater. the reason beechwood feels less like a vacation and more like a life i step back into.
and now, as the ferry docks and the humid air rushes over me like a welcome-back embrace, my entire body exhales.
the gravel crunches under my sandals as i wheel my suitcase up the familiar path toward clairmont. the house rises out of the hydrangeas—white, sprawling, impossibly elegant in that old-money way that’s meant to look effortless. sunlight slides across the windows, and for a moment i’m so overwhelmed by the familiarity of it that my eyes sting.
tipper is waiting on the porch, waving both arms as if i’ve been gone years instead of months. her lipstick is bright coral; her smile is brighter. “there she is!” she calls, and i feel six again, arriving for my first summer, clutching a stuffed rabbit and wearing a wide-brimmed hat my mother insisted on.
i drop my suitcase and run up the steps. she takes my face in her hands and studies me like she’s checking for damage.
“beautiful,” she decides. “and taller. you must stop doing that, dear.”
i laugh, hugging her, breathing in her perfume—powder and citrus and something floral i can never name.
the screen door bangs open, and harris appears, holding two glasses of iced tea. he gives me a reserved, grandfatherly nod that somehow still feels like affection.
“welcome home,” he says. simple. definitive.
home.
the word settles into my chest.
i barely step inside before i hear them—distant voices, laughter—floating in from the backyard. the liars. i follow the sound like instinct, like gravity, like the thing in me that only wakes up in june.
the back doors are open, breeze lifting the curtains as i slip through.
cadence sees me first. she gasps dramatically and sprints across the lawn, nearly tripping over her own feet. she slams into me with a hug so tight my ribs groan.
“you’re here,” she breathes into my neck. “finally.”
mirren’s next, gliding over with her soft smile and sun-kissed shoulders. she hugs me more gently, but her excitement buzzes under her skin. “your hair got longer,” she notes. “you look so pretty. and—older? in a hot way. did you get hotter?”
i just laugh, tugging her closer.
gat saunters over, smirking. “johnny’s gonna combust.”
“gat.” cadence elbows him. “subtle.”
i barely have time to shoot them a puzzled look before i see the mess of johnny’s blonde curls in my peripheral vision.
he’s leaning against the back railing, body relaxed in that deceptively casual way he uses when he’s trying to hide something. his skin is darker than last year, he’s much, much taller, and he’s wearing that stupidly worn gray shirt he always steals from red gate’s laundry room.
our eyes meet and his face breaks into the kind of grin that used to mean everything to me when we were kids.
he pushes off the rail instantly and walks straight toward me.
“there you are,” he says, and his voice is warm in a way that hits somewhere behind my ribs.
i grin back. “miss me?”
“obviously,” he deadpans, but his eyes are lit up, bright and soft and openly relieved.
and because we’re best friends—real best friends—he pulls me into a hug without thinking. not a quick one. a real one. arms around my waist, my face pressed against sun-hot cotton, his heartbeat thudding steady against my cheek.
i breathe him in—saltwater, sunscreen, something familiar and johnny-shaped—and for a second the rest of the island goes quiet.
he pulls back first, but only barely. his hands linger on my arms. his eyes flicker over me like he’s cataloguing every difference from last year.
“you look…” he starts, then stops, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “good. like—good good.”
the tips of his ears go pink. i try not to smile too hard.
gat mutters “nailed it” behind him; cadence covers her laugh.
johnny shoots them a look, but he’s smiling too—crooked and impossible and so familiar it hurts.
and just like that, it’s summer again with the ocean humming behind us, the grass warm beneath my feet, the liars orbiting around like planets.
the liars scatter after an hour on the lawn—cadence dragging mirren to her room, gat going to “borrow” a bottle of something from ed’s stash, johnny mumbling something about checking on will.
i head upstairs to my room in clairmont, tugging my suitcase behind me, wood floors creaking in that familiar, comforting way. sunlight filters through the sheer curtains, warm and golden, dust drifting lazily in the beams like it’s dancing.
i inhale; lemon oil. lavender. saltwater.
home.
i unzip my suitcase and sift through my clothes, trying to find something decent for the first-night chaos us liars always get into. i grab a cropped tank at first—simple, safe. but i pause.
cadence’s voice echoes in my memory from last summer: “you never show off. not once. you should.”
i’m not sure what makes me do it—maybe the heat, or the excitement, or the way johnny hugged me earlier like he was relearning how i fit against him—but my hand reaches deeper into the suitcase, pulling out the outfit i packed half as a joke.
the tiny black tank top that dips scarily low down the middle. and the pale, fluttery low-rise skirt that sits on my hips and leaves nothing to the imagination.
i hold it up, my heart ticking faster. oh god. should i?
i can practically hear mirren in my head: yes. absolutely yes.
i change quickly, the tank top brushing soft against my skin, the skirt swishing with every step like a whisper. the mirror catches me and i blink.
i look older. more confident. almost sinclair, in that effortless, sun-kissed way.
the thought makes my cheeks warm.
cadence bursts into my room without knocking—as always—and stops dead.
“oh my god,” she breathes, grabbing the doorframe. “you look—i mean—holy shit.”
mirren slides in behind her and lets out a soft gasp. “johnny’s going to die.”
why does everyone keep saying that? i want to scream.
i throw a pillow at her. “we’re best friends.”
cadence gives me a look that could perforate metal. “yes, sweetie. and i’m the queen of england.”
i roll my eyes, but my stomach flutters anyway.
“it’s just an outfit.”
“sure,” cadence says, circling me like a jeweler inspecting a rare stone. “and the ocean’s just water.”
mirren steps behind me and gently adjusts the straps on my top. “no, really. this is perfect. the boys on that boat don’t stand a chance.”
we meet our boys at the side path behind clairmont—the usual rendezvous point when we’re sneaking out. the sky is turning dusky violet, the air warm against my bare stomach as we cross the lawn.
gat spots us first. “wow,” he says, eyebrows raising. “that is… not what you wore last year.”
i shove him lightly. “hello to you too.”
he grins.
cadence elbows me, whispering, “brace yourself.”
i don’t have time to ask what she means because johnny steps into view from behind one of the hedges, holding a backpack and looking over his shoulder as he whispers something to will—probably instructions to lie if anyone asks where he went.
and then he turns around.
and sees me.
his entire body goes still.
i watch amused as his hand slips off the strap of the backpack. it thuds softly against his ankle, but he doesn’t look down. his eyes drag over me in a way that is nothing like how best friends are supposed to look at each other—slow, disbelieving, almost stunned.
i swallow. suddenly the night feels warmer.
gat coughs a laugh. mirren digs her fingernails into my arm to keep from squealing.
johnny tries—really tries—to snap out of it. he blinks, shakes his head just a little, pushes a hand through his sun-bleached hair like it’ll rearrange his brain.
“you…” he starts, then stops. he clears his throat and tries again. “you’re wearing that.”
i lift my chin. “would you prefer i change?”
he opens his mouth. closes it. his throat works as he swallows. “no,” he says, voice lower than usual. “it’s just—wow.”
the word hangs between us, strange and warm and dangerously honest.
my stomach flips.
i try to play it cool. “wow good? or wow bad?”
his eyes lift to mine—dark, direct, soft around the edges in a way that makes my pulse jump.
