#tsitp s3

[l0kiris]

why did they play hot to go AND good luck babe in s3 of tsitp ???

[liarom1ove]

What once was!

Season 2: November and options!

Johnny Sinclair x Fisher femreader!!

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

Masterlist S1

Prologue - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4

The email had been sitting open on Ms Bennett’s computer for nearly five full minutes, and she was still smiling at it in the measured way school counsellors smiled when they were trying to make a waitlist sound like an opportunity or a rejection sound like character development.

This smile was a bright, real one, the sort that people got when something impossible had become almost possible.

You sat across from her with your knees pressed together and your hands tucked beneath your thighs, watching the Harvard crest glow at the top of the screen.

“Well,” Ms Bennett said at last, skimming the email again, then back at you.

You shifted in your chair. “That’s not a sentence.”

“No, it is me exercising great restraint,” she said, there was laughter tucked into her eyes.

“That’s worrying.”

“It should be," She smiled at you, "I have very little of it left.”

You tried to smile, mouth moving in the right direction, but you bet it didn't reach your eyes.

Ms Bennett tilted her head the slightest bit, eyes knowing as she leaned back in her chair, folding her hands together over her stomach. “Do you understand what this means?”

“It’s not an acceptance.” Your gaze stayed fixed on the email at the Harvard crest sat at the top of the page.

The words beneath it blurred together every time you tried to read them yet again.

Mr Bennet let out a small laugh and went on, “Supposed not, it is, however, Harvard telling you, in extremely polished institutional language, that they are very, very interested in you.”

You looked back at the screen. Very interested.... That was such a strange phrase.

People were very interested in antique furniture, in weather systems or true crime documentaries narrated by men with suspiciously soothing voices and celebrity scandals and whatever odd thing had become popular on TikTok that week.

“It says they look forward to reviewing the rest of my application,” you said at last, pointing vaguely at the screen.

Mrs Bennet folded her arms loosely across her chest and raised an eyebrow. “It says more than that... luckily, I’m paid to read between lines.”

You gave her a look. “Are you?”

“Among other things.” She glanced at the email again, and her smile softened into something warmer. “This is a likely letter, or as close to one as they can make it without using those exact words. It does not guarantee admission, no, but universities like Harvard do not send messages like this to students they are casually considering.”

You swallowed, the word guarantee stayed in your head because it was bullshit; nothing was guaranteed, not Harvard or next summer. Not your mother sitting at the kitchen island with a mug of tea, asking you what you wanted for dinner as if dinner mattered, as if any of it mattered more than the fact that she had started needing to sit down halfway through conversations.

You pushed that thought away so hard it almost made you dizzy; nonetheless, the feeling rose in your chest anyway.

"Right..." you murmured, straightening in your chair and nodding to yourself, as though saying it aloud would make it simpler. "A likely letter."

Across the desk, Mrs Bennet watched you for a moment.

"You should be proud. A very small percentage of applicants receive these," She held up her fingers, leaving barely a sliver of space between them."Like one per cent small."

You let out a quiet breath through your nose. "I am."

Mrs Bennet looked at you for a moment, carefully, as if deciding whether to let you have the lie or gently take it from your hands.

You looked away first, gaze landing on the row of university pennants pinned along the office wall, all places that existed comfortably in the realm of possibility.

"I am," you repeated, quieter this time.

The lie wasn't complete; that was the frustrating part.

You were proud and happy; you remembered every late night, every essay and exam, you remembered staying up until one in the morning rewriting applications, impossible standards and pushing yourself further than anyone had asked you to.

You remembered falling asleep on textbooks after cheer practice and your other extracurriculars, and working so hard your teachers had started telling younger students to be more like you. You knew how many students would kill for an email like this.

You were proud, but pride wasn't the thing sitting heaviest in your chest.

Mrs Bennet was silent for a few seconds, long enough to make it obvious she wasn't going to let you escape with the answer.

Her office had never felt so small before.

Usually, it was cluttered in a comforting way. Stacks of forms arranged in neat piles. A corkboard full of college brochures and scholarship deadlines or the bowl of peppermint candies on the corner of her desk that everyone pretended they did not come in specifically to steal from, today, every detail seemed too sharp.

“I believe you,” she said at last. “But I also think you look like someone just handed you a tax audit.”

A short laugh escaped before you could stop it. It startled you more than it amused you, coming out cracked at the edges and disappearing almost immediately into the quiet office.

“That’s very specific.”

“I’ve been doing this a long time.”

You looked down, smoothing one hand over your skirt even though there was nothing wrong with it. “Do most people look like this when Harvard emails them?”

“No,” Mrs Bennet said gently. “Most people cry.”

Your mouth moved before you had time to think better of it.

“I can cry.”

She gave you a soft look, “I know you can.”

You blinked, taken aback, then looked down at your lap where your fingers had twisted the hem of your sweater into a tight little knot.

Mrs Bennet said it softly, without accusation, without teasing or trying to make you feel exposed and somehow that made it worse. If she had laughed, you could have laughed too; had she pushed, you could have pushed back, but she only looked at you like she remembered every late slip, every meeting, every too-bright smile you had walked into this office wearing since your mother was first diagnosed years ago.

You pressed your lips together.

Outside her office, someone’s locker slammed, a boy laughed too loudly in the hall, the bell had rung almost ten minutes ago, but the school had not fully settled into class yet.

Inside the office, Harvard waited on the screen and Ms. Bennett waited too.

“I worked really hard,” you muttered at last. "I know that sounds stupid—"

“It doesn’t.”

You let out a breath and shook your head, already annoyed with yourself. “No, it does. Obviously, I worked hard. Everyone applying to Harvard worked hard, that’s the whole point.”

You rubbed at your brow, pressing two fingers between your eyes as if you could smooth the thought into something less tangled.

“I just mean— I wanted this for a long time,” you said finally, your voice quieter now. “And I am happy.”

Ms Bennett nodded once, but did not rescue you from the silence. You looked back at the email at the crest that blurred slightly, making you blink until it sharpened again.

“I think maybe I’m just waiting for it to process, that’s all,” you said, looking back at her with a tiny smile, latching onto the explanation the second it appeared. It sounded reasonable, mature, even. “It doesn’t feel real yet.”

“That can happen.” Relief loosened something in your chest because, for one brief second, you thought you had found the right answer, one that even you could use to lie to yourself, but then Ms Bennett added, “But I don’t think that’s all.”

You crossed your arms. “I’m fine.”

Ms Bennett looked at you once again, and maybe if it had been anyone else, you could have managed it.

Had it been a teacher who only knew your grades, or one of your father’s friends who called you impressive, or one of the well-meaning mothers who still asked about Susannah with their voices already halfway to pity, you could have kept your face arranged.

But Ms Bennett had known too long, had watched you obsess over grades when most people were worrying about football games, seen you and your brothers balance hospital visits and exams, seen you walk into school after sleepless nights and somehow still turn in assignments on time.

She knew exactly what you looked like when you were fine, and this wasn't it.

Ms Bennett’s voice softened. “How is your mother?”

Your arms loosened from where they'd been folded tightly across your stomach, and you looked away toward the window beside her desk.

There were so many answers like fine or tired, going through it, still beautiful, making jokes, still making plans and pretending not to see you watching her hands shake when she reached for a glass.

The shrug you gave her was a terrible answer, but it was also the only honest one you had.

Ms. Bennett went quiet for a moment.

"I see."

Your throat tightened instantly, and you hated that because it meant she understood too quickly, and you did not have to explain, which somehow made everything worse.

“She’s okay,” you decided finally, but even as you said it, you hated how thin it sounded.

Mrs Bennet’s eyes stayed on you, gentle but not fooled. “Okay.”

“Yeah. She’s— she’s okay.”

The word felt worse the second time.

Okay. A word people used when they did not want to explain hospital appointments, pill bottles, your mother’s brave face, you and Jeremiah doing taxes on the kitchen table, your own stupid habit of counting the bad days like they were clues to some answer nobody would give you.

You looked back at the screen because the email was easier to look at than Mrs Bennet.

“She was really happy,” you said after a moment. “When I told her about the email.”

Ms Bennett’s gaze softened as she listened to you rant.

“She cried, like, actual tears. Jeremiah screamed so loudly I think half the neighbourhood heard, and Conrad even came back from brown to hug me that same day.”

Ms Bennett smiled faintly.

“And Mom kept talking about moving day” Your mouth trembled, so you pressed your lips together hard. “Like she could already see it, and started talking about dorm rooms before I'd even read the letter"

The room changed around you, or maybe you changed inside it.

“We’ve talked about Harvard since I was little, at first it was just one of those things parents say because their kid reads too much and corrects adults at dinner, you know?"

Mrs Bennet's mouth twitched, a small smile appeared despite herself.

“I can imagine.”

“But then I got older, and it became real; we made plans.” Your voice went quieter. “Stupid ones.”

“I doubt they were stupid, hon.”

“They were,” you said, but there was no bite in it. “She said she’d take me shopping for dorm stuff, and I told her I wasn’t letting her buy me anything with inspirational quotes on it. She said she’d visit every week and embarrass me by taking pictures of everything, she wants to get coffee near campus and pretend she's crying after move-in like she did with Connie.”

You looked up at the ceiling quickly when your eyes started to burn.

“She said she’d wear a Harvard sweatshirt even if it made her look like one of those unbearable college moms.” Your breath shook once. “And now I think about going, and all I can see is everything she won’t be there for.”

Your eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling because if you looked down, if you looked at Mrs Bennet, if you looked at that email again, you were afraid something inside you would crack wide open.

“I know that’s awful,” you said quickly, voice strained. “Because she’s here, she’s still here, and I’m acting like—”

“You’re not acting like anything.”

Mrs Bennet’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the panic before it could build.

You blinked hard, a tear slipped anyway making you wiped it away fast, almost angrily.

“I just hate that I think about it,” you admitted. “And that she starts talking about moving day, and I can’t just be happy. She looks so excited, and all I can think is, what if she doesn’t get to do it?”

Mrs Bennet did not flinch.

You wiped under your eye again before anything could fall. "I know Harvard is Harvard, people would kill for this, and I’m.... just sitting here acting like it’s bad news. It feels bad,” you took a deep breath and blinked to look at the woman. “That’s the awful part because it feels like someone handed me this thing I wanted more than anything, and now I can’t touch it without thinking about her not being there.”

Ms Bennett leaned forward slightly. “Good news can still hurt when it belongs to someone who is sick.”

Your throat closed, and you looked back at the screen.

Harvard.

The word had always sounded bright before, now it sounded like your mother’s voice saying, my brilliant baby girl, while both of you pretended there would be time.

“I thought I’d get this and everything would feel worth it,” you said. “All the work, the stress and all the nights I stayed up... I- I thought I’d feel like I won.”

“And you don’t?”

You shook your head, mouth pressing tight before admitting,“I feel like I’m already missing her,”

Ms. Bennett’s expression changed and you hated how gentle she looked.

“I don't want to be here and think about doing all of it alone.”

“You won’t be alone.”

“I know.” You swallowed, then huffed, sniffling a bit, “That’s not what I mean.”

You know Conrad would be there, Jeremiah would probably call every other day, your father would check in, Johnny would be on campus with you, Laurel would be as attentive as she can, Belly and Steven would probably visit... Life would continue.

The point was that there was only one person you wanted standing in those memories. Only one person had been there from the beginning.

"I'm... scared."

Outside, the school kept moving, lockers, voices, shoes against tile. Life, continuing completely unaware that yours felt suspended.

It was an awful thing to be afraid of, and an even worse thing to admit out loud.

“I’m scared Harvard is going to become this haunted thing,” you huffed as more tears managed to escape you. “And I know that sounds dramatic.”

“It doesn’t.” You looked up, her expression was gentle, but there was something firm underneath it. “It sounds like you love your mother.”

It was no grand revelation, just the truth; nonetheless, your face crumpled again, and you had to look away.

Without thinking, you brought your hand to your mouth, pressing your thumbnail against your front teeth. An old habit, one your mother had spent years trying to break you of.

You used to do it before spelling tests, before recitals, before her doctor appointments, when you were younger, she'd gently pull your hand away and replace it with a granola bar, a pencil, a stress ball, anything to keep your fingers occupied.

For years you'd barely done it at all; now it was coming back, anxiety had found an old d,oorway and remembered how to get inside.

Mrs Bennet's eyes flicked down to your hand, then back to your face, but she did not snap at you to stop, nor did she make it into another thing you had to feel embarrassed about.

Instead, she reached slowly toward the tissue box and nudged it closer.

You lowered your hand almost immediately, ashamed anyway. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

You nodded, took a tissue, more to have something to hold than anything else, and twisted it between your fingers.

“I hate this feeling,” you whispered.

“Sometimes fear does that,” she said. “It makes you mourn things before they happen, because your mind thinks that if it imagines the worst clearly enough, it can somehow prepare you.”

You looked down at the tissue in your hands. “Does it?”

“No,” she said gently. “Not really.”

A weak, miserable laugh escaped you. “At least you’re honest.”

“I try.”

"It's just..." Your voice cracked again.

You pressed the heel of your hand against your eyes, trying to stop the tears that kept coming no matter how many times you wiped them away.

"Planning for Harvard now feels..." You swallowed hard. "Suffocating."

You wiped at your face again, embarrassed by how pointless it was when more tears kept coming anyway and for a while, Ms Bennett let you breathe, then, with a bit of hesitation, she opened the drawer beside her desk.

“I wasn't going to bring this up, I don't usually do, actually,” she said.

You gave a weak, watery laugh. “That sounds ominous.”

"It isn't ominous," Mrs Bennet replied calmly, though there was a carefulness in her tone that didn’t quite reassure you.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, studying her. "That is exactly what ominous people say."

She smiled gently, but there was something serious in it, then she pulled out a thin folder and placed it on the desk between you.

You frowned. “What is that?”

"UCAS," she said, turning the folder so the letters faced you. The acronym meant absolutely nothing. "It's the undergraduate application system for universities in the UK, like Cambridge. Oxford. LSE. UCL... a few others.”

You blinked, stared at her, then at the folder, then back at her. You've heard those names before, Universities you'd looked at once or twice out of curiosity, usually late at night when you had fallen down some academic rabbit hole and started comparing programs for no real reason, then immediately dismissed because they weren't Harvard.

Because Harvard had always been the plan.

So seeing Ms Bennet calmly place a folder for an entirely different continent on the desk while you were actively crying felt slightly surreal.

Your frown slightly, "Ms Bennet, why do you have that in your desk?"

"Because sometimes I have at least one student who thinks there are only eight colleges in the world... or because they know they aren't."

A reluctant smile tugged at your mouth.

"I don't think that."

She raised an unamused eyebrow, then went on, "I know Britain is far--”

You let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “That is one way to describe another continent.”

“It is far,” she repeated, not letting you hide behind the joke. “And it would be easier, in many ways, to look somewhere here. There are plenty of extraordinary universities in the United States that would be more than happy to have you.”

“Then why are you handing me this?” You looked at her carefully.

Ms Bennett leaned back slightly, considering you in that quiet, unnerving way of hers and said

“Because I do not think this is only about prestige, if it were, we would be having a very different conversation.”

You looked down, Harvard still glowed on the screen behind her, crimson, official and almost yours.

Ms Bennett continued. “You have already proven you can aim high; that is not the question.”

You frown, still not understanding, “Then what is the question?”

“The question,” she said at last, her steady gaze on you, “is whether you need a future that has not already been imagined.”

"What?"

For someone supposedly intelligent, you were struggling horribly to keep up. You gestured vaguely between the Harvard email glowing on her computer screen and the folder she'd placed on the desk.

“I don't understand what that means.”

Ms. Bennett’s voice softened. “If I gave you a list of other schools in Boston, New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, or even California, they might be excellent. They might be easier to explain, easier to visit and for your family to understand.”

“Sounds great,” you said weakly.

A smile flickered across her face.

“But would they feel different enough?”

You frowned and opened your mouth, ready to argue, but no words came out. Because now, unfortunately, you sort of understood what she was saying, not in a way you could explain back to her without sounding ridiculous but enough.

Enough that your eyes dropped to the UCAS folder again, and the room seemed to tilt slightly around the idea.

"You've spent years working toward difficult," Mrs Bennet continued. "You're not afraid of hard work, or of competition."

A faint, humourless smile pulled at your mouth; no, those had never been the problem.

"You certainly aren't afraid of leaving home."

Your smile fell into pursed lips; the tears on your cheeks had started to dry, leaving your skin feeling tight and uncomfortable, but you didn't bother wiping them away anymore.

Mrs Bennet glanced down at the UCAS folder for a moment before looking back at you. “I’m not saying England is the answer. I am not even saying you should go, I know you still want Harvard."

Your eyes drifted immediately to the email still glowing on her computer screen, the crimson crest, the likely letter, the dream.

“I do,” you admitted quietly.

Because, despite it all, you did want it badly.

Mrs Bennet nodded. “I know, and I don't think you're questioning Harvard.”

You frowned.

“Then what am I questioning?”

For a moment, sadness crossed her face. "I think you're questioning whether you can survive loving something that has become tangled up with losing someone.”

You could hear the blood rushing in your ears, but it was true.

"I’m handing you another version of your future,” she said carefully. “Something farther away, something less tied to all those old conversations, might give you room to breathe.”

The words made sense, and you hated that

“So England is, what, emotional ventilation?”

Mrs Bennet’s mouth twitched. “Not the term I would use in a recommendation letter.”

A weak laugh slipped out of you, and you gaze at the email.

