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“The unit should be prepped soon. We can grab some food after Mitzy brings over our luggage.” Theodore’s smooth voice hums out, eyes clambering to drink in the sight of the sea as well. 

You smile softly at the mention of the boy’s house-elf, remembering how she had been keen to help you pack for the trip. Nodding, you unconsciously shift closer to the boy as you glance at him, “Sounds like a plan.” 

Theodore looks completely serene much to your confusion. A large part of you was grateful that Theodore was chosen to be your betrothed, but another chunk of your heart twinged painfully at the thought. It was no secret that Nott Sr. was a strict man, and you couldn’t help but spiral into a web of thoughts about how Theodore was likely forced into being with you. 

It had only been a few months since you both graduated from Hogwarts, but you distinctly recall how close Theodore was to Millicent Bulstrode. Your brain sifted through your memories of the girl, remembering her calculative eyes and pin-straight posture. 

You just hoped the girl wouldn’t hex you for swooping in and stealing her boyfriend. 

You and Theodore weren’t exactly close friends, but you both sought out each other’s company during exam season, enjoying the comfortable routine of silence that you both fell into during those days. Outside of the library, interactions with the boy dwindled into nods and occasional smiles. Despite the distance between you both during school, you held onto hope that your familiarity with one another would serve as a stepping stone towards a smooth relationship. 

Conversation with Theodore is sparse for the hours that follow, the both of you mulling over thoughts of pleasantries and faltering topics of chatter. The fervid wind settles the farther you trek from the shoreline, now teetering past assortments of clustered buildings, all mottled with bright colors. 

Your wand presses stiffly against your side as you tuck it into the waistband of your bottoms, concealing it from view as you both approach a swarm of people. Theodore keeps beside you, donning black sunglasses that keeps his searching gaze hidden as you both bask in the foreign environment. 

It was lively and bright, the antithesis to the perpetual gloom and blisters of humming that was encroached in every stone of Britain. White verandas and endless shrubbery adorned the collection of shops around you, catching your eyes every so often. 

“Here we are.” Theodore mutters, throwing you a small smile as your mouth drops into a vague o-shape. 

The restaurant is stretched open with white beams of wood streaming upward to a flat wooden ceiling, the entirety of the seating area is squared away by the side banisters instead of proper walls, letting in the cool wind and seaside view. Theodore steps forward to speak with the hostess, hand lifting up to tug off his sunglasses as a blanket of shade envelopes you both. 

You’re entranced by Theodore’s rapid-fire speaking, wondering if he had chosen Italian for his language lessons in order to strengthen his friendship with Blaise. With Theodore’s fluency and the restaurant’s expansive array of tables, you’re both seated in a matter of minutes. 

The speckless table cloth drapes past your legs like a waterfall, effectively providing a shield against the breeze as you take your spot across from Theodore. The boy plucks his menu up and shoots you an indecipherable look from above the booklet as you remain motionless, seeing as your elementary understanding of Italian begins and ends at Ciao and Grazie.

Theodore’s lips flicker up momentarily before he lays his menu down and shuffles it over to you, “Do you want pasta? Or salad? They also have pizza, if you prefer that.” 

Your lips split into a small smile of relief, a warmth blossoming in your chest as the stiff atmosphere around you both seems to wash away. Theodore reads off of the entire menu for you, eyes occasionally shifting to your concentrated face as you pedal between a few options.

When you finally decide on a dish, Theodore offers you a light hum and shining eyes, paralyzing you for a few moments. Perhaps, and to your relief, your relationship could work out after all. You just needed to clear the air between you both first. 

The meal continues on without a hitch, but you have to make a conscious effort to not stare at the boy in front of you when the sun begins to sink behind the basin of sea water. 

The swirls of orange and pink of the sky illuminate his sharp features, complementing his already striking complexion. A tamed buzzing of conversation wafts through the air, spurring you to word-vomit the thoughts that were plaguing you since your first joint dinner with Theodore and his father weeks before. 

“I’m sorry,” You begin, looking away from Theodore when he meets your gaze with furrowed eyebrows, “about our marriage.” 

Silence ensues after your vague words, and when you finally work up the courage to glance back at Theodore, confusion settles into the etches of your mind as you see his frown and penitent gaze. You had expected false platitudes of reassurance, or bitter resignation—hell, maybe anger—but certainly not the look he was giving you right now. 

Clearing your throat, you sit up and lean forward, “I mean, I know that you would rather not be betrothed to me, so I’m sorry. My parents are quite lenient people, so I should have fought against it since I know your heart belongs to someone else already.” 

“What?” Theodore wheezes out, reeling back to process your words. 

Feeling heat creep up your neck, you falter back with quiet words, “Maybe, if I had refused vehemently, my parents could have convinced your father to not force you. I just wanted to apologize because I don’t want any lingering awkwardness or expectations for each other.”

Before Theodore can respond, your waiter paces over, giving you a polite smile before turning to address Theodore. The boy in front of you distractedly answers the waiter, eyes flickering back to your rigid figure amidst his words. 

Once the waiter parts from your tableside, leaving behind a quaint black tray for your sum, Theodore seems to fall into a silent daze as he robotically composes himself and leaves the money on the tray. When he pushes his chair back, you follow suit, ready to play catch up if he swept away and down into the streets without you. 

To your muted surprise, Theodore stops by your side and holds out his hand for you to take. Hesitantly clasping his calloused hand in yours, you are only able to await his words with bated breath, distracting yourself by focusing on the feeling of his rings against your fingers. 