“wow… distracting.”
cadence actually chokes. mirren smacks her arm.
heat rushes through my chest. i pretend it’s from the summer air.
johnny looks away too quickly, as though the force of what he just admitted startled him. he scrubs his palm against the back of his neck—a nervous tell i’ve known since we were barely ten.
“we should—uh—go,” he mutters, grabbing his backpack. “before someone notices we’re gone.”
but when he steps past me, his arm brushes mine, barely there, and he glances down at where our skin touches like he wasn’t prepared for how it would feel—neither was i.
we move quickly once johnny mutters “let’s go.”
cadence and mirren slip ahead, hands brushing the tall grass as they lead us down the shadowy side path behind clairmont. gat follows behind them, already pulling a speaker from johnny’s backpack, whispering about which playlist is “boat-appropriate.”
i fall into step beside johnny—it’s automatic, the way it’s always been. for summers and summers, we’ve walked like this: shoulder to shoulder, sharing warmth, drifting in and out of conversation that feels more like breathing than talking.
the gravel crunches under our feet as we reach the bend in the path, cicadas buzzing in the trees overhead. the ocean hums somewhere ahead of us—a low, steady vibration, like it’s calling us closer.
johnny keeps glancing at me.
not in a gross way. not even in a flirty way. in a what happened to my best friend while she was gone and why is my heart acting weird way.
the thought makes me laugh.
he kicks a pebble forward. “you didn’t tell me you were bringing… that.”
i bump his arm lightly. “my shirt?”
“shirt is generous.” but he’s smiling now—wide, lopsided, teasing.
i make a face. “maybe i wanted to dress up.”
“you did.” he swallows. “you look good.”
i raise an eyebrow. “you already said that.”
“i didn’t say it enough.”
my breath catches, but the path dips and the group ahead of us laughs, and i pretend my heartbeat isn’t trying to sprint out of my chest.
we reach the turn that leads to the private dock—old wooden planks stretching out toward the darkening water, lanterns flickering from posts like watchful eyes. the faint thump of distant music drifts over the waves.
mirren spins around. “hideout mode activated,” she whispers dramatically, pressing a finger to her lips.
gat shoves her playfully. “you say that every year.”
cadence grins. “and every year it works.”
the adults are still at dinner. the littles are inside playing a board game. harris is probably reading on the porch. no one notices five teenagers slipping into the dusk.
johnny touches my elbow as i step onto the dock. a light touch. guiding. instinctive.
i shouldn’t feel it everywhere but i easily do.
the party boat is anchored a little ways offshore, enough that we have to climb into a smaller one to get there. some summer kids are already waiting on it—laughing, passing around a lukewarm can of something, legs dangling over the side.
the moment i step into the first boat, conversation dips.
eyes flick down. then up. then linger.
it’s not predatory. it’s more like: oh shit, she grew up.
cadence smirks into her shoulder. mirren mouths, called it. gat chuckles softly. and johnny goes still beside me.
he doesn’t say anything, but his jaw shifts—just slightly—as a boy i vaguely remember from summer fourteen gives me a slow, appreciative look.
when we reach the bigger boat, music pulses through the hull—a low baseline vibrating against my calves as i grab the rail and climb up. warm, humid air hits my skin instantly. the deck is crowded, lantern light flickering gold across moving bodies. someone’s perfume mixes with saltwater and beer and sunscreen.
i barely set foot on board before a guy steps into my path—dark hair, tank top, smile too wide.
“hey,” he says, eyes dipping to the cut in my top. “haven’t seen you here before.”
i open my mouth to answer—something polite, nothing serious—but johnny appears at my side like he’s materializing from the shadows.
“she’s been here,” he says, voice steady but threaded with something new. “you just weren’t paying attention.”
the guy blinks, sizing him up. “johnny sinclair, right?”
johnny’s lips lift in a tight, sinclair smile. “that’s me.”
the guy backs off—good-naturedly, not intimidated, just redirected—and melts into the dancing crowd.
i turn to johnny. “wow.”
he shrugs like he didn’t just bodyguard me. “what?”
“i can handle myself.”
“i know.” he looks at me again. “that’s the problem.”
my skin prickles. “problem?”
he steps closer so he doesn’t have to raise his voice over the music. the space between us shrinks to something electric, something intentional.
“yeah,” he murmurs. “because everyone keeps looking at you. and i—” he cuts himself off. swallows. looks away toward the ocean like the waves might give him instructions.
i touch his arm gently. “johnny.”
he meets my eyes, and this time he doesn’t hide anything. the tension. the confusion. the suppressed jealousy.
“just…” he exhales. “stay close, okay?”
i should laugh. tease him. roll my eyes. but instead my chest warms, tight and full.
“okay,” i whisper.
his shoulders relax—barely.
cadence grabs gat’s hand and pulls him onto the dance floor, mirren trailing behind them. music swells, lights flaring gold and blue across the water.
johnny looks at me again and offers his hand.
“dance with me?”
my heart trips but my hand finds his like it always has.
“yeah,” i breathe. “i will.”
the music swells the second johnny leads me into the crowd—warm bass rolling through the deck, the kind you feel in your ribs before you hear it. bodies move around us, swaying, laughing, silhouettes blurred by lantern light and the shifting glow of someone’s cheap string lights wrapped around the rail.
johnny stops in a pocket of open space near the stern. the boat tilts slightly with the waves, a lazy rocking that makes everything feel looser, easier, almost unreal.
his fingers are still wrapped around mine.
he seems to realize it at the same moment i do.
johnny lets go slowly, like the release might burn him. my skin tingles where his palm had been.
“you good?” he asks, leaning close so i can hear him over the music.
the question is innocent. the tone isn’t. there’s something careful in it—something that sounds like he’s trying not to press a boundary neither of us has admitted exists.
i nod. “yeah. you?”
he huffs out a laugh that’s half breath, half disbelief. “not even a little.”
before i can ask what he means, his hands find my hips.
not boldly. not greedily. just naturally. like this is how he’s supposed to hold me. like he’s done it a thousand times.
his thumbs brush the bare skin just above the skirt’s waistband, and i swear i feel it everywhere—up my spine, down my legs, under my ribs.
we start to sway, the soft roll of the boat guiding us. the music is something low and sultry, the kind meant for people who are already too close, and suddenly it feels like the entire deck shrinks to the size of our shared breath.
johnny leans down, lips near my ear. “you’re gonna get cold,” he murmurs, voice rough.
“i’m not cold,” i say, and it comes out breathless.
his breath catches just slightly. he pulls me a little closer. not enough to be obscene. just enough that my chest brushes his. just enough to feel the heat of him through that worn gray t-shirt.
we move together easily—too easily, considering we’ve never danced like this before. his fingertips press lightly into my waist every time the boat rocks, steadying me even though i’m not at risk of falling.
or maybe i am.
his eyes drop to my lips for half a second—half a heartbeat—before flicking away like he wasn’t supposed to.
my pulse stumbles.
“johnny,” i whisper.
his jaw flexes. “don’t say my name like that.”
“like what?”