“A different country would not make grief disappear," Ms Bennet murmured gently, "I would never pretend that. You would still miss her. You would still have bad days. You would still carry all of this with you, but it may give you a place where every street corner is not already part of a memory.”

Your gaze dropped to the folder again. Another version.

“What would I even study?” you asked softly.

“Well,” she said, opening the folder, “you’ve spoken about law for years, and if still the long-term goal, there are several paths. Law itself, of course, but also politics and philosophy. Something analytical. Cambridge has an excellent Economics course, and it would open the door a bit better at Harvard Law later, if you still want it”

“Cambridge,” you repeated.

Ms Bennett turned one of the pages toward you. “You would have to work hard.”

You gave her a look through wet lashes. “When do I not?”

“Fair point..."

You stare at the folder, re-reading the acronyms, could feel the weight of the folder sitting between you on the desk.

"The Oxbridge deadline is soon," Ms Bennet said carefully. "If you wanted to apply, we'd need to move quickly."

You leaned back slightly, putting a little more space between yourself and this new doorway she had just opened.

"I didn't say I wanted to apply."

Mrs Bennet raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“I still have Harvard.” You gestured vaguely toward the email still glowing on her computer screen. “And I applied to other colleges too.”

Mrs Bennet nodded, understanding, but she nudged the UCAS folder a little closer across the desk anyway.

“You don’t have to choose England, but if there is any part of you that thinks you may need more than one version of your future, then I do not want you realising too late that you had another door and let it close because you were afraid to look at it.”

You pursed your lips “I just... don’t want to choose the thing that hurts less just because it hurts less.”

Mrs Bennet’s face softened. “That would be a very human thing to do, but there is a difference between running from grief and giving yourself a place where you can still grow around it.”

You should have pushed the folder back, should have said Harvard was enough, laughed at the entire conversation, thanked her for her time, grabbed your things and gone back to class like the girl who had received the best news of her life.

Instead, you stared at the folder, at the neat black letters printed across the front yet again.

UCAS.

A door, nothing more than a door with no strings attached to anyone, and looking at another door did not mean closing the one you had spent your whole life walking toward.

Ms Bennet folded her hands together. "Apply. That's all I'm asking. If they offer you a place, you can decide then, for now, you're not choosing a university, you're simply keeping a door open."

You pursed your lips, eyes moving between her and the folder, and reached out before you could think too hard about it, and pulled the folder toward yourself.

“I'll...” Your voice caught, you cleared your throat. “I'll send an application.”

Mrs Bennet nodded, her expression softened. “You don’t have to decide anything beyond that.”

You nodded, more to yourself than to her. UCAS folder sat in your lap, it still felt impossible somehow, but Ms Bennet was right, an application wasn't a commitment.

You tightened your grip on the folder and gave a small nod.

“...Okay.”

By ten in the morning the house already smelled like cinnamon, butter, and impending disaster.

"Conrad!"

"I'm literally helping!"

Thanksgiving at your house was never quiet. The television was already on in the living room, volume a little too high, some parade coverage bleeding into the kitchen every time someone opened the swinging door. Jeremiah was supposed to be setting the table and was somehow nowhere to be found. Conrad had been assigned three separate jobs, was doing a little of all of them badly, much to your annoyance and kept smiling down at his phone... Probably Belly.

Which was another dilemma entirely, and one you had absolutely no interest in meddling with before noon.

You were currently doing roughly half the cooking your mother had originally planned to do herself. Not because she had asked you to, no, she would never ask, that was the problem.

She was still trying to be Susannah Fisher, the holiday queen, floating through the kitchen in a soft sweater with cinnamon on her hands and excitement in her smile. Only now she moved a little slower than she used to, pausing every so often before crossing the room, lingering just a second too long in front of the oven as if gathering the energy for the next thing.

So, naturally, you had started intercepting things in subtle but determined ways.

Took over basting the turkey because you "wanted to." Volunteered to peel potatoes, stir sauces, carry trays, and do anything that kept her from standing too long, without making it obvious what she was doing and other things like tell your brothers what to do, how to do it and where to go.

Your mom simply smiled, squeezed your shoulder as she passed, and thanked you like you were doing her a favour instead of quietly trying to keep the morning from wearing her out.

Jeremiah chose that exact moment to burst through the back door. "I found the tablecloth!"

You blinked away from the vegetables . "…Where was it?"

"The garage."

"The garage?" Conrad echoed from across the kitchen, glancing away from the stove.

Jeremiah shrugged as though that answered every possible follow-up question. "Don't ask me. Thanksgiving stuff migrates."

The house was starting to look like a small theatrical production that happened to involve turke. There were flowers on the table before breakfast, candles your mom insisted smelled like “late November”, even though Jeremiah said they smelled like a craft store having a nervous breakdown.

And this year, she was determined to make everything as perfect as possible because Laurel, Steven and Belly were coming, the house would be full before long, and if your mom had anything to say about it, every candle would be lit, every dish would be warm, and every person who walked through the front door would feel like they'd come home.

You knew better than anyone how much that meant to her, and you wanted her to have it.

Jeremiah was already halfway back toward the hallway when you looked up again.

"Well?" you called after him.

He paused dramatically. "What?"

"Go and set the damn table, I asked you an hour ago."

Jeremiah groaned so dramatically you would have thought you'd asked him to build the table from scratch.

"I will, my God."

“Then go.” You motion to the hallway.

“I literally just got back.”

“From the garage, not war, twerp!”

Jeremiah threw the tablecloth over one shoulder and looked toward your mother with the expression of a deeply persecuted younger brother.

"Mom, tell her to stop being so annoying."

Without even looking up from the bowl she was whisking, Susannah smiled. "You probably should've set the table an hour ago."

"I was looking for it," He defended himself.

"And now your getting on my nerves!" You pointed at him with the knife, "Go set the freaking table, so help me God, Jeremiah."

Jeremiah looked at your mom again. “Are you seeing this?”

Her shoulders shook with silent laughter as the doorbell rang.

For one glorious second, the house went quiet except for the bubbling pot on the stove and the faint music playing from the living room.

Susannah looked toward the hallway, smiling already. “That might be Laurel... she came earlier than I thought."

“I’ll get it,” Conrad said at once, setting the spoon down.

“Wash your hands first,” you said automatically.

He looked at you and lifted his hands as if to prove they were clean and you squinted.

“Fine, go.”

Jeremiah leaned closer to your mother and whispered loudly, “She’s lost it.”

Go set the table,” you shot back.

“I will!"

Conrad disappeared down the hallway, and Jeremiah didn't move an inch toward the dining room; instead, he beelined for the cooling rack, stole another bun, and bit into it far too soon and immediately regretted it, puffing little breaths through his mouth while stubbornly refusing to spit it out.

“Mom,” you complained, throwing both hands in the air. “I'm about to kill him.”

Susannah didn't even look up from the cranberry sauce she was stirring.

"Jeremiah, honey, don't start eating now," she said, shaking her head fondly. "You'll be too full for turkey later."

Jeremiah looked genuinely offended by the suggestion. "I'll never be too full for turkey.

You pointed at the dining room. “Table. Now.”

Jeremiah took another bite of the roll instead and for one long second, you just stared at him as he chewed, a man with no fear of death.

Before you could actually throw the rolling pin at him, Conrad came back into the kitchen holding a pie box.

“Not the Conklins”

Behind him was Johnny, who was holding two more pie boxes stacked carefully in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other.

He stood there in his Harvard sweatshirt, taking in the scene with the polite, cautious expression of someone who had walked into a room and immediately understood he had missed at least three arguments.

Conrad glanced back at him as he went to put the pie on the fridge “I warned you.”

Johnny’s eyes moved from the rolling pin on the counter, to Jeremiah holding half a dinner roll, to you standing there with flour on your sleeve and murder in your eyes.

“Should I come back later?”

“Yes,” Jeremiah said at once. “Save yourself.”

“Ignore him.” You sent your brother a glare before stepping forward to take the pies from Johnny.

Your fingers brushed his around the boxes, and for a second the kitchen noise seemed to dip.

You caught his gaze, “Hi,”

Johnny’s smile changed and whispered back,“Hey”

Susannah wiped her hands on a towel, her whole face brightening in that way that made the room feel warmer. “Johnny, sweetheart, you’re early.”

Johnny’s smile shifted from you to your mom “I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course it is.” She moved toward him, already reaching for the flowers. “And you brought flowers. Look at you.”

Johnny handed them over with a careful smile. “Happy Thanksgiving, Susannah.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Susannah accepted the flowers like he had brought her something much more precious than a bouquet. “Happy Thanksgiving. These are beautiful.”

“They’re from the little shop near campus,” Johnny said. “The woman there said they were autumnal.”

Jeremiah, still chewing, leaned slightly toward Conrad. “Autumnal.”

“Let me go find a vase to put them in.” She said before taking the flowers somewhere deeper into the house.

“Well,” you said, setting the pie on the fridge next to where Conrad place the other, “good thing you’re early.”

Johnny’s attention returned to you, for one hopeful, foolish second, he looked like he thought you meant something sweet.

Maybe that was why you were so glad to see him, not that you needed a reason (you always were) but you’d invited him a few days earlier after he’d mentioned that his mom, Ed, and Will would be spending Thanksgiving with Ed’s family, you’d invited him without really thinking about it. The alternative had been spending the holiday at his grandfather’s grand estate with Aunt Bess and the twins, something that hadn’t exactly filled him with enthusiasm. It hadn’t taken much convincing after that.

Unfortunately for him, you were also covered in flour and operating on nerves, cinnamon, and the determination to make this day as perfect as possible.

“Because we’re behind,” you finished matter-of-factly.

His hopeful expression deflated just enough to be funny. “…Right.”

Jeremiah, still chewing on the stolen roll, leaned against the counter like he had not been given a single instruction all morning.

“Careful,” he told Johnny. “That’s how she gets you.”

You pointed at him immediately. “You. Table.”

Jeremiah groaned “Oh, my god!”

“And you’re supposed to be helping him,” you said ignoring Jeremiah, turning your finger on Conrad next.

“I was!”

You send him an unamused look “Sure. If checking your phone every five minutes counts as productive.”

“Belly texted.”

Your expression softened before you could stop it. Of course she had.

You knew Jeremiah well enough to notice the tiny shift in his face every time her name came up, no matter how hard he pretended otherwise.

Things were… better, at east on the surface.

A few weeks ago he’d told Conrad he had his blessing to be with Belly, and for the first time in months the house hadn’t felt like it was balancing on a fault line.

But you knew better than to believe peace meant healed.

You were angry for Jeremiah. How could you not be?

The way everything had happened had been awful and messy and embarrassing. The kind of hurt that made even Thanksgiving feel like it was sitting on top of a fault line.

But you couldn’t really blame or be mad at Conrad either, not entirely.

He hadn’t known everything and Conrad loved Belly with the kind of hopeless, consuming certainty that made him stupid and careful and impossible all at once.

Were you mad at Belly? well, you weren’t entirely happy with her, nonetheless, you will keep it cute, like the old times for your moms sake.

You cleared your throat, “The decorative pumpkin don’t care who you texted.”

Conrad opened his mouth to defend himself.

You didn’t let him turning to Johnny, you nodded toward your brothers. “You’re going with them.”

Johnny blinked. “Me?”

“You will help them finish the decorations,” you said nodding. “And you’ll make sure these two don’t slack off.”

Johnny glanced between you and them before a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“So… supervision.”

“Congratulations.” You smiled sweetly. “You’ve been promoted.”

After a beat, Johnny nodded. “Yeah, all right.”

You send him a smile “thank you”

Jeremiah stared at him as he finally climbed down from the counter.

“Been here thirty seconds and folded immediately.”

Johnny looked at him, then glanced toward you, who had already gone back to cutting vegetables.

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Thirty seconds, and I already understand the chain of command.”

Jeremiah scoffed as he make his way out the kitchen “Unbelievable.”

Conrad clapped Johnny once on the shoulder as they started following Jeremiah toward the dining room.

“Welcome to the front lines.”

Johnny nod solemnly. “I appreciate it.”

Your mom came back with the flowers arranged in a vase, setting them carefully beside the sink before lingering there a moment.

When you looked up, she was watching you with that soft, knowing expression on her face.

“What?” you asked, already suspicious.

She blinked innocently. “Nothing.”

“Mom.”

“I’m serious.”

You gave her a look.

She smiled anyway, reaching for a pair of kitchen scissors to trim the flower stems. “He fits in here.”

You automatically glanced toward the dining room, where Jeremiah’s voice carried loudly through the house.

“I’m just saying, tablecloth wrinkles are part of the rustic charm.”

“They’re not supposed to be diagonal, Jere.”Conrad replied flatly.

Then Johnny’s voice followed “Maybe if we pull it from this side.”

There was a brief scrape of wood against the floor, followed by Jeremiah saying, “Wow. Management has spoken.”

You couldn’t make out what Johnny said next, but it earned a scoff from Jeremiah followed by Conrad’s unmistakable laugh.

Against your will, the corner of your mouth twitched.

“Yeah,” you said, turning back to the dough. “He’s useful.”

“That wasn’t what I said.”

“It’s what I heard.” You sing sang

Susannah laughed softly and moved to hug you. “I love you, baby girl.”

“Moom!” You complained but hugged her right back.

By late afternoon, the house had reached the dangerous stage of Thanksgiving where everything smelled good, everyone was slightly overheated, and your mother had started saying things like we’re right on schedule in a tone that meant you absolutely were not.

Laurel had called to say they were fifteen minutes away.

Jeremiah had finally set the table, Conrad had disappeared to shower after your mother told him, very sweetly, that he smelled like onions. Johnny had somehow survived decoration duty.

You, however, looked like you had been attacked by a bag of flour so you went to change and might’ve drag Johnny with you.

Your room was blessedly quieter.

Still a bit messy, because you had been too busy micromanaging Thanksgiving to care. A half-open drawer, a stack of college brochures on your desk you had not meant to leave visible, a pair of heels kicked near the closet, a dress hanging from the wardrobe door.

Johnny stepped inside and paused near the threshold, polite enough not to wander.

“You know,” he said, “when you said come with me, I assumed there was going to be a task.”

“There is.”

You shut the door halfway, not all the way, because you were not insane and your brothers were downstairs with mouths.

Johnny glanced at the dress. “Am I steaming something?”

You grabbed the towel you used that morning “No.”

“Carrying something?”

Throw it on the dirty clothes basket “No.”

“Being murdered?”

You send him a grin and a shrug “Possibly.”

His mouth twitched.

You crossed to your closet and started searching for the cardigan you had planned to wear, only to remember you had thrown it somewhere during the morning crisis involving the missing candles.

“You’re hiding.”

Johnny blinked. “I’m hiding? From whom?”

You grabbed a pair of jeans,“My dad.”

That made him go still for a second.

“Your dad’s coming?”

You sighs and nodded “It’s Thanksgiving.”

“I know, I just thought—”

“That maybe he’d skip the family holiday centered around my sick mother and the children he emotionally confuses on a regular basis?” You pulled a sweater from the closet, frowned at it, and threw it onto the bed “No such luck”

Johnny nodded understanding, and leaned back lightly against your desk, hands in his pockets. “Do you want me to leave before he gets here?”

You looked over your shoulder, he was trying to sound casual but did not quite manage it.

“What? No.” You said looking at him as if he’d grown three heads. “No,” you said again honestly, then sighed. “It’s just….”

Johnny waited as you turned back to the closet, suddenly very interested in two nearly identical sweaters.

“My dad’s is weird about people.”

Johnny frown “Weird how?”

“Weird as in he’ll either barely acknowledge your existence or decide he likes you because you’re a Sinclair and you go to Harvard.”

Johnny’s expression shifted. “Ah.”

“Yeah.” You pulled out a blouse, stared at it, then put it back.

“And if he likes you for that, I’m going to get annoyed. And if I get annoyed, Conrad’s will notice and if he notices, he’ll say obviously something and if he says something, Jeremiah will either try to calm everyone down or make it worse and then my mom will pretend she’s not tired while trying to make everyone feel comfortable.”

You stopped moving and the room went quiet around the sentence, downstairs, someone laughed.

The holiday continued without you.

Johnny’s voice was softer when he spoke again. “So you brought me upstairs to avoid a chain reaction.”

You looked at him, lips pursed then admitted.

“Yes.”

A smile tugged at his mouth. “That’s very strategic.”

“Well, I’ve been running this house like the militia all day, apparently.” You huff.

“I heard.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself.

Johnny’s gaze drifted briefly to your desk, and the slight tilt of his head made you follow it.

Your stomach tightened immediately.

The Harvard folder was still there, half-hidden beneath a sweater and beside it sat the UCAS papers. You hadn’t meant to leave either of them out.

Johnny noticed your expression before he looked back at the folders and almost immediately, he dropped his gaze, giving you the chance to pretend he hadn’t seen anything at all.

“…Got into Harvard?”

You worried your bottom lip between your teeth before shaking your head.

“Not exactly.” A small shrug. “It’s a likely letter.”

His eyebrows lifted. “That’s … basically Harvard’s way of saying, please don’t commit somewhere else.”

A quiet laugh escaped you.

“That’s pretty much what my counselor said.”

He smiled at you, “Congratulations.”

He didn’t say it loudly, didn’t make a joke or make it into a big moment, just… Congratulations and somehow, that made it feel more real than everyone else’s excitement had.

“Thanks.”

His eyes drifted back to the desk for only a second. “And…” He nodded toward the other folder. “UCAS?”

You looked at it too, words came slower this time. “I’m… keeping my options open”

Johnny didn’t look surprised, curious, maybe “thought Harvard was the plan?”