Theodore leads you yards away from the restaurant, only falling to a halt once you both reach a secluded area beside a blocked-off cliffside. The sound of crashing waves tangles into the air as Theodore’s eyes run around your face for a few moments. 

“Do you want to call this off?” Theodore whispers, eyes steely with resolution as his other hand moves to lightly grip your arm. 

You gape at his blunt words, swallowing thickly as your gaze falls to the ground, “If that’s what you want.” 

“But what do you want?” He mumbles, stepping closer to you as another chilly gust of wind flies around your unguarded figures. 

Peering back up to him, you frown before divulging, “I don’t want to call it off.” 

“Good. Me neither.” Theodore nods, eyes softening at your honesty. 

“But what about Millicent?” You mutter, head tilting with visible perplexion. The poignant reminder of her existence evokes a storm of doubts in your veins, and your head starts spinning with the culmination of the day’s events. 

Theodore cranes his head back to assess you as he plainly responds, “What about her?” 

This time, it’s your turn to survey his confused face with a mirrored look, “What? She’s your girlfriend? I can’t in good conscience do that to someone, arranged or not.” 

Theodore’s mouth parts as he stares at you, and for a moment you’re disconcerted by the thought that he perhaps only just remembered her, but then, the most remarkable thing happens—Theodore starts to chuckle. His shoulders quake faintly with every muffled sound, and after a few moments, he throws his head back to let it out toward the darkening sky. 

Before you have a moment to question the boy’s sanity, he turns back to you with a wide grin, “Is that what you were talking about earlier? You caught me from left field. I was worried that you were displeased because your heart belonged to someone already.” 

Seeing your inquiring eyes, he shuffles closer and shakes his head, “I’m not dating Millicent, silly one. Where’d you get that grand idea from?”

“You guys were always together, and all the rumors–” Your words come out borderline defensive, neck blazing from embarrassment. 

Theodore huffs and squeezes your arm, softly cutting you off from your spiel, “Just rumors. I wouldn’t have agreed to any sort of arrangement if I was with someone else, my father knows that much.” 

“Right, yeah. Sorry.” You nod, scratching at your neck to dispel the humiliation that would live on in your head until your last moments on Earth. 

“Silly.” Theodore hums, letting go of your arm to tap at your forehead, “Let’s head to our place before we freeze, yeah?” 

Your rental unit was quite spacious to your surprise, and you were almost too enraptured with touching every inch of furniture to notice that there was only one bed in the entire space. Almost. 

Theodore is cognizant of the same dilemma, clicking his tongue dryly as he murmurs quietly under his breath. 

“I can take the floor.” You speak up almost zealously, easily masking how the prospect of waking with a sore back was killing you on the inside. Theodore and you had barely started building a thin understanding for your relationship, and you’d be damned if a single bed would stir up tension again. 

Theodore swivels to look at you, “No need, we can share the bed. If you’re uncomfortable, I’ll take the floor.” His voice leaves little room for argument, and he runs a hand through his locks as he nods reassuringly at you. You’re touched by his consideration and understanding, glad that you weren’t in such a position with someone like Crabbe or Goyle, both of whom would likely grunt inaudibly and leave you to your ministrations. 

“Let’s share, then.” You concede, heart thrumming fervently in your chest. 

Theodore smiles softly at you and beckons you closer as he sits down on the bed, hand reaching out for you as you slowly tread forward. When you gently place your hand in his, he gives a faint tug, eyes darting down to the empty spot beside him. 

Once you’re snug on the plush mattress, you turn to him with a wry grin, “We’ve skipped pretty much every single conventional step to get here. From study partners to life partners.” 

“I suppose you’re right,” the corner of his mouth slants up, “from barely knowing my name to taking my surname, hm? Quite unorthodox.” 

Shaking your head, you flop back onto the bed, keenly aware of how Theodore tightens his hold on your hand as it begins to slip away. Peering up at him, you raise an eyebrow, “Who said I’m taking your last name, Nott? You’re taking mine.” 

“Hyphenating, it is.” He murmurs as his eyes trail toward the balcony ways off across the room. 

You chuckle and stare into the abyss of the dim ceiling, “Any excuse to have a ridiculously extensive name.” 

“Never as ridiculous as Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.” He muses, slowly lowering himself to lay beside you. 

A few tantalizing beats pass before your jumbled mind seems to take away any semblance of restraint from your mouth, “I never thought it would be you, to be frank.” 

“Yeah?” Theodore hums, head now turned towards you. 

Nodding, you run your free hand along the edge of the bed as you continue, “My parents had been considering Crabbe for a while. I mean, they know nothing about him, but I can just imagine how that dinner would have gone once they realized just who they were shipping me off to.” 

Theodore continues to study you, hand squeezing yours again before he mumbles, “I knew it’d be you.” 

Snapping your head to the side, your eyes widen at his hooded gaze, “Really?” 

“My father knew it too. That I wouldn’t have anyone but you.” His admission knocks the wind from your lungs, and you almost want to throttle yourself off the bed to ensure that you weren’t dreaming. 

“Yeah?” You ask dumbly, heart stuttering against your ribs. 

Theodore shifts to lean on his elbow, bringing his face closer to yours as he whispers, “Want to know a secret?” 

All you can do is nod, trying to blink away the dizziness coiling around your head from the close proximity. 

He hums and slowly retracts his hand, bringing a finger to trail the bedding beside your shoulder, “I was the one to ask your parents for permission to court you. Now, I’m going to wash up first, I promise I won’t be long.” 