“like…” he shakes his head, breath unsteady.
the lantern light swings across us, catching the green flecks in his blue eyes. he’s looking at me the way nobody looks at their best friend.
“you’re different this summer,” he says quietly.
i swallow. “so are you.”
he lets out a soft, humorless laugh. “yeah. that’s the problem.” he says, like earlier.
“what problem, johnny?”
he hesitates—really hesitates—like he’s arguing with himself. then: “guys are staring at you,” he says, voice lower than the music, lower than anything i’ve ever heard from him. “and i don’t like it.”
my cheeks warm. “you said that already.”
“i didn’t say it right.” his hands tighten briefly on my hips before softening again. “i’m—” he exhales. “i don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
nothing about the way he’s holding me feels wrong.
i lean in just enough that my chest brushes his again, intentional this time. i feel the breath he sucks in.
“johnny,” i say softly, “look at me.”
he does. instantly. like the request tugs on something deep in him.
his eyes sweep my face—my mouth, my eyes, the line of my neck. slow. searching. almost scared.
the music dips, someone shifts the playlist, the lights flicker, the boat rocks—everything moves except him.
he steadies me again even though i’m not off balance. his thumb strokes my hip without his permission. his breath is warm on my cheek.
“i don’t want to ruin anything,” he murmurs.
“you’re not.”
“i might.” his forehead almost touches mine now. almost. “you’re my best friend.”
“i know.”
“and you…” he trails off, biting back whatever words almost followed.
the silence stretches—but not empty. full. electric. humming with the weight of something we’ve ignored for too long.
i shift a little closer. his hands slide to the small of my back in response, instinctive, protective, familiar and brand-new all at once.
we sway. and the entire boat seems to sway with us.
“tell me to back off,” he says suddenly, voice low and shaking slightly. “if you want me to. just tell me.”
i look at him and the truth spills out of me before I can catch it. “i don’t want you to back off.”
johnny goes absolutely still.
the air between us snaps tight as a wire. his fingers curl into the fabric at my lower back. his breath stutters against my cheek.
“okay,” he whispers, like the word is both a promise and a surrender.
then he pulls me against him—not too hard, not too fast, but with a certainty that sends heat zinging through my whole body.
we’re chest to chest now. thigh to thigh. heartbeat to heartbeat.
dancing, but barely moving. breathing, but only each other’s air.
johnny tilts his head, lips just brushing my temple—not a kiss, not quite, but enough to make my knees wobble.
“stay with me tonight,” he murmurs.
someone bumps into us from behind before i can respond—laughing too loudly, sloshing a cup of something sticky—and the moment breaks just enough that johnny steps back. not far. just enough to clear his head.
the air feels colder without his chest pressed to mine.
he drags a hand through his hair, breathing like he just ran up a hill. “we should… get some air,” he says, but it comes out uneven, like he’s not actually talking about the temperature.
my pulse flutters. “okay.”
johnny takes my hand. not like a friend. not like someone helping me through a crowd. like someone claiming me in a room full of people who already noticed the way he looked at me.
his fingers slide between mine, warm and sure, and my heart flips into some new, reckless rhythm.
the liars are still somewhere inside the crush of bodies—cadence shouting along to the music, mirren dancing with her eyes closed, gat arguing about something philosophical with a stranger. no one notices us slipping away.
johnny leads me toward the steps without looking back.
the night air hits me the moment we step out of the crowd. cool and damp, brushing goosebumps up my arms. the water laps against the boat, soft and rhythmic, like it’s breathing for us.
johnny stops near the railing, still holding my hand, thumb brushing absently against the back of it. his other hand braces on the metal rail, knuckles tense, shoulders coiled like he’s trying not to explode.
the lantern overhead swings gently, light moving across his face in warm flashes—jaw tight, lips parted, eyes dark.
i’ve seen johnny sinclair in a hundred moods: mischievous, annoyed, cocky, bored, exhausted, sun-sleepy, sand-covered, chlorine-drenched.
i’ve never seen him like this.
he turns toward me slowly, searching my face.
my breath catches, but i don’t say anything. i just wait. because he always talks when he’s ready.
he drops my hand only to step closer, so close the heat of him seeps into my skin. my back brushes the rail. the boat rocks gently, pulling us an inch closer.
his eyes flicker down—to my mouth, then lower, the neckline of my top—and he inhales sharply, almost pained.
“you’re gonna drive me insane,” he whispers.
heat floods through me. “johnny…”
“i don’t mean to.” his voice cracks around the honesty. “i’m trying so hard to just—be normal. be your friend. like always.” he leans in, forehead nearly touching mine, his breath warm on my lips. “but then you show up looking like this and dancing with me like that and i—” he breaks off, swallowing hard. “i can’t think straight.”
the boat tips slightly with the swell, pushing him another inch into me. my hands find his shirt—fistfuls of soft, worn cotton—because i need to hold onto something before the world tilts again.
“johnny,” i breathe, “look at me.”
he does. instantly.
and it hits me—the way he’s looking at me now isn’t new. it’s just new to notice.
his gaze is hungry. careful. reverent. terrified.
our noses almost brush.
“if you kiss me,” i whisper, “it won’t ruin anything.”
his jaw clenches. “you don’t know that.”
“i do.”
johnny lifts one hand, hesitates, then cups my cheek so gently it nearly breaks me open. his thumb strokes along my jaw. his breathing shakes.
his lips hover over mine—barely there, barely not.
one breath. two. three.
he whispers, voice raw: “tell me to stop.”
“i'm not going to.”
his mouth inches closer—so close i feel the warmth of him, the brush of air, the promise of everything we’ve been dancing around for years—and then there’s a shout from inside the cabin.
cadence’s voice: “where are they? johnny? y/n?”
johnny freezes. every muscle goes taut.
he leans his forehead against mine, eyes squeezed shut, breathing like he’s begging the universe for one more second.
“i’m gonna lose my mind,” he mutters, pained.
i laugh softly, breathless. “me too.”
he pulls back just enough to look at me, his hand still on my cheek, thumb brushing lightly as if he can’t bear to let go yet.
“this isn’t over,” he says quietly, promise threading through the words. “not even close.”
before i can answer, cadence’s voice tears through the night again, closer this time, slightly breathless. “johnny? y/n? are you guys making out or dead? clap once for alive!”
i groan under my breath. johnny shuts his eyes like he’s being personally wronged by fate.
“i hate her,” he mutters.
“no you don’t,” i say, but it comes out soft, dazed. i’m still feeling the ghost of his almost-kiss like it actually happened.
he pulls his hand from my cheek slowly, like it hurts to let go, fingers trailing along my jaw one last time. his palm drops to the rail beside my head, caging me in for a second. we’re still too close. my heart hasn’t gotten the memo that nothing actually happened.
“we should go back in before she starts a search party,” he sighs.