“It is. it’s just…” you pursed your lips trying to come up with something that’s not the truth or at least not all of it. “I…”

The words refused to come.

You could explain it, I mean you’d spent almost an hour trying to explain it to Mrs. Bennett but saying it out loud again somehow felt impossible.

Johnny watched you for another second then, very quietly, he rescued you from it.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

The knot in your chest loosened just enough for you to breathe again, eyes meeting his blue.

“…Thanks.” You smiled, a little small and a little self-conscious. “I’m just… not sure I can explain it yet.”

“You don’t have to.” The answer came easily, without expectation.“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “And, for what it’s worth, I think having options is a good thing.”

You stood there for a second, still holding a dress you hadn’t actually decided to wear, feeling suddenly very aware of him in your room.

Johnny glanced at you again before gesturing toward the dress.

“You should probably change.”

You blinked. “Oh.”

Right.

“I can wait in the hall,” he offered immediately, already pushing himself away from your desk.

“No, stay.”

The words came out before you’d thought about them. Both of you froze.

“…I mean—” Heat climbed into your cheeks “Just…”

You looked around your room as if the explanation might be written on one of the walls.

“Turn around.”

Johnny’s eyebrows lifted but his eyes shinned with a bit of amusement “…That’s considerably less confusing.”

A laugh escaped you despite yourself. “Shut up.”

“Gladly.”

He turned without another word, facing your bookshelf with exaggerated dedication, his hands disappearing into the pockets of his jeans.

“I’m looking exclusively at your copy of Pride and Prejudice,” he announced solemnly.

Smiling despite yourself, you slipped behind the wardrobe door to change.

“How noble of you.”

“It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

You changed quickly, grateful he could not see your face. The room felt smaller with him in it, but not uncomfortable but like… charged, for lack of better words.

Familiar in a way you were not ready to name.

As you pulled the dress over your head, Johnny said, still facing the bookshelf, “For the record, I don’t want your father to like me because of my last name either.”

Your hands slowed at the zipper and for a moment you just stood there, the fabric sitting awkwardly at your back where you couldn’t quite reach it, looking at the back of his head.

“Really ?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged lightly, though you only saw the movement from the corner of your eye.

“I’d rather he’d judged me as the guy who’s in his daughter’s bedroom while she changes than the grandson of Harris Sinclair.”

A surprised laugh slipped out of you and the sound made Johnny instinctively glance over his shoulder.

The second he realized you were still adjusting the dress, he looked away just as quickly, clearing his throat.

“Sorry.”

You couldn’t help smiling. “You can turn around now.”

Johnny hesitated.

“Actually…” You reached behind your back again, fingers fumbling for the zipper before letting out a quiet sigh. “I kind of need your help with this.”

“Oh.” He turned slowly, giving you every opportunity to change your mind.

His eyes landed on your face first.

“The zipper,” you clarified, unable to stop yourself from smiling.

He blinked “Right.” And stepped closer.

“May I?”

You nodded once and turned around, gathering your hair over one shoulder and the room seemed impossibly quiet, enough that you heard the Conklin’s arrived.

Johnny’s fingers found the small metal tab at the base of the zipper, he was careful.

The backs of his knuckles brushed your skin as he drew it upward, slowly, making sure the fabric didn’t catch.

You could feel the warmth radiating from him more than you could actually feel him touching you.

His cologne, clean, expensive, familiar now after the past few months, lingered in the small space between you, suddenly impossible to ignore.

“You have a habit of volunteering me for jobs,” he murmured, breaking the silence.

“You haven’t complained yet.”

“I haven’t had a reason to.”

His voice was close enough to your ear, making your skin tingle.

The zipper reached the top but his hand stayed there, for a moment more, fingers resting lightly near the clasp, not quite touching your skin, not quite pulling away either, but then, to your surprising dismay, he stepped back.

“There,”

“Thanks,” you said, your voice smaller than you intended..

“You’re welcome.”

Neither of you moved and funny enough , it wasn’t awkward.

Johnny’s gaze met yours for a moment before his gaze flicked over you once, then returned quickly to your face like he had manners and was making a heroic effort to remember them.

“It suits you,” he said.

Your chest did something profoundly unhelpful.

You looked down at the dress, smoothing invisible wrinkles from the skirt just to give your hands something to do.

“It’s just a dress.”

Johnny smiled. “I know.”

The rest of the afternoon slipped by in the comfortable chaos only Thanksgiving seemed capable of producing.

Laurel arrived first, wrapped in nice coat against the November cold, Steven and Belly close behind her. The second your mother opened the door, the house somehow became even louder.

“Laurel!”

The two women hugged tightly, laughing before either of them had even said hello.

You were next. “Laurel.”

“Oh, sweetheart.”

She pulled you into one of her warm, familiar hugs, kissing the top of your head before holding you at arm’s length.

“You look beautiful.”

You snorted softly. “I think you mean exhausted.”

“That too.”

Steven barely waited his turn before pulling you into a hug of his own.

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

You laughed hugged him right back “Happy Thanksgiving.”

As you stepped back, Steven’s smile faltered for the briefest second, his attention snagging on the figure standing just behind you.

“Oh… hi. Uh… Johnny?”

Johnny met his gaze with an easy smile, extending his hand. “Hey, Steven.”

“Hey…” Steven accepted the handshake almost on instinct, his expression betraying a flicker of surprise as his eyes shifted between the two of you. “wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“I invited him,” you cut in before Johnny could answer.

Steven blinked once letting the boys hand go. “Oh.”

His surprise lasted only a heartbeat before he recovered, greeting Johnny with an easy smile.

“Well, It’s good to see you again.”

Johnny nodded “You too.”

“Johnny, how are you?” Laurel asked, offering him an easy smile and a nod of greeting.

Johnny returned it with one of his own. “I’m doing well, thank you. How have you been?”

“Good,” Laurel nodded. “Busy, but good. College treating you alright?”

He gave a soft laugh. “Keeping me busy, that’s for sure.”

“I imagine somewhere like Harvard’ll do that,” Belly said with a grin.

“It definitely lives up to the reputation,” Johnny admitted.

“Well,” your mom clapped her hands together, glancing toward the kitchen, “I’m glad you’re all here. The more people around this table, the better. Now help me with the turkey!”

Belly was the last you greeted, she hugged your mother first, then you, as she stepped back, her eyes drifted toward Johnny, then back to you.

One eyebrow lifted, you knew that look but ignored it completely.

The front door opened again a bit later.

“Sorry I’m late,” Adam called as he stepped inside, a bottle of red wine in one hand and the crisp November air following him into the foyer. “Traffic coming over the bridge was a nightmare.”

“You’re forgiven,” Susannah replied without looking up. “Only because you brought wine.”

“I know how negotiations.”

Jeremiah was the first to reach him, accepting a hug. “Hey Jere!”

Conrad came over next, exchanging the sort of one-armed hug that had become normal between them over the last few years, then Adam looked at you.

“There she is.”

He smiled, genuine if a little awkward, and opened his arms and you hugged him briefly.

“Happy Thanksgiving, dad.”

“You too, sweetheart.”

When you stepped back, his eyes landed on the unfamiliar blond standing nearby.

Adam looked between the two of you once, then smiled. “And you must be the boyfriend.”

Johnny blinked and you felt your face warm immediately.

“Dad.” You let out an embarrassed laugh. “No.”

“No?”

“He’s my friend.” You glanced at Johnny before looking back at your father. “We met over the summer in Cousins. I used to babysit his little brother during the summer.”

“Ah.” Adam nodded slowly. “Right. Your mom mentioned that.”

His eyes moved back to Johnny, studying him with polite curiosity now, he was trying to connect a name to a half-remembered conversation from months ago.

“The babysitting job,” he mumbled Ethan nodded again. “In that Beachwood island, wasn’t it?”

You blinked, a little surprised he remembered that much. “Yeah.”

Adam eyes turned to Johnny, bit of recognition.

Johnny stepped forward with an easy politeness that made the whole thing feel less humiliating but a tight smile.

“Johnny,” he said, offering his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Fisher.”

Adam shook it.

“Adam,” he corrected automatically, then gave you a small, amused glance. “And sorry about the boyfriend thing.”

Johnny’s mouth twitched, but he was kind enough not to look at you.

“Trust me, no harm done.”

Adam held onto the handshake for a moment longer, slowly, the pieces clicking together.

“So your family owns the place over there.” He paused, searching for the name. “Sinclair, wasn’t it?

Johnny’s expression shifted for less than a heartbeat, not enough for your father to notice but you, who knew better, did.

His smile tightened almost imperceptibly before he inclined his head. “Yes, sir.”

“Of course.” Adam gave a small laugh, pleased with himself for remembering. “The Sinclairs…”

You stiffened,but thankfully before your father could ask anything else, Susannah called from the dining room, “Adam, if you’re done making our guest stand in the hallway, come open the wine.”

Adam released Johnny’s hand and lifted the bottle slightly.

“Right, my one contribution.”

“One of very few,” Laurel called from the dining room.

Adam laughed, easy and unbothered, and moved toward the table.

You stayed where you were for half a second longer and Johnny looked at you.

You mouthed a Sorry.

He only shook his head once, almost amused, like he was telling you not to worry about it, I mean, and you knew it wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t even your father’s.

It was simply what happened whenever people recognized the Sinclair name.

Eventually, conversations began to drift toward the dining room as the last of the food was carried out of the kitchen.

The table looked exactly the way your mother and you had imagined it. Candles glowed softly between bowls of mashed potatoes and roasted vegetables, the autumn centerpiece sat proudly in the middle, and every serving dish had finally found its place after what had felt like an entire day of rearranging.

Your mom emerged from the kitchen carrying the turkey with both hands, wearing an expression of triumph as everyone instinctively stepped aside to let her through.

Right behind her came Laurel with the final casserole dish, while Adam followed carrying gravy and the basket of rolls.

Your mother set the turkey in the center of the table with a satisfied sigh before taking a step back to admire her work.

“Look at this amazing table!” she declared proudly, sweeping a hand toward the table. “Martha Stewart can kiss my ass.”

A ripple of soft laughter spread around the room.

Laurel set the casserole beside the potatoes and grinned. “I love it when you swear.”

You couldn’t help laughing as you looked over the table yourself. “Does ass even count as swearing?”

Steven snorted as he rounded the table

“No, it’s not— Susannah say motherfucker!”

“Steven.”

Laurel didn’t even sound angry, just deeply, deeply accustomed to him while another round of chuckles broke out.

“What?” he protested, already laughing. “You literally just said you loved it.”

“She motherfucking loves it,” your mom joked as she lowered herself into her seat, holding both hands out before anyone could keep teasing her. “Alright, everybody sit down, please. The food’s getting cold.”

Still chuckling, everyone finally began to settle around the table.

You ended up at the other head, your mom across from you, with Johnny on one side and Conrad on the other.

Your mom looked around the table, smiling softly. “So, let’s go around and say one thing we’re thankful for.”

Yours hand found Johnnys almost naturally, his fingers warm as they laced through yours and on your other side, Conrad reached over without a word, and you took his hand too.

You just sat there caught between the two of them, surrounded by the low hum of voices, the clinking of plates, the smell of turkey and sweet potatoes and all the familiar things that made the house feel full.

“Jere-bear?” your mom prompted, just like she did every Thanksgiving.

Jeremiah avoiding everyone’s eyes but you did noticed his gaze on belly.

“Uh, I’ll go last. How about that?”

Your brows drew together slightly, it wasn’t like him and you could tell from the set of his jaw that he was in some kind of mood.

Before anyone could push him, Johnny straightened a little beside you. “I’ll go, if you don’t mind.”

Your head turned toward him, eyebrows lifting.

Johnny glanced at you briefly, before looking back at your mom. “I mean, I’m the guest. Feels only fair I earn my plate.”

That earned a few chuckles around the table.

Susannah smiled at him warmly “Go ahead, sweetheart.”

He glanced around the table, suddenly the center of everyone’s attention. He looked almost sheepish for a second before a small smile settled on his face.

“Well…” Johnny began, clearing his throat as he sat up a little straighter. “I’m thankful for being invited,” he said, his voice calm and genuine. “Really. I know Thanksgiving is usually something you spend with family, so… it means a lot that you all let me be here.”

He paused for a moment, his eyes drifting toward you before returning to the rest of the table.

“And…” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’m especially thankful for one person who’s made moving to Boston a whole lot easier. She knows who she is.”

Conrad glanced down at his plate, pretending very hard not to smile. Jeremiah let out an amused huff, while Belly’s eyes flicked between the two of you with a grin. Steven’s expression shifted for half a second, Laurel’s smile softened, and your dad gave a quiet, approving nod.

You ducked your head, fighting the smile tugging at your own lips before looking back up with a laugh.

“Well…” you teased, nudging Johnny lightly with your shoulder, “I hope she knows how much pressure you’ve just put on her.”

That earned a few laughs around the table and Johnny only smiled, entirely unapologetic.

Your mom looked completely and utterly delighted.

“That’s a very good one,” she said warmly.

Johnny gave a small, almost bashful nod. “Thank you.”

You squeezed his hand and he squeezed back.

For one fleeting moment, with everyone talking over each other and your mother smiling at the head of it all, everything felt exactly as it should.

“…No, he caught me,” your mom admitted a little while later, laughing before she could even finish. “He caught me putting sugar in his green juice.”

Jeremiah groaned, though he was smiling. “Okay, Mom, you're ruining my healthy recipes. It is culinary blasphemy.”

“Not ruining” Susannah corrected. “Enhancing.”

Your dad scoffed from next to her “Yeah, like the moussaka?”

Susannah didn’t miss a beat.

“Hey, I still maintain it tastes better with little pieces of hot dog in it.”

“Oh, Beck, no,” Laurel grimanced, shaking her head. “If you're going to ruin a recipe, ruin it with steak.”

You pointed your fork at her. “No, no—you only say that because you’ve never actually tried it.”

Laurel pulled a face as your mom exclaimed triumphantly “See? She gets me.”

Johnny let out a quiet huff of laughter beside you, more relaxed now than he had been at the start of the evening.

“Oh, I don’t think she can talk much,” he said, glancing over at you with a small grin.

Your head turned toward him. “Excuse me?”

His grin only widened. “Remember Red Gate? When you tried to make Will that smoothie?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Johnny.”

“No, no,” Conrad said, leaning forward. “I need to hear this.”

Steven pointed his fork between the two of you. “Yeah, you can’t just start a story like that and stop.”

Johnny looked entirely too pleased with himself. “It was supposed to be a banana-strawberry smoothie and turned out with the color of wet cement.”

Laughter rippled around the table and you threw him an offended look.

“He asked me to put Oreos in it!”

“Which would’ve been fine,” Johnny shot back. “If you’d stopped there but you added spinach, and peanut butter—“

“Ever heard of proteins?!”

He continued unbothered by your interruption “—and orange juice.”

You opened your mouth, then paused.

Conrad glanced over at you, eyebrows raised. “Orange juice?”

“You are definitely your mother’s daughter.” Said Laurel.

“It needed liquid!” You huff at the table chuckles and pointed out. “and for everyones information Will drank it,”

Johnny leaned back slightly, looking far too pleased.

“Will took one sip,” he corrected, “said it was interesting, and then asked if he could go play outside.”

“That poor kid was trying to escape.” Jeremiah chuckled.

Susannah grin, reaching for her glass. “I think it sounds inventive.”

Adam looked at her. “Of course you do.”

The conversation drifted easily from one story to the next, everyone chiming in whenever a memory sparked another.

Steven and Belly became the target first, forced to relive one of their more embarrassing childhood adventures before Laurel and your mom somehow managed to turn the attention onto themselves, laughing over a disastrous road trip neither of them could quite remember the same way.

Then the attention shifted to you, Conrad, and Jeremiah your mom and dad telling when you three were little and told him that crust would curl his hair so you and Conrad could finish his sandwiches the end result was Jeremiah peeing on Conrad’s lunch bag and cutting your dolls hair.

Laughter rolled around the table once again, everyone talking over one another until no one could remember who’d started speaking first.

For one perfect evening, the house felt untouched by everything waiting outside of it.

Eventually, though, pie was ate, plates were cleared away, and the evening began to soften around the edges.

Your dad was the first to leave, though not before asking Johnny about his major. The conversation somehow turned into Adam offering him an actual job at his company if he ever wanted one, Johnny had nodded to the offer politely, with that careful smile of his, while you fought the urge to roll your eyes at how predictable your father could be.

After that, everyone slowly drifted into different corners of the house.

Your mom and Laurel had disappeared into her bedroom, rummaging through the closet after your mom remembered an old outfit she’d found the other day, from upstairs, every so often, you could hear another burst of laughter.

Conrad had wandered off somewhere with Belly, Jeremiah was probably in the garage for reasons you didn’t feel like questioning, and Steven was in the living room trying to get the Wii set up.

You and Johnny stayed behind in the kitchen, finishing off the last of the leftovers. The two of you moved around each other with an easy familiarity, passing containers back and forth, finding lids without asking, the whole thing feeling strangely… domestic.

He chuckled at something you’d said as he snapped the lid onto one of the containers. A moment later, his eyes drifted to the watch on his wrist.

A quiet sigh escaped him. “I should probably head out.”

You nodded, even if part of you wished he didn’t have to. “I’ll walk you out.”

Johnny looked up from the container in his hands.

“You don’t have to.”

You smiled, taking it from him and setting it on the counter before bumping the refrigerator door shut with your hip.

“I know.” You reached for your sweater hanging over one of the kitchen chairs and slipped it on. “I’m going to anyway.”