Without a hitch, Theodore swiftly clambers off of the bed, leaving the mattress to gently recoil against your back as it expands to its original form. You’re only able to grapple for a coherent thought once the bathroom door shuts with a click, barring you from staring at Theodore in wonder. 

Once you hear the stream of the shower head emit from the bathroom, you slowly prop yourself up and trudge towards the balcony, swinging the glass doors open and allowing the whistling wind to zip through the newly exposed aperture. The biting breeze nips at your cheeks as you stare into the sky, surveying all the twinkling stars as you recount the day’s events. 

You aren’t exactly sure what you’re going to say to Theodore, or if you’re even going to be able to look him in the eyes once he emerges from the bathroom, but you supposed that the turn of events unfolded more pleasantly than you could have hoped.

The distant clamoring of partygoers ways away from the balcony lulls you into a loop of idle daydreams, and you aren’t sure how many minutes have passed since Theodore’s departure from your side, but the whirlwind of your elusive thoughts dissipates when a warm hand grazes your arm. 

“You alright? I’ve been calling your name for a bit now.” Theodore mumbles, eyes glazed with worry as he searches your blank expression. 

Blinking slowly, you nod and offer a faint smile, “Fine, just lost in my thoughts.” 

“It’s a bit chilly out here,” He glances to his right, evidently hearing the faint pulsing of music as well, “why don’t we head in?” 

“Yeah,” you whisper, smiling at him, “I’ll try not to wake you when I get out of the shower.” 

As you make your way to weave around the boy, body feeling weightless despite the fatigue drenching your muscles, you can feel his eyes following you until you’re swallowed by the shadows of the room. 

The numbing balm of the night’s wind melts away from your face as you peer up into the shower head. The swath of steam that swirls around your body, cloaking the mirrors and walls, seems to inhibit the taunts of your overactive brain. 

Your getaway would continue for another week before you’d begin wedding arrangements, already feeling the splintering headache emerging at the thought of sitting down and picking between a plethora of cloth samples. Unions between pureblood families were a big deal for the elite circle of families as the event would serve as the perfect opportunity for pretense and business transactions between different houses. 

When you crack the bathroom door open with a muffled pop, dismissing the rush of steam that flees hurriedly into the cool room, you vaguely make out the figure of Theodore propped up against the headboard. The hues of moonlight peek through the bare panes of your window, curtains swept aside, faintly illuminating the silhouette of the furniture. 

“Still up?” You whisper, padding over to delicately arrange yourself beside the boy. 

As you shuffle under the plush covers, dragging the edges under your arms, you turn to peer at Theodore’s profile, watching as his throat bobs down as he slowly turns to you. 

“Didn’t want to sleep without you.” He mutters, slowly sinking to lay down beside you. 

You suppress the tender smile threatening to peel across your face and nod, “I see. You’re not a restless sleeper, are you?”

“Are you?” He quietly intones, voice growing fainter as sleep begins to grip at his consciousness. 

“No, I’m not.” You hum, resisting the urge to sweep your fingers forward in search of his, “Goodnight, Theodore.” 

“Goodnight.” 

You both fall asleep facing one another, inches apart as the glow of the moonlight chases away the gulfs of darkness that slink in the corners of your room. It is in this position that your slumber is torn away from you mere hours later, moonlight now dispersing into small shards that nearly blend away against the white covers. 

The foggy film that clouds your senses and sight reel away as you hear a small grunt from beside you followed by incessant shifting. Blinking away your drowsiness, you slowly shift up to survey Theodore, slowly comprehending his distress. 

Theodore huffs out, a muffled groan blooming into the quiet atmosphere around you. Carefully reaching over, you shake the boy’s arm, eyebrows furrowing when he simply shifts again. 

“Theodore, hey,” You feebly call out, shaking his arm more frantically as he remains trapped in the desolate rapids of unconsciousness. 

Leaning down you bring your other hand to softly pat his cheek, you wait with bated breath as his ministrations quell before ceasing entirely. Eyes now accustomed to the veil of midnight darkness, you see his eyes slowly blink open, a light sigh escaping his lips as he begins to claw back into reality. 

“Hey, it’s alright, you’re alright,” You softly murmur, bringing your fingers up to gently card back his waves, any semblance of fatigue evaporating from your bones as you focus on comforting the boy. 

Theodore brings his hand up to yours, eyes beginning to sluggishly droop again, “Y/N?” 

“Hm?” You hum out, readjusting your position as sickly soreness jolts up your arm. 

“I guess I am a restless sleeper.” He mumbles, nudging against his pillow before he emits another sigh. His voice rumbles lethargically, and you sense that he is about to slip away into slumber again when he tightens his hold on your hand. 

“Hm. What’s up?” You whisper, moving to lay down as well. 

Theodore is silent for a few seconds before he tersely whispers back, voice nearly drowned out by the thumping of your heart in your ears, “Can I hold you?” 

You shift closer to the cocoon of warmth batting off of him, steadily bringing your arm to wrap around him, “Of course.” 

Theodore wraps his arms around you and drags you towards him, a content hum buzzing from his throat as he tucks you under his chin. For the few grand moments that pass afterward, you are left to contemplate the consequences your position would entail for when the sun rose, and you fervently hoped that no awkwardness would ensue. 

Your close proximity to Theodore allows you to hear the faint thumping of his heartbeat, now undeviating in its rhythm. Bringing your free hand forward, you tuck it in the nestle of warmth between your bodies, trying to conjure inklings of sleep as a dense pressure burrowed itself in your eyes. 

The lull of concentration fades into blind navigation in the crevices of your mind, and when your pulsing thoughts dwindle to incomprehensible echoes, slumber greets you once again.

