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What Once Was!

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

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

And that meeting changed the course of your entire summer.

Johnny Sinclair x Fisher fem reader!!

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

Pt 1 - Pt2 - Pt3 - Pt4 - Pt5 - Pt 5.5 - Pt6 - Pt6.5 - Pt 7 (Season final)

Johnny's POV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still counts.”

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

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

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

“Just observing patterns, sweetie.”

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

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

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

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

“Where are you headed?” Susannah asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grinned. “Morning, Miss Kersey.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll pretend I’m flattered.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Click.

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

Click.

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

Click.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s when the cold crept higher.

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

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

You stared at it. “…Shit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The boat gave another ominous creak and dipped slightly lower.

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

You saw it.

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

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

“Beachwood.”

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

You paddled with the best of your ability.

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

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

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

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

But you made it.

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

What the actual fuck were you supposed to do now?

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

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

Oh God.

You sat up fast.

OH GOD YOU WERE IN Beachwood.

Like, actual Beachwood.

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

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

Oh… God.

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

Fire and deaths.

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

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

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

They had people for that.

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

And now here you were.

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

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

Shit shit shittttttt

Okay. Think.

You glanced at the boat.

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

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

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

“No. No, no, no—”

Half the things inside were soaked. Absolutely drenched.

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

And then your camera, your stomach turned.

“Oh, God,” you whispered.

It was dripping, actually dripping.

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

Tears pricked at your eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope flares hard in your chest.

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

You take another step.

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

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

What were you supposed to do now?

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

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

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

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

“You know this is private property, right?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The boy with bright blue eyes just watched you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He kept looking at you.

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t,” he said, flat.

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

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

You swallowed, “…What?”

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

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

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

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

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

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

You froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Johnny, behind you, finally cleared his throat.

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

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

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

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

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

And just like that, the memory clicked into place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You lifted your hands helplessly. “Apparently?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because you’d expected… something else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah. So that was his name.

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

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

Another burst of laughter left the boy.

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

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

You crossed the doorway like a thief in church.

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

Cozy in a way you hadn’t expected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That made you pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Willy hadn’t stopped talking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her gaze didn’t waver. “You are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugged. “Didn’t say I wasn’t.”

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

He sat up straighter after that.

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

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

He was... handsome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Willy let out a groan so loud you winced.

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

Miss Sinclair gave him a look. “Willy—”

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

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

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

You blinked. “I—uh…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded. “Pretty much."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And with that, your summer officially began.

Part 2 - Part 3