The corner of his mouth lifted a little more.“Okay.”

Together, the two of you wandered toward the front door but not before Johnny detouring to say bye to your mom and laurel and Conrad and Jeremiah and Steven.

Johnny paused long enough to pull on his coat while you unlocked the front door.

The November air greeted you immediately, crisp enough to make you pull your sleeves over your hands.

“God,” you muttered, shivering. “Boston really commits to the whole winter thing.”

Johnny laughed softly. “What never lived here before?”h

“Every year I convince myself it won’t be that bad and every year I’m wrong” you huff as he smiled, falling into step beside you as the two of you made your way down the front walk.

His car sat parked beneath the streetlamp, the black paint catching the warm glow from the porch behind you.

You stopped beside the driver’s door and neither of you said anything for a beat. Neither of you seemed in much of a hurry to end it.

Johnny slipped his hands into his coat pockets, rocking back slightly on his heels then looked back toward the house where laughter still drifted faintly through the windows.

“…Thank you,” he said quietly.

You smiled. “For what?”

He gave a small shrug, his blue eyes finding yours.

“For today.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “I… I like your family. A lot.”

Something in the way he said it tightened your chest.

He looked back toward the house, where muffled laughter still drifted through the windows.

“They made me feel like I belonged, that doesn’t happen very often.” He admitted

You didn’t even have to think about your answer.

“Of course you belong here, Johnny boy.”

His eyes found yours again, and for a second, something soft and unguarded enough that it made your chest ache.

You reached up before you could think better of it, straightening the collar of his coat more out of habit than necessity, fingers smoothed over the fabric once, then lingered there.

“I’m really glad you came.”

Johnny looked at you for a long moment before smiling back. “Me too.”

Neither of you moved, behind you, through the windows, the house was still bright and loud and for one strange second, it felt like the whole world existed behind that front door.

But out here, beside Johnny’s car, everything was quiet.

The cold nipped at your cheeks, his breath fogged faintly between you and his eyes dropped, just for half a second, to your mouth.

You should have stepped back, every sensible part of you knew that.

Instead, you stood there, your hand still resting lightly against the collar of his coat as Johnny looked at you.

Slowly, so slowly you could’ve stopped him at any moment, he leaned in, those blue eyes never left yours, giving you every chance to pull away.

And you didn’t.

So when his lips finally found yours, warm against the cold November air, instinctively, your fingers curled into the fabric of his coat as you tipped your chin up, meeting him for that single, fleeting moment.

The kiss was impossibly gentle and it lasted no longer than a heartbeat.

A quiet breath escaped him against your lips before he drew back, not because he wanted to, but because he was waiting to see what you’d do next.

His eyes searched yours, open and quietly hopeful, as though the next moment belonged entirely to you.

It stole the air from your lungs, that look, the one that made your heart ache and your chest tighten all at once, that made you want to kiss him again… and terrified you enough not to.

As if your heart refused to let the moment end like that, you leaned up and brushed one last, lingering kiss against the corner of his mouth then dropped your hand from his coat and took a small step back.

“Drive safe,” you said, the words coming out softer than you meant them to.

Johnny looked at you, understanding settling over his face before he nodded.

“Yeah.” His voice was quiet too. “I will.”

“Text me when you get to the dorm?” You forced a small smile.

His mouth curved faintly. “I always do.”

“I know.”

He opened the driver’s door, then paused, one hand resting on the frame as he looked back at you.

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

Your smile softened despite yourself. “Happy Thanksgiving, Johnny.”

He got in after that, and you stepped back toward the curb as the engine came to life, low and smooth and expensive enough to make you roll your eyes even now.

Johnny noticed and through the window, he gave you a look to which you only lifted one hand in a small wave.

He smiled, shaking his head, and then pulled away from the curb and you stood there until the taillights disappeared down the street.

Only then did you press your fingers lightly to your mouth. It had been such a small kiss…

So why did it feel like something you had just lost?

As you stepped inside, the warmth hit you immediately, but it did little to settle the tangle of emotions still swirling in your chest.

You shut the door behind you and found Conrad and Jeremiah standing in the near the stairs, talking quietly.

They both looked up and you offered them an easy smile. “What’s up?”

“Mom wants you to come look through some old ‘90s baby tees she found,” Conrad said, jerking a thumb toward your parents’ bedroom. “Go before Belly steals all the good ones.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Nah. Maybe later.”

“Alright then,”Conrad nodded toward the living room instead. “Steven’s setting up the Wii.”

“I’m in.”

You looked over at Jeremiah. “You coming?”

Jeremiah gave a small shake of his head.

“Nah, I’m gonna call it the night”

You pinched his cheek before he could dodge you.

“Aww,” you cooed, pitching your voice up into that obnoxious baby voice you knew he hated. “Is little baby Jerebear too full?”

Jeremiah swatted your hand away at once.

“Stop.”

“Fine,” you laughed, rubbing your fingers together dramatically as though he’d wounded you. “Go to bed, just know you’ll be missing me absolutely wiping the floor with these two at bowling.”

Conrad let out a disbelieving laugh as he ruffled your hair. “You?”

“Excuse me?” You pushed him away “I’ve been training.”

You and Conrad had barely taken a step before Jeremiah spoke again.

“Uh… actually…” Something in his voice made you both stop.

You turned back but Jeremiah wasn’t looking at you, his eyes stayed fixed on Conrad.

“Can I talk to you for a sec?”

Conrad glanced at you before nodding. “Yeah. What’s up?”

You started to excuse yourself, already turning toward the living room to give them some privacy but then Jeremiah spoke again.

“Next time Belly’s coming over… can you give me a heads-up or something?”

Your hand stilled against the doorframe and turned back toward Jeremiah, the request catching you off guard.

Conrad frowned, clearly confused. “What do you mean? I thought you knew everybody was coming over.”

“Yeah, I did,” Jeremiah said, “But if you guys are going to be here together, then I don't want to be around.”

Silence settled over the room.

Conrad just stared at him, Jeremiah had said he was okay with it, so hearing this now left him confused.

Before the quiet could stretch any longer, you stepped in, hoping to ease the growing tension.

“Jere…” you said gently, your voice calm. “I get it, I really do. But come on, it’s Thanksgivi—“

“No, Y/N.” He gave a small shake of his head before looking over at Conrad. “It's better for everyone if we just keep some distance, okay? You do your thing and I'll do mine.”

You pressed your lips into a thin line, your gaze drifting between the two brothers.

Conrad was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable, then, with a faint nod, he simply said, “…Sure. If that’s what you want.”

With that, he turned on his heel began to make his way up the stairs. “Goodnight.”

You could tell it gutted Conrad.

He didn’t say anything at first, didn’t even move really, but you saw it in his eyes before he could hide it. That quick flash of hurt, the kind that slipped through before he had the chance to bury it under a shrug or some dry comment.

And God, you hated seeing him like that, you hated seeing both of them like that.

Jeremiah walking away like distance was the only thing keeping him together, Conrad standing there like he’d just been told he was still a problem even when he was trying not to be. It made something in your chest twist painfully, because this wasn’t some simple fight where one person was right and the other was wrong.

They were both hurting, and you weren’t going to take sides, you couldn’t when you loved them both too much to turn one brother’s pain into a weapon against the other.

So you stayed quiet for a second, letting the silence settle instead of rushing to fill it.

Then you looked over at Conrad, your voice softening. “Connie…”

He blinked, like your voice had pulled him back into the room, and gave a small shake of his head.

“It’s fine,” he said quickly.

But it wasn’t and you knew him too well for that.

You stepped closer, gentle enough that he could pull away if he wanted to, his gaze stayed fixed somewhere down the hallway, where Jeremiah had disappeared, his jaw tight and his shoulders tense.

“It’s not fine,” you said quietly. “But it doesn’t have to be fixed tonight.”

Conrad let out a breath, almost a laugh but not really. “Yeah. I know.”

You nodded, even though you weren’t sure he did.

Neither of you said anything, the sounds of belly’s laugh from upstairs moved around, all of it too oblivious and normal for what had just happened.

You reached for his hand and squeezed it once.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured.

Conrad looked down at your hand around his, then back at you. His expression softened, just barely. “You didn’t do anything.”

“I’m still sorry.”

Because what else could you say? You couldn’t make Jeremiah stay. You couldn’t make Conrad stop hurting. You couldn’t undo Belly or the summer or all the those things that happened that none of you knew how to talk about yet.

Moments like these made it so easy to resent Belly.

And you hated that they did. Every time you watched Conrad force himself to swallow his hurt or Jeremiah walk away because staying was too painful, a small, ugly part of you wanted someone to blame. More often than not, your mind landed on Belly.

And then, just as quickly, the feeling dissolved into guilt, because you knew it wasn’t fair.

Belly hadn’t asked for any of this any more than Conrad or Jeremiah had. She was caught in the middle of it too, trying to navigate feelings she probably didn’t understand herself.

You know that feeling all too well.

Besides… she’d been part of your life for as long as you could remember. She was family in every way that mattered, more like the little sister you never had than just your mom’s best friend’s daughter

How were you supposed to hate someone you’d grown up loving? You couldn’t.

So instead, you hated the situation, the impossible choices, and the silence that had settled between two brothers who used to be inseparable.

You just hoped, prayed, really, that this would all blow over sooner rather than later.

A/N

OMG!!!! Long ass chapterrrr but I hope hope hope you enjoyed it. Lowkey one of my favourites <3

So... I know I said she will be going to Harvard with Johnny? But at the same time, I wanted her to go abroad. well.... yeah... i think i found the solution to both of those pickles, thing is... it's going to be angsty </3

But hey!! New expiriencesssss!! lol

So, I know I should let y'all have a bit of reading comprehension, but I just can't keep this to meself, the part where they kiss? And she's holding his coat? touching him? That's her not wanting the moment to end, like clinging to it, actually. I mean, you never know if it's going to be the last... lol jk

Also, I'm loving Olivia R's new album... please it's so them!! Honeybee? On repeat when writing that kiss scene. So, listen to it while reading this part if you want!

Divider by cursed-carmine

See you next chapter 🤍

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[random-rosie-thoughts]

Sabrina vs. the Summer I Turned Pretty

Sabrina vs. The Summer I Turned Pretty

Why the comparison was a disservice to anyone who has watched both

The first season of the Summer I Turned Pretty came out in 2022, and the combination of that All the Boys aesthetic with the fact that we were only just starting to recover from the hellscape that was COVID made it a pretty easy watch. It was fun watching these teenagers running around causing mayhem in a way reminiscent to early 2000s childhood films.

And sure, the premise was cheesy and the storyline messy, but we were all watching a bunch of teenagers exploring love and relationships for the first time, so all in all it could be excused.

And then the finale happened.

Excuse me?

I’m not even talking about the dramatic cancer reveal that had everyone in emotional shambles or the fact that Conrad knew all along and that was supposed to excuse his hot-and-cold behaviour all summer.

I’m talking about the kiss.

With Conrad.

Again, excuse me???

Belly made sure just an episode before that Jeremiah knew that he was it for her. That she was choosing him (more on those words later).

Only for her to be kissing his brother the first chance she got.

And then season two opens up with the vibe from every character in the show that Jeremiah is being completely and utterly unreasonable for being upset by this, even months later.

Now here’s the thing, I am a not, nor have I ever been, a Jeremiah fan. He’s immature and irresponsible, and while these qualities can be excuse when they’re all teenagers, it gets really annoying to watch in season 3 when Jeremiah and Belly are trying to convince everyone around them that they are very ready for marriage, with or without daddy’s money, in Jeremiah’s case (seriously, he gives her such a tiny ring you cant even see it in most scenes).

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Season two follows the trio as we see flashback of Belly’s relationship with Conrad evolving then promptly imploding as the pressure of his mother’s illness builds up to her death. Picking a fight with your grieving ex at his mother’s funeral? Unhinged behaviour on Belly’s part. We’re all grieving here, I understand, but girly it was his mother. This is not the time or place to be picking a fight about your relationship.

As season two progresses, we see Belly and Jeremiah reconcile in the present timeline as they bond over what an idiot Conrad is being. Nothing brings two people closer than the shared idea that the person they have been cursed to love is an absolute and utter self-sacrificing moron.

I’m not even going to touch on the ‘our summer house is getting sold woe is me life is so unfair’. That is a non-problem, by every account, especially considering that the house doesn’t even get sold in the end. It’s giving rich people problems.

What I will touch on is absolute dumpster fire that is Belly trying to convince Jeremiah that she made a mistake last year, and that he is, in fact, the love of her life. She is choosing him (again with those words), if he will have her.

Not to worry, she has a moment (which is really putting it lightly considering she had already ‘chosen’ Jeremiah by this point), when she genuinely considers going back to Conrad when he says that it has always been her. But then Conrad does what Conrad is known for (being a jerk to push people away) and Belly and Jeremiah ends the season together.

Yay!

For the sake of plot now, we’re going to be talking specifically about the 1995 remake of the movie. While the original was great, I think we should at least give this whole thing a fighting chance by comparing it to a source material that was originally released in colour.

For those of you out of the loop, Sabrina was a movie that followed our main protagonist (anyone wants to guess what her name was?) as she came into herself, left her old childish love behind, and opened up her heart to a more mature type of love.

The catch? Her ‘old childish love’ was the little brother of her ‘new mature love’.

When we are first introduced to Sabrina, she’s up in a tree watching an extravagant party from afar, clearly wishing she could be there dancing with David, the younger brother of the family her father works as a chauffeur for. David, to the surprise of no one in the audience, seems to barely even know who Sabrina is, too busy romancing and seducing his way through all the ‘more beautiful’ women of his class.

Tragic.

Sabrina is then informed by her father that she has gotten the opportunity to travel to Paris on a scholarship. And she goes. Obviously.

In Paris, Sabrina slowly but surely comes into herself. We see her dressing more stylishly, making friends, and even exploring a relationship with a charming co-worker. This all happens as she continues to pine for David, represented by the fact that she has a picture of him up that never seems to get covered even as the rest of the space is.

Sounds familiar?

Sabrina returns home stylishly dressed and ready to take on the world. As coincidence would have it, she runs into David as she’s looking for a cab to take her home, and he offers to drive her instead.

At this point, you might be thinking: ‘that’s so gentlemanly of him.’

You would be wrong, for two main reasons:

David is very much engaged to a very wonderful woman whom he clearly does not deserve; and,

David has no idea who she is. Like he completely does not recognize her. At all.

So here David is trying to get her name as he’s driving her to her home, which he does not know is also her home, and here she is being all coy and flirty. The 90s, am I right?

Up until this point, we know nothing about the older brother, Linus, but as Sabrina gets out of the car, she is immediately greeted, by name mind you, by Linus, sending David into a bit of a shock, to say the least.

But this does not dissuade David, no it does not, so he invites her to one of his family’s ultra-rich parties that his fiancée will unfortunately be missing where she wears one of her devastating Paris dresses as her father watches on in concern.

Linus is also concerned.

Very, very concerned.

Watching his brother pulling all the stops for a woman not his fiancée while his fiancée’s parents watch on in confusion is a headache for anyone, but especially for high-profile business tyrant Linus Larrabee who has a billion-dollar business deal riding on his little brother’s marriage to the daughter of his business merger partner.

Yikes.

So, Linus’s grand idea (never let it be said that men are intelligent creature in matters of the heart) is to orchestrate his brother’s injury to make room for himself to seduce Sabrina into falling in love with him instead.

Truly a fool proof plan, by all accounts.

And it works, except, of course, that he goes and falls in love with Sabrina himself (not a part of his plan, for those wondering).

He falls so much in love with her, in fact, that he tells her the truth, buys her a ticket to Paris, and sends David after her to make her happy. After all, if there was a choice, it was clear to Linus that she would always choose David, wouldn’t she?

This is when David decides to take a page out of his brother’s book and finally start behaving like a decent adult man. He tells his fiancée the truth (which she forgives him for, but we do not have time to discuss that because this was a movie from 1995 so we’re going to let some things slide) and orchestrates taking over the company from his brother so Linus could go after Sabrina himself.

And with the knowledge that Sabrina did not choose David after all and with David’s full blessing and support, Linus hightails it to Paris so he can meet Sabrina and they live happily ever after (what happens after the credits role is about as much my business as the back of my hair).

And so, Sabrina chooses Linus, and Belly chooses Conrad, and it’s all well and good.

Except to compare them is to do such a disservice to both stories that I’m genuinely unsure who decided on this. Sabrina was never with David, and she certainly never saw Linus as anything resembling an option until he essentially threw himself at her feet. She was not with David, then Linus, then David again, then Linus again. She did not choose one with complete confidence, then the other, then back to the first.

And she most certainly did not have a Suzannah Fisher telling her that she had always known she was meant for ‘one of my boys’ then dying before specifying which one.

As a side note here, I genuinely believe all the messy nonsense could have been avoided if Suzannah had minded her business in this regard. Her death was traumatic enough without adding to the weight on the shoulders of a sixteen-year-old that the woman you considered a second mother, a woman who knew you sometimes better than your own mother, though you were meant for one of her sons. No specificity on which one, just one of them.

No wonder Belly tried so hard to make it work come hell or high water.

And to have Conrad dismiss these concerns when brought up by Belly in the finale was also the wrong move, and that is a hill I will die on.

Sure, both Sabrina and Belly ended up with the older brother when initially the younger one was presented as the suitable candidate, but Belly had always, always known that it was Conrad for her. Anything she did outside of that was her trying to move on, trying to make healthier choices, and trying to choose herself in a relationship the way she never could with Conrad. Sure, it could be argued that the version of them that ended up together were more mature and settled, but her running crying to chase him down on his train tells me Belly will always be that little girl who will do anything to be with Conrad, even abandon the woman she had fought so hard to become on her own.