When your mind blisters into stark clarity, it is with recognition of the orange hues flashing in your vision and the traces of aimless lines on your back. Your body instinctively pines for the cushion of bliss that mutely calls for you: a mixture of aftershave and pear. 

For a few moments, it is completely tranquil. Until you realize that your pillow had a heartbeat. 

The revelation is enough to jumpstart the discombobulated wires of your brain. Your eyes crack open to greet the rays of light that crowd your vision, an unpleasant stinging causing you to squint as you huff out. 

“Good morning.” Theodore’s voice is gravelly, barely above a whisper. 

“Hi Theodore.” You mumble out, remaining motionless against him. 

His chest vaguely rumbles and you feel him splay one his hands against your back, “Theo. Only my father and Blaise call me Theodore.” 

“Blaise?” You tiredly repeat, cheek squishing against his shirt. 

“At his insistence, honestly. He thinks it’s fun.” Theodore hums, and that reminder has your hazy brain blinking with a sudden memory. 

“Wait. Theodora, right?” You raise your head up, a wide grin plastered on your face as you remember the one night when Blaise dragged him away from your study routine using that nickname. 

Theodore blinks before he groans into the air, bringing one of his arms up to throw over his eyes as he grumbles, “Merlin, I was hoping you’d forget or even mishear that.”  

“Oh, I almost did, but Blaise’s ruckus was far more interesting than a Potions essay.” Theodore hums tiredly at the mention, and his reaction only spurs you on, “So, does he make it a habit to say Theodora, or is Dora better?” You say cheekily, shrugging innocently when Theodore peers down at you with a playful glare. 

“Enough about Blaise,” Theodore mumbles, poking your ribs with his fingers as he maneuvers to sit up, dragging you to lean into his side as he did so, “I have something planned for today.” 

“You’re being frighteningly vague, should I be worried?” You hum, muffling a low yawn. 

Theodore shakes his head and dryly huffs , “Actually, I was planning on testing a few levitating charms on you.” His fingers dance lightly against your back as his voice drops into a feathery tone, “Have some faith in me.” 

“I trust you.” You murmur, exhaling through your nose in amusement before you grow serious, “Anyway, did you sleep okay?” 

Theodore doesn’t answer you, and you slowly raise your eyes to meet his face in confusion, “Theo?” 

“Hm?” He hums distractedly, face craning closer to yours as he seems to almost stare through you. 

Your heart collapses into the void of your ribcage for a split second before it begins to thrust violently against your chest, spurring a sea of warmth up your neck and ears. Theodore’s eyes flicker across your face as his hands begin to absentmindedly draw patterns against your sides. 

You aren’t sure you’re breathing properly. Or at all. 

One of his hands trails up to your arm, sliding to rest on the junction between your neck and shoulder as he muses, “Before we get up and go on about our day, I have something for you.” 

Your eyebrows wrinkle at his words, eyes not straying away from his unwavering gaze. This time, it’s you who gives a small hum, patiently waiting for his next words. 

“Just a small gift,” He whispers, slowly slotting his other hand on the small of your back, “It’s been a long time coming, really.” 

His eyes drop down to your lips and that’s all you really need before you’re leaning towards him with anticipation, hands steadying themselves on his chest. Theodore’s lips part and he gazes at you for confirmation, jaw clenching imperceptibly as words become lost between you both. 

When you remain resolute, he swiftly connects his lips to yours, mouth moving feverishly against yours. His hands press against your body, keeping you grounded as he begins to lean over you, lips never ceasing in their frenzied dance against yours. 

Grasping the sides of his neck, you tug him impossibly closer to you as he hovers over you, one of his hands moving to run soothingly along your waist. 

A few more heated moments pass before the tug for air becomes too great to ignore, causing you to break away from him, head tilting to the side as your lungs tinge with a faint tightness. Theodore grunts at your escape, chasing after you as he tries to satiate his desire, only opting to leave heavy kisses against your cheek and jaw when you tap his neck. 

Closing your eyes, you bring your fingers to card through his hair as you attempt to halt the dizzying stars spinning across your eyelids. Amidst your fruitless efforts, a sudden tug has your eyes flying open, a bemused hum echoing through the air once you realize Theodore is guiding you to sit up. 

He remains silent as he glides down from the side of the bed, hand drifting to lace with yours as he pulls you to sit at the edge of the mattress. Reaching towards the bottom drawer of the white dresser, Theodore only briefly glances away as he fishes out a small velvet box. 

“Theo?” You mumble, eyes widening as he drops down on both of his knees. 

“Ring.” He answers quietly, deftly opening the box and pulling out a thin silver band. 

He drops kisses to your knees as he gazes up towards you, bringing one of his hands forward in muted questioning. Smiling softly, you place your left hand in his outstretched one, holding your breath when he slips the ring onto your ring finger with ease. 

His hand continues to hold yours, thumb rubbing against your skin as he stares at the band. 

“Thank you.” He finally says, lifting his face up to survey yours, his position leaving him at your complete mercy. 

Your hands instinctively reach out to cup his face, bringing him in for another kiss as a newfound contentment curls into your chest. Theodore remains on his knees as he leans forwards, hands chancing a light slide against your hips as he reciprocates your affection.  

“Fuck, how mad do you think everyone will be if we just eloped?” He grunts out before diving forward again to meet your lips. 

Pulling back with a small laugh, you shake your head, “My parents would have your head.” 

“I’m willing to pay that price, love.” He grins against your lips, nose nudging against yours. 