“she already did,” i point out.
we just look at each other for a beat. his hair is mussed from his hand raking through it, eyes darker in the lantern light, mouth still too close to mine for anything to feel normal.
he leans in a fraction, like he can’t help it, like he’s tempted to say screw it and kiss me anyway. instead, he whispers, “stick with me, okay?”
i nod, because i don’t trust my voice. “yeah. okay.”
he takes my hand again before we head back toward the noise.
inside, the cabin feels louder than before, like someone turned the volume up just to mess with my head. bodies press in, lights blur, the floor vibrates from the bass. i’m suddenly overly aware of how flushed my skin is, how raw the inside of my chest feels.
cadence spots us immediately. she’s perched on a built-in bench with a half-finished drink, cheeks pink, hair frizzing around her head like a blonde halo.
“there you are,” she says, eyes narrowing with surgical precision. “what were you doing?”
her gaze flicks from my face to johnny’s, then down to our still-linked hands.
shit.
johnny notices at the same time i do. he lets go of me like the contact burned, shoving his hand into his pocket so fast it would be funny if my heart wasn’t trying to burst through my ribs.
“air,” he says. “she needed air.”
“i did,” i echo, too quickly.
cadence’s mouth curves. not a smile. a knowing. mirren, beside her, is trying very hard to pretend she isn’t watching, eyes darting between us like it’s the finale of her favorite show.
gat appears with a bottle in his hand and clocked-in amusement on his face. “you two look like you saw a ghost,” he says. “or committed a crime. which one should i congratulate you on?”
“shut up,” johnny mutters.
“that’s not a denial,” gat points out mildly.
“we’re just hot,” i say, fanning myself with one hand. my voice sounds thin. “the air. inside. you know.”
“sure,” cadence says, dragging the word out. “the air.”
she knocks her shoulder into mine so lightly no one else would notice. her eyes say: tell me everything later.
“we should head back soon,” mirren says, glancing at the slim watch on her wrist. “if the littles are still playing monopoly, it means the aunties are still drinking. we have a tiny window before anyone thinks to check bedtimes.”
for once, i’m grateful for her practicality.
“yeah,” johnny says immediately. “let’s go.”
we filter out together, pushed along by the tide of sweaty, summer-slicked bodies. someone calls johnny’s name; another guy tries to tug cadence back for one more dance. she laughs, half-tempted, but gat loops an arm around her waist and steers her toward the stairs.
johnny’s hand finds the small of my back again as we move, a steady pressure that shouldn’t feel like anything more than balance—but it feels like everything.
the night hits harder the second we’re off the boat. the air is cooler here, away from all that heat and sound, laced with the briny tang of the ocean and the faint chemical sharpness of gasoline.
we climb back into the smaller boat, the five of us arranging ourselves in the worn leather seats. cadence and mirren sit opposite us, their bare knees glowing in the low light. gat takes the end. johnny drops into the spot beside me.
our thighs press together. there’s nowhere else for them to go.
the kid piloting the boat—a lanky boy from some other rich family whose name i can’t remember—starts the motor. it sputters, then roars to life, and we lurch forward, slicing through the dark water.
the island glows ahead of us in scattered pockets: porch lights, the distant warm rectangles of windows, the faint glimmer of stars above everything.
spray kicks up, cool against my shins. i shiver.
johnny notices instantly. he shifts without thinking, tucking me closer to his side, arm settling along the back of the seat behind me. his fingers brush my shoulder, then rest there, steady and warm.
i lean into him because it’s freezing, because we’ve always shared warmth like this, because i need something solid in a night that suddenly feels like it’s made of nothing but maybes.
cadence watches us like she’s at the theater. mirren bites her lip to hide her smile. gat looks quietly smug.
“good party,” cadence says into the wind.
“great party,” gat adds.
“mm,” mirren hums. “some of us seemed to enjoy it more than others.”
johnny’s fingers flex on my shoulder. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
“nothing,” cadence says, completely unconvincing.
i fix my eyes on the approaching dock, cheeks hot, heart pounding in a way that has nothing to do with the speed of the boat.
we bump gently against the wood. the pilot ties us off. the liars climb out one by one, shoes scraping, wood creaking under our collective weight.
johnny steps onto the dock and turns immediately, offering his hand to help me up.
i don’t need it. not really. the dock’s low, the movement familiar, something i’ve done every summer since i knew how to walk.
but i take his hand anyway.
his grip is firm, grounding. he pulls me up, just a little too close, and for one suspended second i’m pressed against him on the creaking dock, his hand on my waist, my breath mingling with his.
cadence clears her throat pointedly. “are we… staying here? or are we going to pretend to be responsible and go to bed?”
“bed,” mirren decides. “before mom comes hunting for me with a flashlight.”
we start up the path together, the dock shrinking behind us. the night wraps around us—crickets humming, leaves whispering overhead, the ocean’s constant hush on our left.
cadence and mirren drift ahead, talking in low, excited voices. gat hangs back a little to walk with them, his arm brushing cadence’s.
it leaves me and johnny in the middle. not quite alone, not quite chaperoned.
his hand brushes mine once. twice. a third time.
the fourth time, he just takes it.
no announcement. no joke. his fingers simply curl around mine, like they’ve been doing this all along and we were the last to realize.
i glance up at him. his eyes are on the path, jaw set, expression carefully neutral. but his thumb is stroking the back of my hand in small, distracted arcs, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.
my chest feels too full. “johnny,” i say quietly, so the others won’t hear.
“yeah?”
“about earlier…”
he looks at me then,, and i see all of it again—the almost-kiss, the panic, the want, the years of friendship straining at the seams.
“later,” he says softly. “please.”
i nod, even though the word tightens something inside me. “okay.”
“i just…” his hand squeezes mine. “i don’t wanna screw this up by saying it wrong in the middle of a path with my cousins and basically my brother three feet away.”
a short laugh escapes me. “fair point.”
we walk a few more steps before he slows—just barely—like a thought hits him sideways.
“but… you were going to say yes.”
i blink. “to what?”
he looks at me like he can’t believe i’m making him say it aloud.
“to staying with me tonight.”
my breath catches. the world seems to tilt again—dock lights behind us, trees whispering overhead, cadence and mirren still chattering somewhere ahead.
i swallow. “yeah. i was.”
johnny’s shoulders drop, tension bleeding out of him. he looks relieved. grateful. a little wrecked.
“good,” he murmurs. “because i still want that.”
heat crawls up my neck.
“okay,” i whisper.
his thumb sweeps over my knuckles in one slow, absent-minded stroke. “we can talk there. about everything.”
“yeah,” i say. “yeah. that makes sense.”
and it does. somehow it makes more sense than talking tomorrow, or pretending nothing happened, or letting the moment fade.
cadence, mirren, and gat split off toward windemere, cuddledown, and red gate first, still buzzing, still whispering. johnny and i stop at the fork.
“you need a change of clothes,” he says, like he’s offering an excuse to himself as much as to me.
“yeah,” i say softly. “i’ll grab something and change there."
we slip back toward clairmont—quiet, careful, knowing exactly which porch boards to avoid. the front windows glow warm; tipper’s shadow passes in the sitting room, but she doesn’t notice us.
johnny waits at the bottom of the stairs while i creep up, heart hammering, feet silent on the worn wood. my room smells like lavender and ocean still clinging to my skin.
i grab a sweatshirt and a pair of shorts. my face is hot in the mirror—eyes bright, lips swollen from all the almost-kisses that never landed.
when i slip back down, johnny’s leaning on the banister, hands in his pockets, hair a little messy from the wind. he looks up and the smallest smile tilts his mouth.