This is not even mentioning her wearing that ‘Suzannah’ dress in the final scene when we saw her style evolve into something more in Paris.

Both of these stories can and should stand on their own, and all the comparison did was show all the cracks that the show runners tried and failed to paint over in the mess that was The Summer I Turned Pretty, season 3.

[fandomnerd9602]

Belly: you know Spanish and you’re learning French?

Y/N: yeah we gotta be ready for your trip to Paris right?

Belly: seems to me you have a talented tongue

Y/N: (blushes) what?!

Belly: what?!

Taylor face palms…

Taylor: (mutters) these two I swear are gonna be married someday

[brainworms4spn]

Okay so I’m back on my TSITP bullshit now. With the movie currently being filmed. I have been re watching it and honestly. It’s such a funny experience seeing it now knowing where it ends. However I will say that maybe I was tooo focused on the love triangle aspect of it to really understand and appreciate the complexity of each character. That being said the way the fisher boys love belly is so interesting. The way she loves them is also soooo insanely different.

Jeremiah fell in love with the Idea of Belly. He fell in love with the girl he sees in the summer. The version of Belly that is care free and comfortable and confident. He didn’t really notice until that summer because she wasn’t ever an option. Until that summer She was just belly. Steven’s little sister. They shared a wall and she was consistent enough that Jeremiah knew she would always be there. Belly and Jeremiah’s relationship was built from the foundation of being friends. Best friends even. But out side of the summer they all had very different lives. When Jeremiah and Belly start dating that is the first time Jeremiah actually gets to know Isabel Conklin not just Belly. The same for Belly she gets to know Jeremiah as a whole not just her summer best friend. Belly loves him in a sort of nostalgia and casual way. She never had to worry too much about him in the grand scheme of things. She relied heavily on the best friend foundation. Having a happy carefree relationship.

With Conrad it was a little different. We know that she has loved him for so long. The way he loves her is more intentional. He never misses or looks away. He is so acutely aware of everything belly is. Conrad fell in love with Belly before summer before the big change. Because he didn’t fall for Belly he fell for Isabel Conklin. He fell for the girl who did laps around the pool when she couldn’t sleep. He fell for the girl who remembered everything he said. He was never her best friend in the summer. He was just a constant. He was Conrad. She loved him for who she believed him to be. But in that she fell for him in the reality. She loved him for reading lord of the rings and collecting stamps. She fell for the boy who always looked out for her. He never saw her as Steven’s little annoying sister. He saw her as someone entirely her own. He didn’t have to get to know her when they started dating. He already knew her. In that span of however many months they dated. They would talk on the phone for hours. Talking about nothing and everything all at once. He knew what she liked what she didn’t. He knew her worries about being in a relationship with someone she doesn’t love. They talked about the stars and infinity.

This is not a who is the better boyfriend. I’m not trying to pin anyone against each other. It is clear that both brothers bring out a part of Belly that compliments/ pushes against them. Her four year relationship with Jeremiah brought out the childish side of her reverting back to a more selfish person. Which kind of compliments Jeremiah in a weird way. It could be akin to young love. It’s wild and reckless and free. But also incredibly selfish and self destructive with the wrong person. With Conrad although ment to be a more kind of mature relationship. It isn’t. Yes they have a better understanding of each other. Yet Belly freaks out and says things that aren’t necessarily true but she believes them to be true. Conrad although he loves her he’s not able to express or explain himself or his feelings which leads to a misunderstanding and ultimately end of the relationship.

Once they find themselves and live apart they start to understand each other and become a more solid individual. Which is why their relationship works now than it did before this is the mature relationship that Belly was always ment to have and Dreamed of. It’s not perfect and it has its ups and downs but they are able to make an effort to communicate with each other. Conrad still understands belly and Belly still see Conrad. Which is why in the last season Belly has to openly choose Conrad in order for them to work. Conrad has always chosen Belly. He put his feelings forward. It was Belly who needed to accept that part of herself and choose Conrad.

[malihaa6]

TSITP S3 rant

i will always hate how the s3 writing tried to appease jeremiah as a character and bellyjere fans so much at the cost of the writing. I liked the season but outside of bellyconrad the writing was so awful and so many of the writing choices were so bizarre and served no purpose for story or characters except to give jeremiah an out.

I'm going to start with my biggest heartbreak—Staylor. They were kinda cute in S1 and absolutely everything in S2 and then wtf was s3?? I was sooo excited to get a season where they were together and then boom! They're not only not a couple for most of the season, they're fckng cheaters???? Just why?? And all so when we get to the scenes where Taylor and steven find out Jeremiah cheated, they don't have a leg to stand on and actually call jeremiah the piece of shit he is. Steven's reaction to finding out his little sister was cheated on was one of the worst things in that show when you compare it to how he reacted to Conrad confessing his feelings to belly. S3 Steven made noooo sense sorry.

Second is my biggest betrayal; the decimation of belly's character. Listen, she never made good decisions, she always listened to what other people wanted way too much. And I do get that they were trying to show just how much she lost of herself in her relationship with jere and how she was reacting aggressively to being told she might be making a mistake getting married bc, well of course she was scared. But they made her annoying so many times and rarely (if ever) gave her the space to defend herself from Jeremiah. Ik even in S2 they show how she feels guilty towards him and can't defend herself but that's why they were supposed to give her that bit of growth in S3.

Jeremiah is coddled by the writers, characters, and his fans and it's so frustrating. I've seen so many comments say a lot of people are up conrad's ass but I think that's just the knee jerk reaction to seeing him be villanised when he's literally the good guy.

[weirdstuffmuseum]

yknow I was originally upset that my boy cam cameron isn't in season three but upon reflection I'm glad. I like to imagine he's living his best life somewhere in Massachusetts, graduating in marine biology and getting the job of his dreams, free and unencumbered by the terror of belly conklin

[liarom1ove]

What Once Was!

Season 2: Birthday girl!

Johnny Sinclair x Fisher femreader!!

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

Masterlist S1

Prologue - 1 - 2 - 3

You lift the camera again, squinting through the little square viewfinder.

“Hold still,” you say automatically, already backing up a step to get them both in frame.

Jeremiah groans. “You’ve taken like twelve already.”

“Twelve blurry ones,” you shoot back, squinting at the screen. “Blake blinked in three and you were making a face in the rest.”

Blake laughs softly beside him, smoothing a hand over the skirt of her dress. It’s dark blue, almost midnight-colored. Jeremiah stands next to her in a tux that fits him suspiciously well for someone who usually lives in hoodies and flip-flops.

Behind them, the living room is warm and bright, lamps on, music low in the background, the faint smell of your mom's perfume drifting through the air.

She is standing a few feet away, leaning against the arm of the couch with a soft smile that says she’s already memorising this moment.

“Oh, this one’s the good one,” she says gently.

You shift the camera in your hands, squinting through the viewfinder as you study them critically.

“Blake, chin up a little, and Jere, stop leaning like that,” you say, lowering the camera just enough to glare at him. “You look like a crooked lamppost.”

Jeremiah straightens slightly, but only a little, clearly not convinced.

“It’s a pose,” he insists, trying to angle himself again like he’s on the cover of some imaginary magazine.

“A disaster, you mean,” you shoot back, lifting the camera again.

Blake snorts beside him as you adjust the focus, steady your hands, and press the button. The flash pops, bright enough that Jeremiah immediately recoils, blinking hard.

“Jesus, ow!” he groans, rubbing his eyes dramatically. “You’re blinding the future prom king.”

You lower the camera and give him a flat look. “You are not prom king.”

“Yet,” he corrects smugly, pointing a finger at you like you’ve just confirmed his destiny.

Blake laughs again, bumping his shoulder into Jeremiah’s. “He’s been saying that all week,”

Jeremiah doesn’t even try to deny it.

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smile tugging at your mouth as you lift the camera again.

“Alright, alright. Last one, so stand still this time.”

“Tell him that,” Blake says, nudging Jeremiah again.

“I am standing still,” Jeremiah protests, though he immediately shifts his weight again like he physically can’t help himself.

You sigh like a very tired professional photographer.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, adjusting the focus again. “People pay good money for this kind of service, you know.”

“Good thing you’re doing it for free,” Jeremiah shoots back.

You pause just long enough to give him the most exaggerated, sarcastic grin you can manage, letting out a dramatic, fake little laugh, then you raise the camera again and snap the picture.

From behind you, your mom lets out a soft, warm laugh, the kind that carries that unmistakable note of fondness.

“Oh, they look so handsome,” she says, clearly charmed by the sight of them all dressed up.

Jeremiah immediately groans. “Mom.” But it’s impossible to take the protest seriously when he’s grinning so wide it nearly splits his face, if anything, he looks proud of himself.

Mommy’s boy, always has been.

At last, you take one final picture and lower the camera and glance at the screen, scrolling through the shots with your thumb. Your favorite is the one where your brother's leaning just enough toward Blake that they look natural instead of stiff.

Your mom steps forward then, the way mothers always seem to do at moments like this, unable to resist making one last round of adjustments and smooths down Jeremiah’s lapel, straightening it with careful fingers, then brushes at Blake’s shoulder, picking off imaginary lint that definitely wasn’t there.

“Take lots of pictures,” she says warmly, stepping back to admire them again. “And text me when you get there.”

“We will,” Blake promises gently, her voice soft but sincere.

Jeremiah leans down as your mom presses a quick kiss to his cheek, he doesn’t protest this time, just grins, all bright teeth and easy charm.

Then he looks over at you, and immediately the grin turns mischievous. “Happy birthday, loser.”

You give him the tightest, most sarcastic smile you can manage.

“Thank you,” you say sweetly, your tone dripping with fake gratitude. “Now get out.”

Jeremiah laughs, delighted with himself. The sound fills the entryway as he takes a few slow steps backwards toward the door, hands raised in mock surrender, still grinning, while Blake tugs lightly at his arm as if to remind him they’re already running late.

Your mom laughs softly behind you, clearly enjoying the whole scene far more than she should. "Have fun you two... but not too much!"

Jeremiah snorts at that as he finally reaches the door, one hand already on the handle and pulls it open, and the cool evening air slips into the house, carrying with it the faint sounds of a quiet neighbourhood night, cars passing somewhere down the street, music drifting faintly from a house a few doors away.

Blake steps out first, straightening his jacket as he moves onto the porch, glancing down for a second, making sure everything still looks right, he turns back toward you and grins.

“Happy birthday, Y/N!”

“Thanks,” you say, smiling back, waving your hand at him like you’re shooing him away. “Now off you go.”

Jeremiah grins wider, clearly pleased with the reaction, and lifts his hand in an exaggerated, dramatic salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

Blake chuckles from the porch, giving Jeremiah a light nudge with his shoulder like 'come on already', before heading down the steps toward the car.

Jeremiah finally turns to follow him, jogging a couple of steps to catch up as the two of them head down the walkway.

The door swings shut a moment later with a soft thud and it’s just you and your mom.

She watches the door for a moment, like she’s making sure they actually left, before she turns to you with a small smile and slips an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into a gentle side hug, squeezing you lightly.

After a moment she tilts her head slightly, studying you.

“You know,” she says gently, “it’s not too late if you decide you want to go.”

You huff a quiet laugh as she pulls back just enough to look at you properly, one eyebrow lifting a little and continues, clearly already picturing it. “I’m sure you’ve got something in your closet that could work. And if not, you could always use one of my dresses.”

You let out a small laugh at that. “Mom.”

“I’m serious, we could do your makeup real nice, curl your hair a little—”

“Mom.”

She stops, though the hopeful look doesn’t quite disappear.

“It’s fine, I went last year. It’s really not that special,” you say, shrugging a little.

Your mom gives you a look then, the kind that says she doesn’t fully believe you, or maybe just wishes you wanted more for yourself tonight, but she doesn’t push, only smooths a hand over your arm.

“Well,” she says, drawing the word out as she shifts gears, “if you’ve decided you’re skipping prom, and and if you also insist on refusing a party for your eighteenth birthday—”

You glance at her, narrowing your eyes a little at the accusation in her tone.

“—then I think I should at least be allowed to spoil you in some other way. What do you say to me making your favorite dinner tonight?”

You turn toward her properly now, the corners of your mouth lifting almost instantly, a grin breaking through before you can stop it.

“That depends,” you say, suspicion and delight mixing in your voice.

She laughs. “Depends on what?”

“Depends on whether I get full dessert privileges.” Grinning back.

Your mom arches an eyebrow, already amused. “Full dessert privileges?”

“Yes,” you say, nodding like this is a perfectly reasonable negotiation. “Meaning cookies, and cake. Not one or the other, both.”

That earns a proper laugh from her, the kind that always fills the hallway. “Both? On the same night?”

“It’s my birthday,” you point out, like that settles everything. “I feel that’s a fair and just request.”

“Oh, naturally, how could I possibly deny such a compelling argument?” she says, playing along.

You grin wider now, the earlier heaviness lifting almost completely.

“So that’s a yes?”

She gives you a look like you already know the answer. “Yes, that’s a yes. You can bake cookies and a cake, and I’ll make dinner.”

Your face brightens immediately, and this time there’s no hiding how pleased you are.

“Okay,” you say, a little more eagerly than you meant to. “Yeah, deal, dear mother.”

Your mom laughs softly at the dramatic title, clearly pleased anyway. She squeezes your shoulder once more before turning toward the kitchen.

“Alright then,” she says as she walks ahead of you, “my baby girl gets her feast tonight.”

You roll your eyes at that but follow her anyway, setting the camera carefully on the little hallway table as you pass, the house feels warmer now, more alive again as the two of you drift toward the kitchen.

Soon the quiet is replaced by the familiar sounds of cooking.

Cabinets opening, drawers sliding, the soft clatter of bowls being set on the counter.

You end up on opposite sides of the kitchen like you often do, your mom at the stove pulling ingredients out of the fridge while you claim the baking side of the counter.

Flour, sugar, chocolate chips, eggs.

“So,” your mom says casually as she ties her apron, glancing over at you. “Eighteen years old.”

You make a face as you pull a mixing bowl down from the cabinet. “Don’t start.”

She chuckles, pulling a pan from the cupboard. “I’m just saying, it feels like yesterday you were barely tall enough to reach the counter.”

“Pretty sure that was last year,” you reply, grabbing the bag of flour and setting it beside the bowl.

You start gathering the rest of what you need, opening drawers for measuring cups and spoons, pulling butter from the fridge and setting it beside the mixing bowl. Soon your side of the counter looks like a small baking explosion waiting to happen.

Your mom begins chopping something at the other counter while the stove warms up, and the two of you talk back and forth easily across the kitchen.

“What are we baking first? The cookies or the cake?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder at you.

You lean against the counter for a second, pretending to think hard about it. “Cookies, because if the cake fails, at least we still have cookies.”

Your mom laughs, shaking her head as she pulls things out of the fridge.

“That is a very practical strategy.”

“Thank you, mother,” you reply with a dramatic little grin.

You grab one of the many aprons hanging off the side hook by the pantry door, one of the ridiculous ones your mom has collected over the years, this one reads Grill Daddy in big looping letters.

You pause for a second, holding it up.

Right, this one’s not technically hers.

It used to be your dad’s, back from when he still lived here, when some weekends meant him dragging the grill out to the backyard and inviting half his office over for loud cookouts that lasted until well after sunset, he used to wear the apron like it was some kind of badge of honor, flipping burgers and hot dogs like he was hosting a cooking show.

You remember the message he sent you earlier today.

Happy 18th, babygirl. Proud of you.

There’d been flowers too, a bouquet delivered that morning, still sitting in a glass vase on the dining table.

You stare at the apron for another second, then you sigh quietly and tie it around your waist. Sometimes you can’t stand the man, other times… It’s more complicated than that.

You smooth the fabric down over your shirt like it’s just any other apron.

“I pride myself on my foresight,” you say lightly, patting the front of it like it’s part of a professional uniform.

Your mom glances over at you and shakes her head, amused. “Of course you do.”

The kitchen settles into a comfortable rhythm after that. Cabinets open and close, bowls clink against the counter, the soft scrape of a knife against a cutting board fills the room as your mom starts preparing dinner.

A beat of quiet passes before your mom speaks again.

“You’re really not even a little sad about missing the dance?” she asks, focused on what she’s chopping.

You shrug, cracking the egg open and letting it slide into the bowl with a soft plop.

“I mean… not really,” you say, wiping your hands on the apron. “I already went last year. It’s basically the same thing again, same music, same decorations, same awkward dancing. It’s fine, most of my friends graduated with Connie anyway.”

She hums thoughtfully, though she doesn’t argue.

“Well,” she says after a moment, “their loss.”

You grin a little at that and start measuring flour into the bowl, leveling the cup carefully against the edge. “Exactly.”

The kitchen slowly fills with the quiet music of cooking and baking, the scrape of the whisk against the bowl, the soft thump of a cupboard closing, the faint sizzle beginning from the pan heating on the stove, the smell of butter warming in the air starts to spread through the room.

You’re just about to reach for the vanilla when—

Ding-dong.

The doorbell rings, the sound cuts clean through the kitchen, causing both you and your mom to pause.

Your whisk hovers over the bowl mid-stir while she stops in the middle of slicing something on the cutting board.

You glance toward the hallway, your brow furrowing slightly.

“Were you expecting someone?” she asks, looking over at you.