Patting his cheek, you narrow your eyes playfully, “Well I’m not, so behave.” 

“Yes, dear.”

The look in his eyes should have warned you.

Instead, it made you step closer.

A terrible decision.

Or maybe a very good one.

Charles's gaze dropped briefly before returning to yours.

The apartment suddenly felt far too quiet.

Outside, Monaco was alive with music, celebration, and flashing lights.

Inside, it felt like the entire world had narrowed down to the space between the two of you.

"You still look smug," he said.

You smiled.

"Because I'm right."

"About?"

"You practiced a speech."

A groan escaped him.

"You are never letting that go."

"Never."

The corner of his mouth twitched.

"You know, most people would be comforting me."

"Most people don't know you."

That made him pause.

His expression softened for a fraction of a second.

Only a second.

Then it disappeared again beneath something more playful.

More dangerous.

"Oh?"

You nodded.

"If I comforted you immediately, your ego would become unbearable."

"My ego?"

"Massive."

"My ego is perfectly reasonable."

You laughed.

Charles shook his head.

"I lose my home race and somehow I'm getting bullied."

"You make it very easy."

"You're impossible."

"And yet you keep coming home to me."

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

For a moment, silence.

Not awkward.

Not uncomfortable.

Just heavy.

His eyes locked onto yours.

Something shifted.

The teasing faded.

The smiles disappeared.

Not because either of you were upset.

Because suddenly neither of you were joking anymore.

The city lights reflected in his eyes.

For the first time all evening, Charles looked calm.

Really calm.

As though standing here with you was finally allowing him to breathe.

His hand lifted.

Carefully brushing a strand of hair away from your face.

Such a simple gesture.

Yet it made your pulse speed up immediately.

"You know," he said quietly, "you're very distracting."

"Oh?"

"Very."

You tried to answer.

The words got stuck somewhere halfway.

Charles noticed.

Of course he noticed.

A victorious grin appeared.

"There it is."

"What?"

"Now you're speechless."

"I am not."

"You are."

"I'm choosing not to speak."

"Sure."

The grin widened.

You rolled your eyes.

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

The confidence in his voice should have annoyed you.

Instead it made you smile.

Which only made him look even more pleased with himself.

"You look happier."

The words slipped out quietly.

His expression changed again.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

Enough to reveal the exhaustion he'd been carrying all day.

Enough to reveal the disappointment still lingering underneath.

But also something else.

Relief.

Because he wasn't standing in front of cameras anymore.

Wasn't answering reporters.

Wasn't reliving every mistake.

He was here.

Home.

With you.

Charles looked at you for a long moment.

Then finally smiled.

A genuine one.

The kind that appeared rarely.

The kind worth waiting for.

"Yeah," he admitted softly.

"I am."

You reached for his hand.

His fingers immediately intertwined with yours.

Natural.

Automatic.

Like they'd done it a thousand times before.

Outside, another burst of fireworks lit up the sky.

Neither of you looked.

Neither of you cared.

For the first time all night, Charles wasn't thinking about losing.

And for now,

That was enough.

Read the whole 5k fic only on my Patreon!

You burst out laughing. Sidney dragged a hand down his face in annoyance but he secretly loved it when his teammates showed up unannounced.

“They’re not serious,” he muttered.

Right on cue, someone pounded on the door like they were trying to break it down, a thick boot thudding against the bottom of the front door over and over, if you didn’t know who it was you’d think it was some kind of burglar trying to get in.

“Open up, Captain!”

You squinted at him. “Friends of yours?” You smiled, raising your eyebrows up at him with a huge smile on your face, knowing exactly who was behind that door.

He sighed. “Unfortunately,”

The voice was unmistakable — loud, dramatic, impossible to ignore.

Evgeni Malkin.

And if Geno was here, that meant at least one other Penguin had probably been dragged along for the ride.

“Maybe if we stay quiet they might just go?” you offered, as much as you loved them both, it was rare you and Sid got five minutes together let alone a whole day to lay in, chill and almost catch up.

The doorbell rang again.

Long. Unbroken, signalling a finger not moving from the button on the side of the door.

Sidney groaned and flopped back dramatically against the mattress. “They have a key,” He announced, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.

You shot upright. “They what?” you exclaimed.

“Team emergency spare," He shrugs calmly, like it was a perfectly normal thing to do.

“You gave them a spare key?” You repeated, making sure you heard what he said right.

“I didn’t think they’d use it!” He says, smiling.

As if summoned by fate itself, the front door clicked open, meaning they’d finally used the key instead of making a heck of a lot of noise.

You both heard boots stomping inside. Loud whispers. Zero subtlety. You couldn’t help but giggle at their shitty attempt to be quiet, not a care in the world about what they possibly could be interrupting.

“Shoes off!” someone called out. “She’ll yell at us if we don’t!”

You buried your face in your hands. “At least they respect me,” You shrugged, you just mopped the floors the day before and really didn’t fancy having to do it again

Sidney was already climbing out of bed, pulling on sweatpants faster than you’ve ever seen him before. You enjoyed it though, his muscles flexing as he does so, making you almost drool at the sight.

“Don’t move,” he told you.

“Oh no, I don’t think so,” you said, scrambling out from under the blankets and pulling on the first piece of clothing you could find, which just so happened to be his shirt. “I’m not hiding while they invade my house.”

Footsteps thundered down the hallway, gaining speed as they got closer and closer to the door.

Your bedroom door swung open without warning.

There they stood.

Evgeni Malkin, grinning like he’d just won something.

Behind him, trying and failing to look innocent, was Kris Letang.

Both holding coffee cups.