“ready?”
i nod.
the walk to red gate is quiet but charged, like every step is pulling something tighter between us. the air is warm, crickets humming loud and steady.
when we reach the porch, the house is mostly dark. only the kitchen nightlight glows.
“mom and ed went out,” he murmurs. “will’s asleep. gat’s probably pretending not to wait to interrogate us.”
i laugh softly. “we’ll avoid him.”
johnny leads me upstairs by memory alone, stepping lightly on the boards that squeak. his room is the same as always—smells like salt and laundry detergent and something warm and boy.
but it’s also not the same. not with the way he closes the door gently behind us. not with the way he just looks at me for a second, like he’s recalibrating himself.
“hey,” he says quietly, almost nervously.
“hey,” i whisper back.
he sits on the edge of the bed, legs spread, hands clasped loosely between his knees. a posture i’ve seen a thousand times—after beach days, after bonfires, after stupid fights with gat—but tonight it’s different.
tonight he’s not just my best friend. he’s someone who almost kissed me. someone who asked me to stay with him.
i step closer, my bare thighs brushing the hem of his shorts as i stand between his knees.
his breath stutters.
“you sure you’re okay with… this?” he asks.
“johnny,” i say, “i want to talk. and i want to stay. i’m here, aren’t i?”
his eyes soften so much it hurts. he reaches out slowly, like testing gravity, and his hands settle warm and sure on my hips.
my pulse kicks.
“okay,” he murmurs. “then come here.”
he tugs me gently into his lap—not onto his knees, not perched, but flush against him. my legs fall to either side of his hips automatically. the skirt rides up just a little. his hands go still on my waist, like he realizes exactly how close we are.
my hands land on his shoulders. they feel solid, sun-warm, familiar and entirely new.
“we don’t have to start with heavy stuff,” he says quietly. “we can just be here. like this.”
“i’ve been thinking about earlier,” i whisper.
his jaw flexes. “me too.”
“you almost kissed me.”
“yeah,” he says, voice low. “i did.”
“and you want to.”
he breathes out shakily. “god, yes.”
the silence around us goes molten.
i lean forward slightly. “so maybe… you should.”
johnny looks at me like i just cracked open the sky.
his hands slide up from my hips to my ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of my top—barely touching, barely not. his eyes flick to my mouth. his breath trembles.
“if i kiss you,” he says, voice rough, “i’m not stopping at one.”
heat coils low in my stomach. “i’m not asking for one.”
that breaks him.
he closes the distance in a heartbeat—his mouth crashing into mine with a force that makes a tiny, breathless sound slip from my throat. his hands grip my waist, pulling me impossibly closer, his fingers digging in like he’s been holding back for years.
the kiss is not soft. not friendly. it’s hungry.
his lips move against mine like he’s memorizing every angle, every sound i make. i fist my hands in his shirt, dragging him closer until there’s no space left between us. the boat, the music, the earlier hesitation—everything snaps into this single, electric point where nothing exists but heat and want and the way he’s kissing me like he’ll die if he stops.
i pull back for half a second—just long enough to breathe against his mouth.
“you’re killing me,” he mutters.
“you started it,” i whisper back.
he lets out a broken laugh and kisses me again, deeper this time, his tongue brushing mine, slow and devastating. my whole body lights up.
my hips shift without meaning to—just a little—and his breath catches hard, hands tightening on my waist in a way that makes my pulse crash.
“careful,” he murmurs against my lips, in a way that makes me come completely undone. “i’m barely holding it together.”
“don’t,” i breathe.
his answer is a low groan pulled straight from his chest, and he crushes me to him again, mouth hot, desperate, trailing down to my jaw, then my throat. he kisses the hinge of my jaw, the soft skin beneath my ear, each touch sending sparks through me.
my fingers slide into his hair—damp from sweat and ocean air—and he shivers.
“johnny,” i whisper, breathless.
he lifts his head, eyes dark, pupils blown wide.
“say it again.”
“johnny.”
he kisses me so hard it steals the air from my lungs.
we’re both panting now, chests rising and falling, lips swollen, the air thick with heat and something dangerous and sweet. his hands slide up my sides, brushing the bare skin just under my top, stopping only because he has to.
“we should slow down,” he says abruptly, forehead pressed to mine, voice wrecked. “before i do something we’re not ready for.”
i swallow, dizzy. “i’m ready for so much more than this.”
his breath hitches violently.
“don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”
“i mean every word.” i lift my hand to his jaw, gliding my fingers across the stubble.
his grip on my waist tightens. i can feel the war inside him—the want, the caution, the history, the fact that i’m his best friend and he’s terrified of crossing a line we can’t uncross.
“then,” he whispers, “we’ll figure out where that line is. together.”
he kisses me again—slow this time, but somehow even hotter—before pulling me into his chest, holding me there like he’s afraid i’ll vanish if he lets go.
i feel his heartbeat against my cheek—fast, matching mine.
“you’re staying,” he says softly. “right?”
i curl closer. “yeah. i’m staying.”
his arms wrap all the way around me, one under my shoulders, one banded across my lower back. i feel contained in the best way possible. like the walls of his room and the hum of the fan and the faint salt in the air all fold inward until there’s just this: his body under mine, his heartbeat against my cheek, his breath ruffling my hair.
for a second, we don’t move. don’t talk. we just breathe.
my pulse eventually stops sprinting long enough for my brain to catch up. i’m in johnny’s lap. his shirt is wrinkled in my fists. my skirt is hitched halfway up my thighs. my lips feel a little swollen, and my chest is still catching up to the fact that we’re not kissing anymore.
“we really just did that,” i mumble into him.
i feel the laugh rumble through his chest before i hear it. “yeah,” he says. “we did.”
“and everything didn’t explode.”
“give it time,” he deadpans.
i swat his shoulder without lifting my head. “shut up.”
“you love me.”
it slips out of him, easy and familiar, in the way we’ve always said it—joking and casual and not like a confession at all. i freeze for half a heartbeat anyway.
i tilt my head back to look at him. “yeah,” i say. “i do.”
his face changes. just a little. like the same words hit differently now.
he raises a hand, pushing hair back from my face, fingers lingering at my temple. “are you okay?” he asks. “like, seriously. for real. no faking.”
my body is buzzing, but it’s not panic. it’s heat and adrenaline and the kind of electric awareness that feels almost like standing in the ocean with waves hitting your knees.
my mind’s a mess—but it’s not a bad mess. just crowded. full of ten summers and one night colliding.
my heart…yeah. that’s new. that’s loud. that’s his.
“i’m okay,” i say. “i’m really okay.”
some of the tightness leaves his eyes. “good. because if you weren’t, i’d march you back to clairmont right now and sleep on the floor in your room just to make sure you didn’t hate me in the morning.”
“you’d give up your bed for me?”
“i’d give up my spine for you,” he says. “do you know how many times i’ve carried you off that stupid dock when you pretended you ‘couldn’t walk’?”
i laugh, shoulders loosening. “i was eight.”
“you were lazy!"