You shake your head slowly, a little puzzled. “No…”

The doorbell doesn’t ring again, but the silence that follows suddenly feels a little curious. It’s probably Amazon, honestly... or Conrad, even though you told him not to come tonight.

You know your brother, if he decided he was going to drop by for your birthday, there’s a very good chance he ignored whatever you said and showed up anyway with some last-minute gift and that annoying “I was in the neighborhood” excuse he usually uses.

Your mom wipes her hands lightly on the kitchen towel hanging from the oven handle.

“I’ll get it,” she says, already stepping away from the counter.

You nod absently, watching her disappear down the hallway toward the front door, then glance toward the little speaker sitting on the kitchen counter, one of those small wireless ones your mom uses all the time, and reach over to tap your phone, connecting to it.

A moment later, music fills the kitchen. Waterloo Mamma Mia's version, obviously.

The opening beat bursts through the speaker, instantly filling the quiet space that had settled after the doorbell.

You smile faintly and turn back to the bowl, whisk moving through the batter again, from the hallway, you can faintly hear the front door open, voices follow, you can’t quite make out the words, just the low murmur of conversation drifting down the hallway while you stir.

The music gets louder as the chorus builds, and a second later, your shoulders begin swaying just a bit, because how can you hear the Mamma Mia soundtrack without a little shoulder shimmy?

You hum along under your breath as you mix the batter, moving your hips slightly with the rhythm while you reach for the vanilla bottle.

My, my At Waterloo, Napoleon did surrender Oh, yeah And I have met my destiny in quite a similar way

You pour a splash in without measuring and keep stirring, and mom’s voice, which carries down the hallway, slightly muffled by distance and music.

You barely register it.

You toss chocolate chips into the bowl, folding them into the dough with a wooden spoon now, the music growing louder as the next part of the song kicks in.

Waterloo Couldn't escape if I wanted to Waterloo Knowing my fate is to be with you

You grin, pointing the spoon toward the speaker like you’re performing to an audience of absolutely no one.

My, my I tried to hold you back, but you were stronger Oh, yeah And now it seems my only chance is giving up the fight

And how could I ever refuse I feel like I win when I lose

It smells like vanilla and butter now, that unmistakable sweet smell of cookie dough coming together.

You spin slightly on your heel as you reach for the bag of brown sugar, the saxophone bursts through the speaker, and you lean into it, doing a small dramatic sway of your shoulders because if ABBA demands a performance, you deliver.

Wa-Wa-Wa-Wa-WaterlooFinally facing my Waterloo

Behind you, somewhere down the hallway, you hear the faint sound of the front door closing, you barely notice, the music is louder. You grin using the spoon like it’s a microphone.

Ooh-ooh, Waterloo Knowing my fate is to be with you

You tap the spoon against the bowl in rhythm, completely absorbed in your very serious baking-and-singing routine.

Ooh-ooh, Waterloo…

“Honey,” your mom’s voice calls gently from the doorway.

You keep singing for half a second longer as she continue.

“Look who dropped by.”

You turn automatically, still mid-lyric.

Knowing my fate is to be with you—

Oh.

Standing a few feet away, just inside the kitchen entrance is Johnny Sinclair Dennis.

Finally facing my Waterloo...

You stare at him, and of course he stares back, his eyes, though, move briefly, from your face… to the spoon… to the apron… then back to your face again.

His lips flatten, and for a second, he looks like he might keep it together, then the corner of his mouth twitches; he’s clearly losing the fight not to laugh.

The last time you’d seen him was over FaceTime a couple nights ago, one of those “studying late” calls that hadn’t really involved much studying at all.

You slowly clear your throat, lowering the spoon fully now. “…Hi,”

Johnny exhales a quiet laugh through his nose, his eyes flick to the speaker, that's now playing Super Trouper, then back to you again.

“…ABBA?” he says lightly.

You shrug like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Obviously.”

You wipe your hands on the apron before narrowing your eyes at him slightly, tilting your head “What are you doing here, weirdo?”

Johnny grins immediately, like he’d been waiting for that exact response, one shoulder lifts in a casual shrug. “Your birthday, isn’t it?”

“Yeah…” you say slowly, suspicion creeping into your voice as your eyes narrow a little more. “But I never told you where I lived.”

Johnny rocks back slightly on his heels, looking far too pleased with himself. “I may have asked your brother for help.”

Your eyebrows shoot up instantly.

“Which brother?” you ask flatly. “So I know who to castrate.”

Johnny grins and lifts both hands slightly in surrender, still smiling.

“I’m not telling you.”

You open your mouth to push further when a voice cuts through the moment.

“Oh, come on, Y/N.”

Your mom finally steps fully into the kitchen, clearly having enjoyed the entire exchange from the doorway far longer than she probably should have. She walks back toward the counter where she’d been cooking earlier, giving you a mildly disapproving look as she picks up the knife again and resumes chopping the vegetables she abandoned.

“We don’t treat guests like that, I thought you were raised better.”

“Guest?” you repeat.

Your mom doesn’t even look up from the cutting board. “Well, yes, he’s staying for dinner and dessert, a birthday dinner should have guests.”

She nods once toward Johnny, the decision has already been finalised. “Aren’t you, Johnny?”

Johnny, who looks mildly entertained and a little surprised by how quickly he’s been absorbed into the evening, glances between the two of you before giving your mom an easy smile.

“Well, if I’m invited, Mrs Fisher.”

“Course you are,” she replies immediately with a smile, the kind one your mother always has and people love.

The music from the speaker continues quietly in the background, another ABBA song humming softly under the conversation, while the cookie dough sits forgotten on the counter.

You look between the two of them, then let out a short, incredulous laugh. Not that you mind Johnny being here, far from it, but you had honestly assumed the early birthday text he sent that morning was the extent of it.

You tilt your head toward the row of aprons hanging nearby.

“Fine, but if you’re staying, you’re working.” Your eyes flick back to him with a small, challenging smile. “Aprons are right there, pick one, Johnny boy.”

He follows the direction of your nod, turning to inspect the line of aprons hanging neatly against the wall.

“Huh,” he murmurs.

“Don’t get overwhelmed, it’s just fabric.”

Johnny glances back at you, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Some of us take these decisions seriously.”

Your mom lets out a quiet laugh from the cutting board without even looking up.

Johnny finally pulls one free from the hook, holding it up for inspection before slipping the strap over his head. It’s slightly too small for him, sitting a bit higher on his torso than intended, but he doesn’t seem to care.

He smooths the front of it down with both hands, then looks up at you.

“Well?” he asks lightly, the edge of teasing unmistakable now. “Do I pass inspection?”

Kiss the Cook.

Of course it is.

For a moment, you just stare at it, lips pressed together, biting lightly at the inside of your cheek as you fight the very real urge to smile. Your eyes lift slowly...

Johnny is already looking at you, and he’s grinning, that smug, crooked little grin that not only drives you insane but says he’s fully aware of what’s happening here and is enjoying every second of it.

Little shit.

“Well?” he asks, completely innocent.

Before you can answer, your mom turns around from the counter, knife still in hand.

“Oh!” she says brightly the moment she spots the apron. Her face lights up with delight. “That one is one of my favorite.”

Thank you, Mom, truly, nothing like a little public commentary to give you a moment to quietly exhale and question your life choices.

Johnny glances down at the words again, he’s only just innocently, realising what they say, then looks back up at her.

“Is it?” he asks politely.

“Yes!” she says, nodding enthusiastically. “I bought that one years ago at a little shop near the pier. I always forget we still have it. Glad you brought it out of retirement.”

"Its my pleasure, Mrs Fisher," He looks at you, and there it is again, that stupid, crooked grin slowly pulling at the corner of his mouth.

You try to keep a straight face, like you really do, but your own grin sneaks back before you can stop it, forcing you to turn away quickly and focus very hard on the bowl of dough in front of you. You pick up the spoon again, stirring with unnecessary dedication, like the fate of the entire cake depends on it.

Behind you, your mom waves a hand dismissively.

“Oh, call me Susannah,” she says warmly.

Johnny laughs softly at that. “Susannah it is, then.”

She beams at that, clearly pleased, before turning back to her cutting board, humming softly to the song.

Johnny shifts a little closer to the counter beside you, resting one hand lightly on the edge near where you’re working. The movement is casual, simply getting comfortable, but it puts him close enough that you’re suddenly very aware of him there.

“Well,” he says, gesturing faintly toward the spread of ingredients on the counter, “what’s my assignment, chef?”

You glance sideways at him, grin mirroring his, same crooked edge, same barely contained amusement, and you wordlessly push the bag of chocolate chips across the counter toward him.

Johnny looks down at it, then back at you.

“…White chocolate chips,”

“Yes,” you say patiently, like you’re explaining something obvious.

He picks the bag up, turning it over once in his hands. “And my task is…?”

“Fold those in properly,” you say, nodding toward the bowl. “And don’t eat half of them.”

Johnny looks mildly offended. “I wouldn’t—”

You watch him pop one immediately into his mouth and let out a laugh before you can stop yourself. “Unbelievable.”

“What?” he says through the chocolate, completely unapologetic.

You shake your head, still grinning, and nudge his shoulder lightly with your elbow. “You lasted two seconds.”

“Quality control,” he says, already reaching for the spoon.

He nudges you back in return and begins doing exactly what you told him, folding the chips carefully into the dough, suddenly become the most obedient kitchen assistant in existence.

Johnny works the spoon through the dough, turning it over, making sure the chips disappear into the mixture instead of clumping together.

The kitchen slowly settles into that warm, busy rhythm that always seems to happen when people cook together.

Flour dusts the counter in soft white patches, bowls clink, the mixer whirs for a few seconds before your mom turns it off again, at some point the music from the living room drifts in faintly, something old and cheerful, the kind of song your mom always plays when she paints.

You roll dough between your hands and drop the cookie balls onto the tray.

Johnny stands beside you, carefully measuring flour like this is a very serious scientific experiment.

“You’re overthinking it,” you tell him.

“I’m not,” he says, leveling the measuring cup with intense concentration. “Baking is precise, isnt it? Thats what my grandmother used to say.”

Across the counter Susannah stirs a pot, the smell of garlic and butter filling the room as she works on your favorite dinner. Every once in a while she glances over at the two of you with the quiet, satisfied smile of someone who is enjoying the scene far more than she lets on.

Johnny pours the flour into the bowl.

A small puff of it rises immediately.

You cough, waving away some flour “Nice,”

“Not my fault,” he says.

“You dumped it.”

“Dumpted it? Oh, it was enthusiastic pouring.”

You laugh, grabbing the spoon again and stirring while he watches, leaning his hip against the counter, a few minutes later the cookies are sliding into the oven.

Johnny crouches down beside you while you push the tray in and asks “So that’s it?”

“You wait.” You told him with grin, amused.,

“That’s the whole job?”

“For cookies, yes.”

He looks disappointed. “That’s anticlimactic.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you say, straightening. “You’ll get another chance to prove your culinary genius.”

Johnny raises an eyebrow as you dust your hands together and gesture toward the counter behind him, where the chaos of baking still sits, flour, bowls, the empty bag of white chocolate chips, and the half-mixed frosting waiting its turn.

“We still have a cake,” you say.

The oven door shuts with a soft thump, and a few minutes later the cake batter is ready.

You hold the bowl while Johnny scrapes the sides with the spatula, carefully getting every last bit.

“You’re taking that very seriously.”

“I don’t want to ruin your birthday cake,” he says, completely earnest, sending you a small look.

You pause for a second at that, grinning, that warm feeling in your chest comes out, as it usually does when you're around him, then quickly look back at the bowl. “Well… good.”

Susannah walks past and taps his shoulder lightly. “Johnny, sweetheart, if you keep scraping like that you’ll earn permanent kitchen privileges.”

Johnny looks up. “Am I supposed to I that that as a threat or an invitation?”

She laughs as she opens the fridge, “Depends if you behave.”

Eventually, the cake goes into the oven beside the cookies, Johnny stands beside you, looking around like he’s taking in the whole scene, the messy counter, warm light, the smell of dinner cooking and quiet clatter of your mom as she went to put the table.

He exhales softly through his nose, then after a moment “You know, this is the first time I’ve ever actually baked anything.”

You turn your head toward him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

You blink at him, you shouldn’t be surprise knowing how he grew up, but alas, “Not even like… cookies as a kid?”

“Nope.” Johnny shrugs grinning at bit.

You huff a laugh, nodding and glance at the oven. “Well then congratulations, you’re officially a baker now, Johnnyboy.”

Johnny looks you, oddly pleased by that, “Thank you, its really an honor.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” You smirk as you say it, leaning your hip against the counter, arms loosely folded, watching him like you’re already expecting him to fail at something.

Johnny’s grin lingered, softer than smug now, he leans back against the counter beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost brush, the Kiss the Cook apron sitting ridiculously well on him in a way that annoys you on principle.

“Bit late for that,” he says, looks over at you. “I think making your birthday cake’s already done terrible things to my confidence.”

You huff a laugh, looking away before your smile gets too obvious just how much you liked his eyes on you.

By the time everyone finally sat down, the kitchen had mostly recovered from the disaster you and Johnny had made of it.

Mostly.

A thin line of flour still clung to the edge of the counter, and there was a streak of frosting by the sink, leftover evidence of the near brawl you and Johnny had gotten into over decorating the cake, which he’d only won by resorting to tickling. The cooling rack by the stove was already packed with cookies, the smell of them filling the whole kitchen.

The cake, though, sat undisturbed beneath a clean dish towel, saved for later, your mom insisting that birthdays were meant to be taken slowly.

The dining table, meanwhile, looked like she had been planning this all week instead of deciding it half an hour ago.

Your favorite dinner was set out in the middle, still steaming slightly, with serving spoons tucked into every dish and your mom’s good plates pulled from the cabinet. There were folded napkins, candles she had actually lit, and the flowers your dad had sent that morning sitting in their vase near the far end of the table.

You had tried not to look at them too much. Johnny noticed anyway, but he didn’t say anything.

He just pulled out his chair beside you, and sat down like he hadn’t completely invaded your birthday dinner and been adopted within fifteen minutes.

“So,” she said brightly, setting the last bowl onto the table before taking her seat. “Did Y/N tell you she used to have the chubbiest little cheeks when she was small?”

Your fork stopped halfway to your plate.

Johnny’s eyes flicked to you immediately, a slow smile started pulling at his mouth.

You pointed your fork at your mom. “No.”

Your mom blinked innocently. “No what?”

“No embarrassing stories.”

Johnny leaned back a little, suddenly far too invested, which made you regret every decision that had led to him sitting at your kitchen table.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, voice mild but amused. “I think I’d really like to hear this one.”

“Course you would,” you muttered, shooting him a playful glare.

Your mom looked utterly thrilled.

“She was the sweetest little thing,” she said, smiling to herself. “All big eyes and soft little cheeks. People used to stop me in the grocery store just to tell me how pretty she was. She looked like one of those porcelain dolls, except louder.”

Johnny laughed at that, “Louder?”

“She had plenty of opinions, even if most were incomprehensible back then” your mom said solemnly.

Johnny’s grin widened, slow and deliberate as he glanced back at you. “So not much has changed, then.”

“You’re getting very comfortable for a guest.” You said it sweetly, but there was a warning threaded neatly underneath.

Johnny didn’t flinch, if anything, he leaned into it.

“I thought I was kitchen staff,” he said, meeting your gaze, easy and challenging all at once.

“Kitchen staff can be fired.”

“Not before dessert, surely.”

Your mom reached for her glass, looking at the two of you. “Absolutely not before dessert. He helped bake.”

Johnny’s grin tipped just a little more in his favor.

“See?” he said, gesturing lightly toward your mom like he’d just been handed official clearance. “Protected by management.”

You let out a quiet, disbelieving huff, leaning back in your chair. “Unbelievable.”

“And indispensable, apparently.”

You rolled your eyes, but grinned anyway, reaching for your glass before Johnny could look too pleased with himself.

Your mom’s attention shifted toward him then, still smiling as she settled more comfortably in her chair.

“So, Johnny,” she said, in that tone that sounded casual but never really was. “Y/N told me you’re from New York?”

Johnny glanced at you briefly, eyebrows lifting slightly.

You gave him a tiny shrug, as if to say, what, did you think I never mentioned you?

“Yeah,” he said, turning back to your mom. “I grew up there.”

“And now Boston, how are you liking it?” she asked warmly.

Johnny leaned back a little, thinking about it properly instead of giving some easy, automatic answer.

“It's nice, quieter, I guess. People actually stop at crosswalks. That threw me off for a while.”

“I can imagine.” Your mom laughed softly at that.

You snorted softly looking at him. “Boston is not quiet.”

Johnny turned his head toward you, brows lifting just slightly. “Compared to New York? It absolutely is.”

“That’s because you people treat chaos like background noise. Sirens, people yelling, taxis honking every two seconds—”

“—that’s ambience,” he cut in, completely serious.

You stared at him and your mom laughed again, a little brighter this time.

“You cannot be serious.”

“I am,” he said, shrugging one shoulder, not even a hint of shame about it. “You spend enough time around it, it just… blends in. It’s like white noise. Kinda weird when it’s not there, actually.”

You shook your head, a small smile breaking through anyway. “That’s insane.”

Your mom’s smile widened and she continued. “And Harvard itself? I hear about it so much from this one that I’m curious what it’s like when you’re actually there.”

He looked back at your mom, mouth curving faintly. “It’s… good.”

You snorted softly. “Convincing.”

“It is,” he said, glancing back at you. “I’m just trying not to sound like one of those people who says Harvard like it should come with its own spotlight.”