Both fully dressed.

Both clearly far too awake for this hour of the morning after a very busy game the night before.

“There he is!” Geno announced dramatically. “Sleeping beauty!”

Sidney blinked at them. “It’s my day off,”

“Yes,” Letang said calmly. “Which is why we are here?”

You crossed your arms. “Explain please,”

Geno pointed at Sidney. “He say after win, pancakes at his house!"

Sidney looked horrified, “I did not,”

“You did!” Geno insisted. “Locker room! ‘Yeah boys, maybe pancakes tomorrow' huh?’” He says, doing the best Sid impression you’ve ever heard, causing a few giggles to leave your throat.

Sidney turned to you slowly. “That’s not what I meant,”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “Seems pretty clear to me, you said pancakes,”

Letang stepped further into the room, glancing around. “We brought coffee. We’re not monsters,” he said with a ‘dur’ tone to his voice.

“You broke into our house,” you replied, smiling widely at the whole situation.

“Technically,” Sidney muttered, “they used a key,"

Geno gasped. “See? Permission!”

Before Sidney could argue, Geno spotted the messy bed and gave him a dramatic look, planting his hand on his chest in fake disgust.

“Ohhh,” he teased. “We interrupt something?” He smirks, wiggling his eyebrows towards the two of you.

You laughed outright this time.

“You interrupted cuddle time, which is even worse,” You say, trying your hardest to glare at them but the look on their faces caused you to burst out laughing.

Sidney turned red instantly, a cute blush forming on his cheeks. “Out. Both of you,” He orders, shaking his head at his teammates.

Letang held up his hands. “Relax. We’re just here for food,”

“You’re thirty-seven,” Sidney said flatly. “Make your own breakfast,”

“But you make best pancakes,” Geno said, as if this were obvious. “And she supervises,”

You tilted your head. “I supervise?”

“Yes,” Letang nodded seriously. “Very important role,”

Sidney looked between all of you, betrayed.

You shrugged sweetly. “Guess you’d better get the griddle out, Captain,”

He narrowed his eyes at you playfully.

“You’re enjoying this,”

“Very much,”

Geno clapped loudly. “Yes! Pancake time!”

Within minutes, your quiet, cozy, clean kitchen had transformed into complete chaos. Flour and eggs smothered the surface, syrups and other condiments sat around the place. Geno was opening cabinets like he lived there, Letang was leaning casually against the counter, offering unhelpful commentary and shovelling M&Ms in his mouth like nothing mattered.

Sidney stood at the stove in sweatpants and a tight fitting t-shirt, flipping pancakes with the intensity of a playoff game.

“You’re overcooking that one,” you teased, peering over his shoulder on your tip toes.

“I am not,”

“You absolutely are,”

Letang peered over his shoulder. “Little dark, Sid,” He states, earning a chuckle from you.

Sidney shot him a look. “You’re not helping,”

Geno was already seated at the table, pouring a puddle of syrup before there were even pancakes on his plate.

You slid onto a stool, chin resting in your hand as you watched them.

This.

This was the part people didn’t see. The laughter, the calmness, the reality of who these guys really were. You sat back and just smiled, loving the carefree vibe flowing through the kitchen, cheering when Sid flipped the pancake all the way over without dropping it onto the floor. Even the way Sidney pretended to be annoyed but still made extra pancakes anyway.

Geno took his first bite and pointed dramatically at Sidney. “MVP!”

Sidney rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifted into a satisfied smirk.

Letang leaned back in his chair. “You know, we should do this after every win,”

“No!” you and Sidney said in perfect unison. You absolutely loved these guys to pieces but sometimes you just needed your Sid.

The teammates burst out laughing.

Sidney glanced at you then — soft, fond, a little apologetic.

You smiled back.

Your peaceful morning had been destroyed.

Your kitchen was loud.

There was syrup on the counter.

And one of the best hockey players in the world was arguing about pancake fluffiness with his best friends.

Honestly?

Sid rounded the corner into the kitchen and smiled the second he saw you. “I texted you,” 

“You texted me a thumbs up and a pasta emoji,”

“That counts,” He replies, smiling softly at his own response. 

He leaned in to kiss you anyway, one hand settling at your waist like it belonged there. It did.

It always did.

You smiled against his lips.

“How was the game?” you asked, like you hadn’t watched every second, every hit on the tv whilst setting up for date night. 

“Good,” He pressed one more quick kiss to your forehead before stepping past you toward the stove. “A little messy in the second, but we got it done,”

He said it so casually, like “getting it done” didn’t mean another full night of him throwing himself into every shift like the outcome of the universe depended on it. You watched him shrug off his suit jacket and hang it neatly over the back of a chair before rolling up his sleeves with the same precision he used for everything else.

He lifted the lid off the pot, checking the sauce, stirring it softly like he hadn’t already been thinking about it all the way home.

“You made dinner before you left for your game,” 

Sid gave you a look over his shoulder, half shy and half smug. “I started it before I left, yeah,”

The kitchen was enough proof of it.

There was flour dusted faintly across one section of the counter, a cutting board with the remains of chopped parsley and grated parmesan, a loaf of bread wrapped in a clean towel, and a pan of chicken parmesan resting in the still-warm oven.

You crossed your arms and leaned against the island. “Are you trying to impress me?”

“I’m married to you,” he said, reaching for the pasta strainer. “I already impressed you,”

You laughed. “Debatable,”

He gave you that little grin he only really wore at home, the one that never made it in front of cameras.