“you liked it,” i shoot back.
his mouth curves. “yeah,” he admits. “i did.”
the joking takes the edge off. softens everything that was sharp and terrifying about this. i feel it in my muscles, in the way my body stops bracing for impact and starts just…settling.
“so,” i say. “best friend status still intact?”
he gives me this look—fond and a little incredulous. “you really think kissing you would make me less your best friend?”
“i don’t know.” i twist a wrinkle into his shirt. “i’ve never made out with my best friend before.”
his grin flashes, bright and stupid. “me neither.”
we stare at each other for a second. it hits at the same time: we’re each other’s first for this. not first kiss. not first crush. but first time it actually means something this big. this dangerous.
my chest squeezes.
i slide off his lap enough to sit beside him on the bed, backs against the headboard, shoulders touching. he immediately hooks an arm around me and pulls me into his side like he can’t help it. his fingers trace idle, absent patterns on my bare knee.
“so,” he says, a little quieter now. “when did it change? for you.”
i stare at his hand moving over my skin. “do you want the embarrassing answer or the normal one?”
“obviously the embarrassing one.”
“you’re insufferable,” i mutter.
“and yet, here you are.”
i sigh. “fine. um. last summer, maybe? a little before that. you got taller, and your voice did that weird drop thing, and suddenly watching you dive off the dock felt illegal.”
he chokes on a laugh. “illegal?”
“yeah. like i needed parental supervision.”
“that’s so dramatic.”
“you’re a sinclair,” i say. “dramatic is genetic.”
he nudges my shoulder with his. “okay, my turn.”
i hold my breath.
“you remember summer fourteen?” he asks. “when you cut your knee open on the rocks.”
“yeah,” i say slowly. “you freaked out like i’d been shot.”
“you were bleeding everywhere,” he protests. “and you refused to cry. you just sat there with your teeth clenched and told me not to be stupid while i practically fainted.”
i smile faintly at the memory. “you were very pale.”
“i still have nightmares,” he says. “but…that was when it hit me you weren’t just the kid i ran around with. you were…you. and if anything actually happened to you, i’d lose my damn mind.”
my heartbeat stutters.
“and then,” he adds, quieter, “you came back the next summer and you had this… lip gloss. and you started doing this thing with your hair. and all the older guys at the vineyard started looking at you.”
his jaw ticks.
“johnny—”
“and i thought,” he barrels on, “oh. okay. cool. i’m in trouble.”
i don’t realize i’ve reached for his hand until my fingers lace with his. “you didn’t say anything.”
“you didn’t either.”
“i didn’t want to ruin our friendship.”
“like i said,” he murmurs, squeezing my hand, “we both get a say.”
we fall quiet again. the good kind. the kind where the silence feels full instead of empty.
outside, the house creaks softly, settling. i can hear will’s distant snore through the wall, the low murmur of the ocean if i really listen. inside, the only sounds are our breathing and the faint whir of the fan.
“so…what now?” i ask eventually.
he thinks about it. really thinks. i can feel it in the way his thumb slows over my skin.
“now,” he says, “we keep being us. we just stop pretending it’s not more.”
my throat feels tight. “is that allowed?”
“i’m making it allowed,” he says. “new beechwood law. johnny sinclair and y/n are stupid in love and no one else gets to weigh in.”
the words land in my chest like a stone dropped into deep water. stupid in love. he said it like a joke, but his voice shook.
“say it again,” i manage.
he turns his head to look at me, eyes searching my face. “we’re stupid in love?”
“no,” i say, heart hammering. “my name. with yours.”
his mouth curves slow. “johnny and y/n,” he says, like he’s trying it on. “y/n and johnny. we kind of sound right, don’t we?”
“we always did,” i whisper.
he leans over and kisses me again. this one is slower, less frantic, but somehow more intense because there’s nothing we’re hiding from now. his hand cradles the back of my neck, thumb brushing the fine hairs there, pulling me deeper.
i melt into it, fingers sliding up into his hair, tugging just enough to make him make a quiet, wrecked sound in his throat. he shifts, turning more toward me, tugging me sideways until i’m half-under him, half-wrapped around him, the mattress dipping with our combined weight.
it doesn’t go further than kissing—our clothes stay on, our hands mostly respectful—but there’s no mistaking what it is anymore.
every graze of his mouth, every drag of his lips, every little hitch of breath is weighted. i can feel the edges of the line we’re not ready to cross yet, bright and humming between us. we press up against it and then back away, a careful, exquisite kind of torture.
when we finally pull apart, both of us are breathing hard. my lips feel wrecked in the best way. his hair is a mess. his eyes are soft and dark and a little dazed.
“we should actually sleep,” he says, voice rough. “we’re gonna get annihilated at breakfast if we look like this.”
“we don’t look like anything,” i lie.
he snorts. “you have my mouth on your mouth, like, visibly.”
“you don’t look much better,” i shoot back.
“good,” he says. “matching.”
we shuffle around until we’re lying down properly—me on my side, him behind me, his arm slung over my waist. it feels weird for a second, because we’ve done this before on couches and in hammocks and on beach towels, but it’s never been like this. never with this much humming underneath.
johnny noses into my hair, breath warm against the back of my neck. “you okay?” he asks again, softer now, sleepier.
“yeah,” i say. “are you?”
“best i’ve ever been,” he says. there’s no hesitation.
my eyes sting suddenly, out of nowhere. not in a bad way. in a too-much, too-full way.
“johnny?”
“mm?”
“if we mess up,” i say quietly, “if it gets hard or weird or scary…promise we’ll still try to talk. not just run.”
he tightens his arm around me. “i promise,” he says. “even if i have to chase you across the island and drag you back by your ridiculous tiny shirt.”
i snort. “you like my ridiculous tiny shirt.”
“yeah,” he says into my hair. “i really do.”
silence settles over us, heavier this time. my body relaxes one muscle at a time, sinking into the mattress, into his hold, into the unfamiliar but right feeling of belonging here on purpose, not just by tradition.
“hey, y/n?” he murmurs, voice drifting toward sleep.
“yeah?”
“if tipper asks, i’m telling her you stole my bed.”
“i did steal your bed.”
“and my heart,” he says, barely audible.
i turn my head just enough to see him over my shoulder. his eyes are closed, lashes dark against his cheeks, mouth curved into the faintest smile.
“you’re so cheesy,” i whisper.
“you love it,” he says automatically.
and he’s right.
i close my eyes, listening to the ocean outside and his breathing behind me, the two sounds weaving together. for the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel like a place far away from beechwood. it feels like it might actually fit us. like we might get to carry this off the island for once.
but that’s a later problem.
right now, there’s this bed, and this boy, and this summer.
and as i drift toward sleep with johnny’s arm heavy over my waist and his promise warm in my chest, one thought settles in, sure and steady: i’m exactly where i’m supposed to be.
touch-starved!johnny sinclair who pretends he’s not. who jokes, who grins, who sprawls out like he doesn’t need anyone...but somehow he’s always finding his way back to you.
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who drapes himself over you without thinking. an arm around your shoulders, his head dropping into the crook of your neck, fingers absentmindedly tracing shapes on your arm. if you shift away, even just a little, he notices immediately, but doesn’t say anything. he just looks at you, soft and a little unsure, like did i do something wrong?