Your mom laughed softly at that. "But it does thought."

Johnny leaned back slightly in his chair, one hand loose around his glass. “Yeah, I mean, it’s impressive, classes are insane, though. Everyone talks like they swallowed three textbooks before breakfast.”

“That’s because half of them probably did,” you said grinning before bringing your fork to your mouth.

“Exactly,” he said, pointing lightly at you. “Finally, someone understands.”

“Well,” Your mom said gently, reaching for her napkin, “just remember that getting used to it is part of the work. You don’t have to arrive already perfect.”

He gave her a quieter smile. “I’ll try to remember that.”

Your mom smiled and took a sip from her glass before tilting her head. “And what are you studying again?”

“Business,” Johnny said.

You knew business didn’t sit in him the way something chosen would've. It sounded good, respectable, sensible. The kind of thing people nodded at approvingly for a Sinclair, the kind of thing grandfathers liked.

Johnny reached for his glass again, expression casual enough to pass.

Your mom nodded, impressed. “Oh, that’s wonderful. Difficult, I imagine.”

“Depends who you ask,” Johnny said lightly. “Some people seem to enjoy the suffering.”

“And you don’t?”

His mouth twitched. “I prefer getting through it.”

You let out a small laugh despite yourself.

Your mom’s gaze shifted between the two of you, still warm, still pleased, before settling on you with that bright, hopeful fondness that made something in your stomach tighten before she even spoke.

“Well, it’s lucky you’ll already have Johnny to guide you once you’re there,” she said gently. “At least he can point you toward the right professors.”

You pressed your lips together and gave a small nod, choosing, for once in your life, to keep your mouth shut.

The words settled a little too heavily in your stomach.

Once you’re there.

You reached for your glass, taking a sip mostly to buy yourself a second, then set it down and turned your attention back to Johnny with a forced brightness that was almost convincing.

"So, have you been to that Harvard pizza place that's like insanely famous?"

Johnny looked at you for a second, he knew you well enough to catch the shift, but he didn’t call it out, didn’t hint at it, only leaned into it like you wanted him to.

He only leaned back slightly, playing along.

“Noce's? No, not yet.”

You stared at him “Johnny, you’ve been there for like three months and you haven’t gone to Noce's?”

Johnny’s mouth curved. “I’ve been busy.”

“That’s embarrassing.”

“Oh, leave him be, Y/N,” your mom said, waving a hand lightly. “It’s not like Noce's is Vicolo.”

“Mom, you really have to stop comparing every pizza place to our little corner Italian restaurant.”

That earned you a look, and just like that the two of you slipped into it, light, familiar bickering that had no real edge to it. You insisted Vicolo wasn’t the universal standard for all things pizza, she argued that it absolutely was and always would be, and somewhere in the middle of it you both started talking over each other, half-serious, half-laughing, as if this was a debate you’d had a hundred times before.

Across the table, Johnny didn’t interrupt, didn’t try to jump in; he just glanced between you both, a quieter smile settling in as he watched it unfold, taking in the rhythm of it, the ease, the way it all fit together without effort.

By the time dinner gave way to dessert, the easy noise of the table had settled into something softer.

Plates had been cleared, glasses half-empty, napkins folded and unfolded beside them. The cookies had been moved onto a plate in the middle of the table, still slightly warm, and the cake sat in front of you with candles pressed carefully into the top. Your mom had gone a little overboard, of course ( eighteen candles, because apparently symbolism mattered) but she looked so pleased with herself that you didn’t have the heart to complain.

Then she lit them one by one, the little flames caught, trembling gently in the dining room light.

And started singing sweetly, with the kind of warmth that made your chest ache a little, and Johnny joined in after a beat, a little quieter, a little amused at first, but it softened as he went.

You let out a small, breathy laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you looked down at the cake, then up again.

Your mom was watching you with that tender, watery-eyed look she got sometimes when she seemed to remember too much at once, every birthday, every year, every version of you and your brothers that had sat at this table before. Her smile wobbled just slightly at the edges, and that made something in your throat tighten.

So you looked away which was a bad idea because your eyes landed on Johnny.

He was still singing, his smile not as teasing as it had been before. The candlelight flickered across his face, catching in those unfairly blue eyes of his, making them look softer than usual, almost impossibly clear and for a second it felt like the room had gone quieter than it actually was.

You felt your cheeks warm, not embarrassed exactly, but more out of awareness of him, of your mom, of the fact that this was your birthday and they were both sitting here, singing to you.

By the time the song finished, you were smiling properly now, a little shy, a little breathless in a way you didn’t fully understand.

“Okay,” you said softly, glancing between them. “That was actually kind of nice.”

Your mom laughed gently, reaching for your hand for a second, squeezing it.

“Make a wish, babygirl.”

You looked back at the candles, the warm, steady flames and for a moment, you let yourself linger there.

You knew, with a quiet ache that settled somewhere deep beneath your ribs, that the thing your heart wanted most wasn’t the sort of wish birthday candles could grant. Still, you closed your eyes for the smallest second, because you had to wish it anyway and blew the candles out in one breath.

The flames disappeared all at once, leaving thin curls of smoke drifting upward, the room settling back into its soft, familiar light.

Your mom clapped softly, smiling in that proud, almost teary way again. Johnny followed a second later, quieter, he hadn’t quite let go of the moment yet.

You leaned back in your chair, exhaling lightly, a small smile still lingering on your lips.

“Good lungs,” Johnny said lightly, glancing at the cake. “Impressive technique.”

You let out a small laugh, grateful for the ease of it, for the way he unknowingly slipped something light back into the moment without breaking it.

“Thanks, years of practice,” you said.

Your mom reached for the knife.

“Alright,” she said warmly, her voice bright again, like the moment hadn’t just softened around the edges. “Who wants cake?”

You huffed a small laugh, already reaching to steady the plate as she moved it slightly closer.

“Big shock, me.”

Johnny leaned back in his chair, one hand lifting lazily. “I’ll take a slice. Kitchen staff perks.”

You snorted and sent him a quick look while your mom smiled, shaking her head as she adjusted her grip on the knife.

She stood, and she paused for a second, looking dizzy and you saw the way her hand pressed a little harder into the edge of the table.

Your smile faltered before you could stop it. “Mom?”

She blinked, like she was refocusing, and let out a quiet breath through her nose.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, already waving a hand like she could dismiss it. “Just—give me a second, honey.”

But you were already pushing your chair back, and Johnny straightened too, his easy posture gone in an instant, eyes flicking between the two of you.

“Hey,” you said softly, moving closer. “What is it?”

Your mom laughed lightly, as she pressed her fingers briefly to her temple.

“Nothing, just got a little dizzy, that’s all. I stood up too fast earlier.”

You didn’t fully believe that, never fully believed that anymore.

“Are you sure?” You asked, quieter now.

She nodded, still smiling, still trying to make it feel normal. “Yes, sweetheart. I’m fine. I just—” she reached for the edge of the table, steadying herself for half a second longer than she probably meant to. “I think it’s time for my medicine, that’s all.”

Reality, slipping in like it always did, abruptly.

Johnny didn’t say anything, but you could feel it, how still he’d gone beside you, how his attention sharpened, he didn’t know the rules of this moment yet but knew enough not to interrupt it.

“I’ll get them,” you said immediately.

Your mom shook her head, already pushing herself up carefully. “No, no, I’ve got it.”

“Mom—”

“I’m fine,” she repeated, softer this time, reaching out to squeeze your arm briefly as she passed you. “Really. Sit, enjoy your cake. I'll just go lay down for a little while, okay?”

Then she glanced at Johnny, giving him a quick wink and a smile, as if to say don’t let her spiral while I’m gone.

"I'll be back before you know it, babygirl."

With that she disappeared up the stairs, the sound of her footsteps faded quicker than you liked.

For a second, neither of you moved.

The dining room still smelled like sugar and warm cake, the candles now just thin trails of smoke curling upward, but the air felt different, because something had been gently pulled out of it.

You stood there for a second, staring after her, your chest tight in that familiar, frustrating way, like there was something you should be able to fix but couldn’t.

Johnny, for his part, didn’t push, knew enough not to make you explain it.

You stayed standing beside the table, eyes fixed on the staircase, hands curling loosely around the back of your chair.

“She’s... fine,”

“I figured,” he said after a moment, making you glance at him, and he was already looking at you.

And more than anything, you were grateful it wasn’t pity. Johnny knew better than that.

He knew what pity looked like on people who didn’t want it, knew the way it lingered too long, the way it made everything feel smaller, heavier. He’d had his own share of it, enough to recognize when it wasn’t welcome, so he didn’t give you that.

Just a quiet kind of understanding that didn’t ask anything from you; instead, he reached for the knife your mom had left behind.

“Well,” he said, glancing at you, “Seems Ive been promoted from kitchen staff to cake assistant.”

You let out a small breath that might have been a laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction as you sank back into your chair.

“I see. Big responsibility, huh?”

Johnny tipped his head, already angling the knife like this was something to take seriously. “High stakes. I’ve been warned about your standards.”

That pulled a real laugh out of you, and Johnny’s smile softened when he heard it. You looked at him again, and something in your shoulders loosened, just a little.

“Cut the cake, Johnny.”

“Yes, chef.”

He leaned in slightly, one hand bracing the cake as he pressed the knife through it, slower than necessary, focused in a way that almost made it funny.

You watched him without meaning to, the way he concentrated, the faint line between his brows, as if this actually mattered to him, even if it was just cake.

He slid the first slice onto a plate and set it in front of you with a small tilt of his head. “For the birthday girl.”

You glanced down at it, then back up at him with a small smile.

“Impressive,” you said lightly.

“I aim to please.”

“Dangerous mindset.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, stepping back just enough to give you space, but not really moving away.

You picked up your fork, cutting into the edge of the slice, and took a bite.

It was good, better than you expected, considering.

Johnny watched your face, trying not to be obvious about it.

You swallowed, keeping your expression carefully neutral for a second longer than necessary.“…It’s fine.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Fine?”

You let your mouth twitch. “Alright, it’s good.”

“Thank you,” he said, like he’d been waiting for that, then cut himself a slice and took a bite, nodding once to himself. “Yeah… baker life it is.”

You laughed again.

By the time you and Johnny migrated to the living room, the kitchen looked and dining room were mostly like themselves again, dishes washed, counters wiped down, the chaos of earlier reduced to a few lingering crumbs and the faint smell of sugar still hanging in the air.

“So,” you said, already reaching for the remote. “Movie?”

“Your birthday, your choice.” Johnny followed you in without hesitation.

You glanced back at him with a small grin “Dangerous offer.”

He shrugged, sitting on the couch, “I’m feeling brave.”

“You say that now.”

You dropped onto the couch right next to him and scrolled through the options for a few seconds before landing on Roman Holiday.

Johnny looked at the screen, then at you. “Old movie?”

“Classic movie,” you corrected.

“Is this where you pretend to be sophisticated?”

“I’m not pretending, this is an actual great movie,” you told him, then huffed. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen it, Johnny boy.”

Johnny’s mouth twitched. “I’ve… seen clips.”

You pointed the remote at him. “Do you want to be uninvited from movie night?”

“I didn’t realize I was formally invited.”

You scoffed, reaching for the blanket draped over the arm of the couch and tossing it over both of you. “You’re on probation.”

Johnny glanced down at it, then back at you, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “Probation comes with benefits, apparently.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

"Wasn't planning on it." He adjusted the edge of the blanket a little, enough that it actually covered you properly, too, and settled back against the couch, his shoulder brushing yours again, this time a little more intentionally.

You pretended not to notice.

The movie played on, soft music filling the room, Audrey Hepburn moving across the screen in that effortless way that made everything feel slower, simpler.

The opening credits began, the black-and-white glow spreading across the living room.

The movie played on, soft and grainy in black and white, Audrey Hepburn moving through Rome like the whole world had been made gentler just for her.

You watched, mostly, because every few minutes, your eyes drifted toward the stairs.

Johnny noticed the second time and by the third, he shifted slightly beside you, the blanket pulling a little tighter over both your laps.

“Hey.” his voice came low, careful.

You blinked, looking back at the TV like you had been watching the whole time. “What?”

“She’s okay,” Johnny said, softer this time, like he didn’t want to push it but wasn’t going to ignore it either.

Your fingers curled a little tighter into the blanket in your lap, the fabric bunching under your grip. You nodded quickly, almost automatic. “I know. I do—it’s just…” You exhaled, a small, frustrated breath. “I can’t help it.”

His hand came up, hesitating just briefly before settling over yours where it was knotted in the blanket. He didn’t try to pull it away or loosen your grip, just rested there, thumb brushing once, absent-minded.

“You don’t have to pretend you’re not worried, it’d be weirder if you weren’t.”

You let out a small breath, your shoulders dropping a fraction at that, like something in you had been braced and didn’t need to be anymore.

“She’s fine,” he repeated, softer this time, not dismissive, or brushing it off, “And you’re right here. If anything changes, you’ll know.”

His thumb moved again, a quiet, steady rhythm against your hand.

“And until then, you don’t have to sit there like you’re waiting for something to go wrong,” he murmured, glancing at the TV before looking back at you.

There was a faint hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, gentler now.

“Besides,” he added, nudging your shoulder lightly with his, “I refuse to let the Roman Holiday over something that’s already under control.”

You huffed a small laugh, the tension easing just a little. “Fine, okay—but only because of Audrey Hepburn.”

“Right,” Johnny said, nodding seriously. “Not because I made an emotionally mature point.”

“Definitely not.”

Your smile lingered for a second before fading into something softer and the movie kept going, but neither of you were really watching now.

Johnny glanced down, then seemed to remember something. His posture changed slightly, small enough that anyone else might have missed it, but you were already looking at him.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“That was not nothing.”

He looed at you, hesitaded for a bit, then reached one hand into the pocket of his jacket, which had been tossed over the arm of the couch earlier, and pulled out a small box.

Your eyes dropped to the little, deep blue jewellery box.

Your stomach did something strange. “Johnny…”

“It’s not—” he started quickly, then stopped himself, huffing a quiet laugh like he was annoyed at how fast he’d spoken. “I mean, it’s not a big thing.”

You looked from the box to him. He was trying to look casual and failing, obviously.

His shoulders had gone just a little too still, his fingers turning the box once before he held it out to you.

“I was going to give it to you earlier, but then your mom opened the door instead of you, and then there was you with ABBA, and an apron, and I sort of lost the moment.”

You stared at him for a second, and despite everything, you laughed softly. “Yeah, that’ll happen.”

His smile flickered, nervous and pleased at once. “Happy birthday.”

You took the box carefully, it felt heavier than you expected.

For a moment, you just held it, looking down at the velvet, suddenly aware of him watching you in a way that made your chest feel too small.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” you said.

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know,” he said again, quieter this time.

You sent him a small, somewhat shy smile before opening it and inside was a bracelet.

Gold, delicate without being flimsy, the kind of pretty that didn’t shout for attention but caught the light anyway. A single charm hung from it, small, finely made, shaped like an old wooden boat, with tiny engraved lines made to look like planks, a little curved hull, a sail barely suggested in the shape.

For a second, you didn’t speak and only stared at it.

Johnny shifted beside you.

“It’s from my mom’s shop,” he said, too quickly again, like he needed to explain before the silence swallowed him. “Well—not from the display or anything. I asked her jeweler to make the charm. The bracelet was already there, but the boat was—”

He stopped, then rubbed a hand lightly over the back of his neck and you finally looked up.

He looked nervous, like actually nervous.

Johnny Sinclair Dennis, who could charm just about anyone in under ten minutes, suddenly couldn’t seem to figure out where to put his hands.

“It’s like the boat that brought you to Beachwood that day.”

Your breath caught a little while he glanced at the bracelet, then back at you.

“I don’t know,” he said, and this time the words came out more honest, less polished. “I just thought… it might be a nice reminder."

The room felt too quiet, even though the movie was still playing, it had become distant, simply light and sound at the edge of everything.

You looked down at the bracelet again as memories of that first dat came rushing back.

The water, the sun, the strange little turn of fate that had brought you there. Him, before he was your Johnny.

“It’s beautiful,” you said, and your voice came out smaller than you meant it to.

Johnny’s eyes searched your face. “Yeah?”

You nodded, still looking at it.

“Yeah.”

His shoulders loosened like he’d been holding his breath and you let out a soft laugh, because if you didn’t, you might actually cry, and that was absolutely not happening.

“You’re annoyingly thoughtful, you know that?”

His mouth curved, but it was gentler than usual. “I’ll try to be worse.”

“Please do.” You lifted the bracelet slightly, then glanced at him. “Help me put it on?”

Johnny blinked once, looked at you and nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

You held out your wrist, and he took the bracelet from the box carefully, his fingers brushing yours as he did, and for once, neither of you made a joke about it.

He leaned closer, concentration returning in that same ridiculous, careful way he’d had cutting the cake.

His fingers were warm against the inside of your wrist, the charm swung once, catching the light.

It took him two tries; on the first, the clasp slipped and yu bit back a smile.

“Don’t,” he muttered, still focused.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“Nah uh, just reflecting.”

That made him glance up at you, and the two of you smiled at the same time, then the clasp clicked into place, though Johnny’s hand lingered for half a second before he let go.

You lifted your wrist, watching the little boat settle against your skin, it looked delicate there and strangely perfect.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

Johnny’s gaze stayed on the bracelet for a moment before lifting to your face. “You’re welcome.”

His hand was still near your wrist, your hand still loosely in his, and when you looked up at him, the distance between you suddenly felt smaller than it had any right to.