“You stayed married to me,” he said. “That’s a pretty good sign,”

The two of you moved around each other easily, falling into the kind of rhythm that came from years of being together. You handed him plates. He passed you the salad bowl. He stole a piece of mozzarella from the cutting board and acted deeply offended when you smacked his hand away.

By the time you sat down, the table looked ridiculously nice for a random weeknight - candles lit, pasta steaming, chicken parmesan crisp under melted cheese, and two glasses of your favourite wines catching the low golden light from above the stove.

You looked at him across the table, your heart doing that stupid soft thing it still did even after all this time. You couldn’t help the smile that automatically spread across your face. 

He noticed, of course. Sid noticed everything when it came to you.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,”

He narrowed his eyes a little. “That’s not nothing,”

You twirled your fork through the pasta, smiling. “You made me Italian food from scratch after a game. I’m just appreciating my life choices,”

The tips of Sid's ears turned pink.

Any compliment you ever gave Sid always made him blush - it was the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. 

“Eat,” he muttered, trying his best not to show the smirk forming on his lips. 

You did, and it was unfairly good. The sauce was rich and slow-cooked, the pasta perfectly done, the chicken crispy under the sauce instead of soggy like it should have been after sitting. Sid watched you take the first bite with the intensity of someone tracking a puck.

“Well?” he asked.

You let the silence drag out on purpose.

He frowned. “Seriously?”

You laughed and reached across the table to touch his wrist. “It’s amazing. Obviously. You know it’s amazing,”

His shoulders loosened. “Okay,”

“Did you really make all this alone?”

He took a bite, trying and failing not to look pleased with himself. “Yeah,”

“Not even a little help?”

He hesitated for half a second, which immediately made you suspicious.

You pointed your fork at him. “Sidney Crosby,”

“What?”

“That was a guilty face,” You smiled, wiggling your eyebrows at him. 

He swallowed. “I mentioned in the locker room after the game that I was making dinner.”

You stared at him, knowing exactly what that meant. 

Sid kept his expression carefully neutral, which only made it worse.

“You ‘mentioned it’?”

“Mhm,”

“To who?”

He took a sip of wine instead of answering.

Your eyes widened. “Sid!”

He set the glass down. “Tanger and Geno were there,”

You dropped your fork against your plate with a clink. “You told Kris and Evgeni that we were having date night?”

“I told them I was making Italian,” he says casually, taking another bite of the delicious pasta. 

“That is not the same thing,”

He winced, just a little. “I might’ve also said it was date night?”

You laughed in disbelief, already seeing exactly where this was headed. “Why would you do that?”

Sid looked genuinely baffled by the question. “Because they asked what I was doing after the game,”

“And you told them,”

“Yes,”

“In detail,”

He glanced down at his plate. “Maybe,”

“Oh my God,”

Before he could defend himself, there was a loud knock at the door—three quick pounds, followed immediately by the sound of someone trying the handle like they owned the place.

"Open door, Sidney!"

You slowly turned your head toward your husband.

Sid had the decency to look at least a little guilty.

Another voice, a little more apologetic than the first, yelled at the door.

"This wasn't my idea, I swear!"

You covered your face with one hand, laughing already. “You invited them,”

“I didn’t invite them,” Sid said quickly.

The door opened, Sid completely forgetting he left the latch off when he came home from the game earlier. 

“Sidney!” you sighed, setting down your fork.

He stood up from the table with the air of a man about to face the consequences of his own actions. “I can handle it.”

The second the door opened into the kitchen diner, Kris Letang swept in like he’d been waiting with his hand already on the frame, all easy confidence and grin, with Evgeni Malkin right behind him looking deeply pleased with himself, sniffing the air dramatically. 

Tanger stopped short when he saw the candlelit table.

“Oh wow,” he said, putting a hand over his chest. “This is really romantic,”

“Don’t,” Sid said flatly.

Geno leaned to look past him at the food. “You make chicken too? You never say chicken also,”

You were laughing too hard to be properly annoyed now. “Did you two really just show up here for dinner?”

Tanger looked offended. “Show up? No. I came to support Sid's cooking. Geno's here for dinner!”

“With empty hands?” you asked.

Geno held up a bottle of wine from somewhere inside his coat like a magician revealing a final trick. 

“I bring gift,” He smiled from ear to ear, wiggling his eyebrows. 

Tanger lifted a bakery box. “And dessert,”

You looked at Sid, who looked back at you with that helpless, boyish expression that had probably gotten him out of trouble since childhood.

“This,” you told him, “is your fault.”

He came back to the table, leaned down, and kissed your cheek softly. “A little bit.”

“A lot a bit.” You smiled, poking his chest playfully.

He smiled against your skin. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Behind him, Tanger was already heading for the kitchen cabinets like he knew exactly where the plates were, and Geno was hovering over the pasta with open admiration.

“Sid,” Geno called, “I take big plate, yes?”

Sid closed his eyes for one brief second. “Take a normal plate, Geno.”

You snorted. “Date night’s going great,”

Sid straightened and looked at the disaster unfolding in his kitchen, then back at you. His mouth twitched.

“Could be worse,” he said.

Right on cue, Tanger reappeared holding two plates and one of your nicest serving spoons.

“Good news,” Kris announced. “We’re staying,”

Sid sighed.

You laughed so hard that you nearly spilled your wine.

And somehow, with your husband in rolled-up sleeves, two very uninvited Penguins making themselves at home in your kitchen, and your quiet dinner for two turning into complete chaos, you had a feeling the night was only getting started.