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who sleeps better when you’re there. tangled legs, your hand on his chest, his breathing finally evening out. if you try to leave the bed first, he tightens his grip, half-asleep, murmuring your name like it’s instinct.
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who always wants skin-to-skin contact. knees pressed together under the table. your feet on his lap. your fingers hooked through his belt loop. he doesn’t care who’s watching, he just needs to feel you there.
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who melts when you initiate it. you lace your fingers with his? he freezes for half a second, then squeezes back like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. you kiss his cheek? his smile goes soft and private, like the world’s just narrowed down to the two of you.
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who gets quiet when you hold his face in your hands. as much as he needs it, he's not used to this affection. his childhood was yelling matches and love shown through tight smiles and fake words. you entering his life shattered all that. suddenly his eyes are dropping, forehead resting against yours. no more jokes. no more bravado. just a boy who doesn’t know how to ask for comfort...but always takes it when you give it.
touch-starved!johnny sinclair who acts casual about it, but always finds an excuse to touch you. “c’mere, it’s cold,” even when it’s not. “no space, sit here,” patting the space between his legs. he frames it like convenience, like habit—never like need.
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who presses kisses into your hair, your temple, your shoulder. soft, absentminded, almost unconscious. he doesn't even realize he does it. he's not trying to start anything, he's just grounding himself.
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who lets you trace the scars and little marks on his skin. he doesn’t look at you while you do it, but his breathing goes slow and deep, like he’s finally safe enough to exist in his own body.
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who never pushes, never demands. he just lingers. just stays close. just hopes you won’t pull away. and when you don’t—when you pull him closer instead—he holds on like he’s been waiting his whole life for someone to do exactly that.
guys im alive. shocker! i havent posted in forever bc of winter travels but im so back (lets see how long this lasts).
content : fluffy, fluff, fluff, reader and johnny are sleeping together, established relationship, relationship is fairly new (not mentioned), reader has hair, cuddling !
summary : literally justreader and johnny getting out of bed in the morning—or lack thereof
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
it had been at least four hours since you’d both woken up for the first time at 7 a.m.
you’d whispered ‘good morning’s’ to one and other, smiling and even a little shy in that first-thing-in-the-morning way. then you’d tucked your head into his chest, draped your leg back over his hip and weaved your fingers through his hair.
he’d woken up first that time—barely seconds before you had, he watched you for a couple seconds before you started stirring, then you regained your senses that sleep had numbed, smelt his weird, expensive all in one shampoo, that supposedly smelt like coconut before he’d swam and surfed too much and it stared smelling like salt, sea and something else that you guessed was the scent of coconut fighting to not be rid of, you felt his arms, one slung over your waist lazily, his hand tucked just under the curve of your ribs, thumb rubbing soft circles into your skin, his other arm under you, being squashed by your weight for so long that having a blood supply may as well have been considered a luxury than a necessity, especially since he swears he’d rather have it fall off before moving it.
lastly, you heard his breathing, even and familiar and a little faster than you knew it to sound when he was asleep.
so, considering all of those things, you opened your eyes and there he was, a small smile on his lips, eyes half lidded, hair a tousled mess, eyebrows raising a little when his eyes met yours, like he’d wanted you to sleep forever and a little longer.
you whispered, ‘morning,’ and so did he. you said you felt gross, he told you that you looked perfect. you called him a lair. he called himself your boyfriend.
you smiled and scrunched your nose, before nestling your head into his chest. he kissed your hair and there was a little pillow talk, until your breathing fell back into that tired rhythm and so did his.
the next time, you woke up first and it was already a quarter past nine.
his lips were slightly parted, releasing small puffs of air every so often, a few damaged, bleached blonde stands of his hair fell onto his forehead, his arm still tight around your middle like he was afraid you’d take off at any given moment—even in his sleep.
your fingers parted through his hair, pushing back the hair that lay across his forehead, brushing it back, letting your finger nails gently scrape against his scalp in the way you knew he’d always loved so much.
then his breathing caught and his mouth closed—he waited a couple seconds, as if to see if you’d stop if he shifted, or woke up too fast—then his lips curled into a grin—a pleased, content grin. his eyes flickered open and met yours immediately.
he told you that it was considered creepy to watch people whilst they sleep. you denied all charges and claimed that he snored—he did a little. he called you a liar. you made ridiculous snorting noises that were supposed to mimic his snoring and called him a tractor.
he was adamant that you were lying. you teased him and he called you mean. you countered him by reminding him that he loved you. he agreed, without a second thought, pulled you back in and pressed dozens of kisses to your forehead.
you melted back into him instantly, your leg wrapping back over his hip, your foot pressing against the back of his thigh, letting out a little sigh as you did so. his head nudged its way into the crook of your neck, taking advantage of your hair laying against it, using it as a pillow and taking in the soft smell that he loved so much.
he suggested that the two of you stay like that all day and as much as you wanted to, you refused and said you had to be real people and that others would notice if the two of you disappeared all day. he told you that the world could survive without you guys for one day.
you called him clingy, although you were already pushing your arm up through the duvet to let your fingers drag through his hair like they’d never left. he called himself your boyfriend, yet again and then you announced that you’d both only stay in bed like that for five more minutes.
five minutes became ten and ten became fifteen then you’d both drifted back off to sleep—until it was just a couple minutes shy of eleven a.m and of course, he woke up first—after you explicitly told him not to let you sleep in all day.
he weighed out his options : wake you right then and face your fake-mad attitude, let you sleep for longer and face your real mad attitude or pretend that he was also asleep and let nature take its own course.
as tempting as the last option was, he knew he should wake you up.
so he did, and to his surprise you were hardly mad. all he got was a groan, but you were just as tired as him and you couldn’t be mad at him right after waking up, not when he already looked like he was bracing himself.
when you finally stared sitting up to push yourself out of bed to make yourself presentable, his arms tightened around your waist, keeping you stuck in place. you accused him of wanting you to look like a sleepy mess all day. he told you that that wasn’t true at all and the you looked cute that way anyways.
after johnny failed miserably at trying to convince you that you guys laying in bed for at least three days was ‘self care’, and people did it all the time, you managed to peel his arm off of you and slip out from under him.
he whined and called you a monster. you told him you’d take that over being lazy. he groaned.
when convincing him to get up wasn’t enough, you pressed the tiniest, quickest, barely-there kiss to his lips and told him he wasn’t getting anymore if he didn’t get up and brush his teeth.
he got up and stayed wrapped around you like a koala whilst you brushed your own teeth and washed your face, trying to occupy him with one hand combing through his hair as you sorted yourself out, his head stuffed in the curve of your neck.
SUMMER LOVIN’ ‧₊˚ੈ johnny sinclair x fem!reader. fluff / childhood friends to lovers / pervert!johnny implied? / beechwood summer / tension / intentional use of lowercase / a/n at the end
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CHAPTER ONE
“15 - love!”
you smiled as johnny heaved, rolling his eyes at the sound of gat and mirren laughing. you were currently in your third round of tennis with johnny, and you’ve both won a game each. “aren’t you supposed to be a pro athlete?” mirren called out to johnny, a smirk playing on her face as the others chuckled.
he scoffed, catching a ball cadence bounced to him. “you were way worse last summer. something must’ve happened to me in the off season.” he said, bouncing the tennis ball between his fingers as you both readied yourselves. “don’t be coy, johnny.” you shouted over the net. “i’ve been practicing.”
the ball was served, and by the end of your fourth set you both had an equal amount of sets won, so whoever won the next game would win.