It a slow, almost hesitant lean; he wasn’t entirely sure if he should, but wasn’t stopping himself either and you didn’t move, matter of fact you lean a bit too, close enough that you could feel his breath, see the way his eyes flicked briefly to your lips and then back up again, like he was checking and it was when you felt the skin of his lips on your--

Knock. Knock. Knock.

You jumped, actually jumped, pulling back immediately like you’d been caught doing something you weren’t even sure had happened yet.

Johnny did not, which was somehow worse. He stayed exactly where he was for half a second, eyes still on you, mouth curved faintly like he was trying very hard not to look amused.

You stared at him, cheeks warm, heart doing something deeply unnecessary in your chest.

“I—” You cleared your throat, already sitting up too quickly. “Door.”

“I gathered.”

You shot him a look and he held up both hands, innocent.

The knocking came again, louder this time, followed by a muffled thump against the door.

Your brow furrowed at once because that was not normal knocking.

You tossed the blanket off your legs and stood, then hurried toward the entryway, behind you, Johnny followed more slowly, no longer teasing.

The second you opened the door, cool night air spilt into the house, and there, leaning heavily against the doorframe, was Jeremiah.

Still in his tux but tie crooked, hair messed up, crown tilted dramatically on his head.

His eyes brightened the second he saw you.

“Sis,” he announced, with the grave importance of a man delivering royal news. “I have returned.”

Beside him, Blake stood with one arm wrapped around his waist, doing most of the work of keeping him upright. His own boutonniere was half-crushed, his expression somewhere between apologetic and exhausted.

“Hi,” Blake said weakly. “I’m so sorry.”

"Oh, boy."

Jeremiah squinted past you, noticing him for the first time, then his whole face lit up with drunk, delighted recognition.

“Johnny!”

Johnny lifted a hand. “Hey.”

“You did come,” Jeremiah said, pointing at him with wobbly enthusiasm, he then leaned toward Blake like he was sharing a secret, except he was very much not whispering. “That’s my future in-law—”

“Okay,” you cut in immediately, stepping forward and taking your brother from Blake’s hold before he could say anything else. "Thank you for bringing him home.”

Blake looked relieved enough to collapse. “Yeah, of course. I tried to get him to drink water before we left, but he said water was for people who lost.”

Jeremiah lifted a hand weakly. “Winners run on atmosphere.”

Johnny moved without being asked, stepping in on Jeremiah’s other side and catching him around the back before he could sag entirely against you.

Jeremiah blinked slowly, realizing he was suddenly supported by both of you, then he smiled.

“Oh,” he said, looking between you and Johnny with drunk satisfaction. “Look at this, two-parent household.”

“Shut up, you idiot, ” you muttered, adjusting his arm over your shoulder.

Johnny huffed a quiet laugh beside you, tightening his hold just enough to keep Jeremiah from listing sideways again.

You shot him a look and he gave you the smallest, most innocent shrug possible, which did not help at all.

Blake hovered by the door, still in his prom clothes, looking tired and apologetic. “Do you need me to stay and help?”

“No, no, you’re good,” you said quickly, because honestly, poor Blake had suffered enough.

Johnny’s grip tightened slightly around Jeremiah’s side as your brother swayed. “Yeah, we’ve got him.”

Blake exhaled, relieved, glancing between the two of you like he wasn’t entirely convinced but also knew better than to argue.

“Okay,” he said, stepping back onto the porch. “Happy birthday again, Y/N.”

“Thank you,” you said, managing a real smile despite Jeremiah slowly becoming dead weight against your side. “Get home safe, okay?”

“I will.”

Blake gave Johnny a polite nod, which Johnny returned, then headed down the steps toward his car.

You eased the door shut behind him, the click sounding louder than it should have, and when you turned back, Jeremiah was already fixed on Johnny—staring at him with the kind of heavy, glassy concentration that didn’t quite land anywhere.

His eyes narrowed a little, head tilting as if that might help him focus.

“You’re… tall,” Jeremiah announced, the word dragging at the edges.

Johnny paused, clearly caught off guard for half a second before a small, amused breath slipped out of him. “Uh—thanks, man.”

Jeremiah nodded, deeply satisfied with his own observation.

Johnny shifted his grip on him, steadying him as he swayed again, glancing over at you, he tipped his chin toward the hallway. “Alright, where are we putting him?”

“His room,” you said, with the air of someone who had done this before. “Come on.”

Together, you started guiding Jeremiah toward the stairs, his weight uneven between you, feet dragging just enough to make every step feel like a negotiation.

“Where’re we going?” Jeremiah mumbled, blinking hard.

“Your stinky room,” you said flatly.

Johnny adjusted his hold when Jeremiah listed too far to one side, his hand bracing firm at your brother’s ribs.

“You're getting the royal escort, dude,”

Jeremiah’s head lifted at once, suddenly alert in the way only drunk people could be alert about the least important part of a conversation.

"Hell yeah!"

“Shh,” you hissed.

Immediately, it became clear that going upstairs would be a problem.

Without waiting for anything, Jeremiah lifted his foot too high, missed the edge of the step entirely, and nearly took all three of you down with him.

“Whoa—” Johnny caught him hard, arm tightening as he hauled him back upright.

You grabbed onto the railing with your free hand, “Jere!”

“I’m fine,” Jeremiah said instantly, voice thick with confidence that was both entirely misplaced and wildly unhelpful.

Johnny steadied him for another second, then glanced over at you, “We might want to rethink the stairs.”

You let out a long breath instead, shaking your head a little as the tension eased out of your shoulders.

“No… I can’t let him sleep on the couch like that, and I definitely don’t want my mom walking into this disaster in the morning.”

At the mention of your mom, Jeremiah’s head snapped up like a switch had been flipped.

“Oh—mom,” he said, suddenly wide awake in the most inconvenient way possible. “Where’s mom? I wanna tell her about homecoming.”

You tightened your grip on his arm before he could try to turn around. “She’s asleep, so, no. Absolutely not.”

Jeremiah frowned at that, deeply offended on her behalf. “But I won.”

“She already knows you would’ve,” you shot back, steering him firmly toward the next step before he could spiral into a speech. “You can tell her in the morning… assuming you’re capable of leaving your bed.”

Johnny’s mouth twitched, but he shifted his grip anyway, bracing Jeremiah more securely. “Alright. Stairs it is.”

You nodded once. “Stairs it is.”

Getting him up them was horrible, not impossible, just horrible.

Jeremiah kept trying to help, which somehow made it worse. Every few steps, he put his foot down too hard, which made you wince each time, or too late, then overcorrected. Johnny took most of his weight without complaining, one arm firm around his back, while you stayed at Jeremiah’s other side, one hand locked around his wrist and the other on the railing.

“Left foot,” you said.

Jeremiah lifted the wrong one.

“Other left.”

He blinked down at his shoes. “Right.”

“No, left.”

Slowly, painfully, the three of you made it up the stairs. Jeremiah apologised to the bannister once, accused the carpet of moving twice, and paused near the top to announce that he needed “a minute with the architecture,” which you ignored entirely.

By the time you reached the landing, your arm hurt and Johnny was a little out of breath.

Jeremiah, somehow, looked pleased with himself. “See? easy.”

You turned your head slowly to look at him, eyes narrowing just enough to promise consequences. “I’m going to make your life absolutely miserable tomorrow. Just so you’re aware.”

Johnny, far less concerned with future revenge, shifted his hold again when Jeremiah sagged between you again, his attention already moving ahead. He glanced down the hallway, taking in the doors.

“Alright, which one’s his?”

You tipped your chin toward the end of the hall, where a door sat slightly ajar, a strip of light cutting across the floor. “That one. End of the hall.”

Jeremiah followed your gaze with exaggerated focus, squinting like the distance between him and the door was miles instead of a few steps.

“My room,” he declared, with quiet conviction.

You didn’t even look at him.

“Your disaster zone,” you corrected, already steering him in that direction before he could argue, or worse, stop moving altogether.

You and Johnny managed to get him the last few steps into his room, the whole thing more of a controlled drop than anything graceful.

Jeremiah’s room was exactly as you expected it to be: half-open drawers, clothes over the chair, one sneaker in the middle of the floor for no obvious reason, and the vague smell of expensive cologne trying and failing to cover teenage boy.

“Okay sit,” you said.

Jeremiah obeyed immediately, dropping onto the edge of the bed with a heavy bounce, shoulders slumping forward like his body had finally decided it was done for the night.

Johnny let go slowly, making sure he wasn’t about to tip over again.

You stepped in front of your brother and started tugging at the buttons of his tux jacket.

“Come on,” you muttered, fingers working the first button loose as you nudged at his arm. “Arm.”

Jeremiah lifted one arm immediately, the wrong one, though. You stopped mid-motion and just looked at him, that quiet, pointed kind of stare that said try again, and he switched at once.

Behind you, Johnny made a small sound, half cough, half laugh, pressing his fist lightly to his mouth like he was trying not to interrupt.

“What?” You shot him a look over your shoulder.

He took a second, like he was deciding whether to say it, then gave in anyway, voice low, edged with amusement. “That look.”

You frowned slightly. “What look?”

“That one,” he said, nodding toward Jeremiah, who was now sitting unusually still under your supervision. “Yeah… you’ve got that down already. You’re gonna be a terrifyingly good mom one day. Kid won’t even need the full countdown.”

A short laugh escaped you before you could stop it, more breath than sound, as you finally turned fully toward him, folding Jeremiah’s jacket with unnecessary neatness just to have something to do with your hands.

“I’m getting a drunk sixteen-year-old out of a tux at midnight. If anything, I’m not terrifying, I’m efficient.”

“Never said you weren't,” His gaze flicked over you for a second. “Just saying… it suits you.”

You grinned, about to joke about you as a mom, but Jeremiah beat you to it.

He was staring at Johnny now, eyes narrowed with the intense, misplaced focus of someone whose brain had chosen one thought and clung to it with both hands.

“You love my sister, don’t you?”

The room went quiet, Johnny huffed a laugh, short and caught off guard and for once, he did not have a clever answer ready.

You saw it anyway, the faint pink that crept up his face, almost hidden in the dim room but not quite. He kept most of his composure, but there was a second where his eyes flicked to you before he looked back at Jeremiah.

“Think you’ve had enough big thoughts for one night, man,” Johnny said lightly.

Jeremiah nodded slowly, like he respected that answer.

“Yeah,” he said. “Avoiding the question. Classic.”

“Jere,” you warned, tugging the tie loose now, a little too quickly.

Your brother’s gaze slid to you, then back to Johnny, he’d discovered he had an audience and no survival instinct whatsoever.

“He does, look at him.” Jeremiah said, with lazy certainty.

Johnny stepped back just slightly, giving you space, but you could feel it, that he was very aware of you now, even if he wasn’t looking directly at you.

"Stop making things weird." You told your brother.

“It’s already weird, he’s in my room.” He mumbled, sagging a bit.

“You’re the reason he’s in your room,” you snapped, pushing Jeremiah back by the shoulder so he’d stop trying to sit upright. “Now lie down.”

Jeremiah flopped against the pillows, still grinning like an idiot and you bent down, busying yourself with his shoes so you didn’t have to look directly at Johnny.

“Unbelievable, you get one plastic crown and suddenly you’re a prophet.”

Johnny let out a breath that almost became a laugh.

“I’m just insightful… like mom.” Jeremiah huffs with little energy.

You glanced at Johnny despite yourself and he was still looking at you, softer now, embarrassed but not running from it.

Your stomach flipped, so naturally, you turned back to Jeremiah and yanked one shoe off with unnecessary force. “Sleep,”

Jeremiah, finally, started to drift, eyes half-lidded, breathing evening out, crown abandoned somewhere near the nightstand.

“Bossy,” he mumbled.

You smoothed a hand briefly over his hair.

“Idiot,” you muttered back as you pulled the blanket a little higher over his shoulder and stepped back.

“Alright,” you said, brushing your hands together lightly. “Crisis handled.”

Johnny let out a quiet breath, like he’d been holding it without realizing, and glanced once more at Jeremiah to make sure he was actually down for the count.

“Impressive operation, minimal casualties.”

“Speak for yourself, my arm’s dead.” You smiled as you moved to the door, Johnny following behind you.

He pulled Jeremiah’s door mostly shut once you stepped into the hall, leaving it cracked just slightly.

You noticed, it was such a small thing, the kind of thing most people wouldn’t think twice about.

But your mom always left doors cracked when one of you was sick, or upset, or just not quite right. Enough privacy to sleep, enough openness to listen.

Johnny caught your glance, then looked at the door.

“Too much?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head. “No. That’s… good.”

The two of you went downstairs after that.

It was quiet in the way houses got late at night, every step a little too noticeable, every creak in the wood making the silence feel fuller. Neither of you said anything at first, and somehow that made it worse, the gift, the almost-kiss still sitting between you, Jeremiah’s drunken comment hovering right behind it like the world’s least subtle ghost.

You kept your eyes forward, very deliberately.

Johnny followed a step behind you, close enough that you were aware of him but not so close that either of you had to acknowledge it.

By the time you reached the bottom of the stairs, the living room was still glowing softly from the TV. Roman Holiday had continued without you, Audrey Hepburn now halfway through a scene you had definitely missed. The blanket was half-fallen onto the floor, one corner still tucked into the couch where you’d both been sitting.

You stepped into the room first and picked up the remote.

“Well,” you said, trying for casual and landing somewhere near mildly awkward, “we lost the plot.”

Johnny looked at the screen. “Pretty sure I never had it.”

That pulled a small laugh out of you, easing the air just a little.

“You weren’t trying very hard."

“I was learning.”

You shook your head, rewinding the movie a little more aggressively than necessary. “Hopeless.”

Johnny stood near the edge of the couch for a second, watching you. Not staring exactly, but close enough that you felt it.

So you threw the blanket at him, and he caught it against his chest, surprised.

“What was that for?”

“You looked like you didn’t know what to do with yourself.”

His mouth twitched. “And the blanket helps?”

“It gives you purpose.”

“Generous.” He places a hand over his heart.

“You’re welcome.”

Johnny sat back down, still smiling faintly, and spread the blanket over his lap, leaving enough of it for you when you dropped onto the couch beside him.

Not too close this time, but also not far enough.

The movie started again and for a minute, the two of you pretended very hard to watch it then Johnny glanced at you and you glanced at the screen harder until he looked away… so now you looked at him and at the same time, he looked back again and you both looked away at once.

It was horrible but it was also, unfortunately, a little funny.

You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. Johnny exhaled through his nose beside you, clearly fighting the same battle.

Finally, you huffed under your breath, shaking your head like you could physically reset the moment. “Okay. We’re being weird.”

Johnny let out a quiet laugh, something in it loosening, like he’d been holding the same tension and was glad you’d named it. “Yeah, a little. But that’s kind of our thing.”

“Stop it.” You shot him a look.

“Me?” he said, feigning innocence.

“Yes, you.”

“I’m sitting here.”

“You’re doing it weirdly.”

Johnny looked down at himself like he might be able to spot the problem, then back at you, mouth twitching. “I don’t know how to correct that.”

“Try being normal.”

“I was normal,” he said, his gaze slipping away for the briefest moment before finding you again, “right up until your brother decided to announce that I'm in love with you.”

You froze and so did Johnny. He blinked once, only just catching up to what he’d actually said, and then his attention snapped toward the TV a little too quickly, shoulders shifting as if he could physically distance himself from the sentence he’d just dropped between you.

Heat rushed up your neck before you could stop it, blooming across your cheeks. For a second, the only thing filling the space was the low murmur of the movie, some distant dialogue you couldn’t even begin to follow.

You felt it settle in your chest, that split-second pull in two directions, ridiculous, almost cinematic. One part of you, leaned toward him without thinking, drawn in by the feeling. The other, sharper, louder, cut straight through it, already lining up reasons, already insisting it didn’t mean anything, that it couldn’t.

You swallowed, dragging yourself back, clearing your throat like you could reset the moment.

“Right,” you said, aiming for casual, you gave an airy chuckle. “Well, he also couldn’t manage a staircase ten minutes ago, so I’m not exactly taking him as a reliable source tonight.”

You could tell Johnny glanced at you, but you didn’t turn to face him, eyes fixed on the screen.

“Good point,” he said lowly after a moment.

The movie carried on in soft black and white, voices blending into the quiet of the house. Outside, the night had settled completely, and upstairs, everything stayed still, the steady calm you’d been waiting for.

Under the blanket, your hand rested where it had fallen and so did his, both close enough that, after a second, your pinky brushed his.

It wasn’t deliberate… or maybe it was, the contact stayed light, barely there, the kind of thing that could disappear if either of you shifted even a little.

But you didn’t, and neither did he.

A/N:

…hey?! hey… how ya'll doing?

I’m sorry this update took so long, a lot has happened these past few months, and if I’m being completely honest, I’ve also been a bit stuck on where to take this season next.

So if you have any ideas at all, I’d genuinely love to hear them!

That said, if you’re still here… thank you, truly, thank you for the support, for the comments, for sticking around. It means more than I can properly put into words. <3<3<3

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I was so unsure about what to have Johnny give her. I thought about a necklace, but a necklace is TSITP the whole thing, yknow? So I steered away from that and went with a bracelet instead. It just felt more them, something she can keep adding little memories to over time.

(And hey… maybe she'll wear it on her wedding day. Kidding. Unless—)

I also briefly considered having him “buy her a star,” but I don’t know… it felt a bit too grand for where they’re at right now. What do you guys think? What kind of gift would you have picked?

Once again, thank you all so much for reading and for all your support! It truly means everything to me.

See you next chapter 🤍

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