“i can’t believe you’re actually in a tie right now. i mean, i’ve only won against you like… three times!” gat exclaimed, tossing his hands up in the air from the sideline. “is that something against me, gatwick?” you rose a brow, shooting the dark haired boy a challenging look.
“eyes on the ball, y/n!” johnny yelled.
you faced him again, lightly throwing the yellow ball into the air and hitting it with your racket. it bounced back and forth between you, both you and johnny meeting the serves thrown at you. sun glistened off your sweat covered skin in the heat of the afternoon, playing with johnny would wear anybody out. each swing and hit you made ached your wrists, and you were glad this was match point.
a relieved sigh escaped your lips when johnny missed, and you could practically feel your legs buckle from underneath you in relief. “fuck!” johnny jogged in circles to calm himself, tousling his hair doing so. you almost collapsed onto the ground, sprawling out on the tennis court floor and resting your head on your hands.
cadence and mirren clapped from their distance, cheering you on while gat shook his head in disbelief. you’re eyes were closed as you caught your breath, shielding your pupils from the sun beams. that was until a dark shadow loomed over you. johnny.
he stuck his hands out to help you up, already composed from his past sporting years. “you’ve gotten - you’ve gotten good.” he said half arsedly with a smirk on face, like he didn’t want to admit it but knew better. you took his hand and smiled, hoisting your body up.
“i guess those lessons you gave me came in handy.”
“yeah, i guess they did.”
“get off the court and stop flirting!”
you both looked to the liars on the side, impatiently throwing their hands up and laughing. you laughed with them and wrapped your hand around johnny’s wrist to pull him off the court. you five giggled as you raced back to cuddledown, where you had the house to yourselves after bess and the twins moved into clairmont with harris and tipper.
mirren had even gone as far as ‘redecorating’ or simply moving the furniture around, taking the rugs out and hanging loads of children’s drawings on the walls from the twins old rooms.
in the living room, johnny has claimed the sofa as ‘his throne’ and doesn’t let anyone on it when he’s sat on it. mirren likes the floor, so she’s often found with her back against the couch and her knees propped up when watching television. this is also where she resides to after you all make it back to cuddledown.
cadence and gat gather in the kitchen, finally making a start on the fruit smoothies they’ve been talking about making since the start of the summer. johnny is first upstairs, meaning he gets first shower - as none of the others have a water pressure as great as the master bedrooms en suite.
you relax on the couch, something that doesn’t happen often with johnny’s rules. “hey gat?” you call towards the kitchen, not taking your eyes off the ‘housewives of beverly hills’ that mirren has on. “yeah?” he responds.
“do you have my on clouds?”
“yeah, they’re under johnny’s bed in his room.”
johnny’s room, refers to the guest bedroom the blonde boy stays in when he’s too tired to walk back to red gate with gat. “and why would they be in there?” you question suspiciously. “because i put them there? so the dogs couldn’t get them?” he states as if it’s obvious. “right.” you reply.
an over dramatic sigh leaves your mouth when you get up off the sofa, stretching slowly as you walk toward the stairs. your steps are quiet on the carpet, even when you pick up the pace when you near the top.
johnny’s room isn’t hard to find. it’s one you’ve all hung around in when the downstairs gets too boring and you’d rather lie on a bed over a couch. you drop to your hands and knees to look under his bed, hoping to not find anything other than your shoes. you spot them and go to reach out until a voice from behind startles you.
“nice view.”
the shoes are just barely in your grasp, and you turn to him. the only thing he has on is a stupid towel wrapped around his waist, hung lowly with his loose grip as he stares at your ass in that tennis skirt you’ve suddenly grown insecure about. “like what you see?” you say in a fake teasing tone, tilting your head as you stand properly.
he smirks. “you definitely do anyway.” he wasn’t wrong, but but it wasn’t like you’d let him know that. “well i mean you’re no ryan gosling, but sure.” he scoffs at your witty remark.
“wanna be the joi to my officer k?”
“me? all sweaty and dirty? you fucking wish sinclair.”
you smirked and scoffed at him, brushing shoulders as you walked passed, holding your shoes tightly as you went down the hall to leave them at the door.
mirren had made her way to the kitchen with cadence and gat, who all seemed to be talking enthusiastically about something. “y/n! come here we wanna talk to you.” mirren calls, and you drop your shoes on the shoe rack at the front door.
“yeah?” you say once you lean against the countertop, picking at the bowl of blueberries on the table. “we wanna have a party. here. when the others go to martha’s vineyard for the weekend.” the sheffield says, and cadence nods along.
you shrug your shoulders and a dismissive chuckle leaves your mouth. “okay, it’s not my house so i don’t mind.” gat puts his hand up, gesturing to you as he swallows a mouthful of his smoothie. “that’s what i said! i told you we won’t care since we don’t own this island.”
cadence scoffs, rolling her eyes humorously. “we’ve said it thousands of times, you guys have every right to be here as much as we do.” both you and gat share a knowledgeable look. “still feels like we’re intruding though.”
“who’s intruding?” johnny questions loudly, walking into the kitchen with bounce in his step.
the blonde boy strides over to the blender, pouring himself a very large glass of smoothie before rummaging through the freezer for ice cubes, and you all watch in silence as he does so, waiting for him to quiet. he stops, dropping three pieces of ice into the glass and looking at you all expectantly, taking an obnoxiously loud gulp.
“we’re going to have a party when the family goes to the vineyard for the weekend.” cadence begins. “do you have any objections?” he furrows his brows, and then points to the floor. “here? in cuddledown?” he asks, you all nod.
he shakes his head, as though it’s a stupid question. “no i don’t care. as long as red gate is locked.” you roll your eyes at his selfishness. classic johnny.
mirren puts her hands in the air, a smile gracing her face. “alright then! summer party on the 28th!” she says, and you all cheer and whoop in response. “we can even go into town and get real party snacks and shit.” johnny nods at your words, taking another sip of his drink. “i’m absolutely choosing what we get.”
“so y/n and johnny will get the boat into town and sort out whatever we need?” cadence asks.
“sure. we’ll even get a keg.”
“wait, seriously?”
“i mean why not? there’s new staff this year because the old ones graduated or whatever, so we mightn’t need id.”
“sweet.”
next
authors note!! first real chapter posted and i didn’t take a week to upload for once. i think i’ve finally figured out the whole plot of this story so ill actually know what i’m writing for once instead of typing and hoping for the best. this story has also been posted to my wattpad so please check it out over there too! my user is winterslve again, and you can look at my other fic in works on there that i probably won’t post here.
also debating on making an erik sundqvist fic? idk if i will though because my plans to see the movie have fallen through but i might see it next week, would you guys read it?
thank you so much on the love for this story i appreciate it so much!! 🫶