Considering your date night had been completely crashed by the two guys, the way they slotted in perfectly with the two of you was adorable but slightly alarming. You all sat around the table, eating the delicious dinner when Geno tried stealing the last bit of garlic bread, sitting on Sid’s plate. 

“I don’t think so!” Sid said, instantly taking the garlic bread from his plate and holding it in the air.

“Come on! Share bread, Sid!” Geno bellowed, throwing his hands in the air in disbelief, looking to you for help.

Sid shook his head in annoyance, tearing the garlic bread in half with expert precision, making sure to give himself the bigger bit.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the scene in front of you.

Geno and Sid arguing about who had the biggest bit of the last slice of the garlic bread, Tanger doing what he does best by fueling the fire whilst making sure everyone's wine glass was continuously full. 

Even with two uninvited penguins, it was still a perfect date night.

not wanting to wake you up, he slowly slipped his hands under your torso and knees as he carried you to his dorm. holding you carefully as if you were made of glass, he laid your body on his four poster bed and wrapped the blanket on you.

theo smiled to himself when you let out a soft groan, eyes still closing. he leaned forward and left a quick kiss on your forehead before changing into something more comfortable, having already taken a shower in the changing room beforehand.

that smooch, by the way, woke you slightly up. 

“theo?” you mumbled as you saw him pulling his freshly washed white shirt through his head and fell fast enough to cover a glimpse of his exposed chest. immediately, he slid himself under the blanket beside you as you stirred awake.

“hi, bella,” he said as he pulled you close into his embrace and wrapped his strong arms around your waist. you couldn’t help but smile when you finally heard the voice that you had longed the entire day.

moving your head to the side, you looked up and kissed his jawline. “i’ve missed you,” you confessed, still feeling a little sleepy. theo gave you that soft smile, the one he only reserved for moments like this with you.

“i missed you too, i’m sorry for making you wait for me. you know you didn’t have to, right?” he caressed your arms slowly, tracing lazy circles along it. he caught the faint shiver that ran through you when his breath brushed so close and warm against your ear. you were certain you might melt right then, from the gentleness in his words and lingering touch of his fingers against your skin.

“i know, but i still want to,”

“but you always ended up falling asleep before i get back, tesoro. you need your beauty sleep…—dream of something nice,” he murmured, a teasing tone slipping into his voice. “preferably me.”

he let out a tiny chuckle. and at this moment, you didn’t have it in you to playfully push back. too tired to argue, you turned in his arms to finally face him and just laughed it off, quietly enjoying this side of playful theo that seemed meant just for you.

“i promise, once all of these practices and matches are over, i’m all yours,” he said as his thumb brushed over your cheek. “then we can spend all the time we want together.”

you leaned into his touch without thinking with a small smile plastered on your face.

“promise?” you gazed up into his eyes, still feeling a little drowsy. 

“promise.” he whispered as he leaned in and connected his lips with yours together. you smiled slightly into the kiss, feeling every part of him on you before you both pulled away.

“goodnight, baby.”

boyfriend!theodore nott… who cleans you up every time you throw up in the toilet and carry you to bed after

boyfriend!theodore nott… who gladly accepts your extra affectionates and clinginess whenever you’re sick—needy cuddles, soft touches, small kisses on his chest, legs tangled under the sheets

boyfriend!theodore nott… who gets genuinely anxious when you’re not showing any signs of feeling better after a few days

boyfriend!theodore nott… who will go through his mother’s old recipe books to find the exact remedy tea she always used to make for him when he was younger

boyfriend!theodore nott… who feels his heart swelled with adoration, watching your sleepy eyes as you take your remedies

boyfriend!theodore nott… who refuses to attend any classes until you feels better

boyfriend!theodore nott… who wakes up early before you in the mornings to make your favourite breakfast in bed

“it’s not bland, darling. you’re just sick,” he said with a small grin on his lips before bringing another spoonful of your favorite soup to your mouth.

boyfriend!theodore nott… who only slips out of bed for a smoke when you’re asleep, returning all freshly cleaned up and tuck himself against you again

boyfriend!theodore nott… who speaks very carefully and softly as he caresses your hair while you lay on his chest

boyfriend!theodore nott… who lets you wear his sweaters and shirts just because you once said they make you feel better 

boyfriend!theodore nott… who finally gives in and watches your favorite silly muggle movies with you, secretly enjoying them more than he’d ever admit

boyfriend!theodore nott... who promises to bring you on a picnic date after you’re feeling better

boyfriend!theodore nott… who insists on kissing you on the mouth after your poor sickie attempt to push him away

“you’re going to get sick, teddy,” you said as he mindlessly pressed a kiss on your lips. “i don’t care. in fact, let me get sick so i can spend the rest of the day here with you.”

boyfriend!theodore nott… who holds you close to him in bed for endless cuddles

boyfriend!theodore nott... who wishes he could take all your pain into himself the second he notices tears threatening to fall in your eyes

boyfriend!theodore nott… who takes your hands in his larger ones and massage them for comfort while he tells you stories from his childhood with his mom

boyfriend!theodore nott… who leans in and murmur sweet nothings before pressing peppered kisses to your cheeks, chin, nose, forehead, and finally your lips

“i’ve got you... i’m not going anywhere,” / “feel better soon, bella,” / “you gets so adorable when you’re sick,” / “tell me where it hurts,” / “wish i could take it away from you, baby”

boyfriend!theodore nott… who watches as you drifted to dreamland and kisses your forehead every night

boyfriend!theodore nott… who wakes up coughing with a flushed red nose, sneezing over and over again while instinctively reaching for you

boyfriend!theodore nott… who falls ill right after you’re healed just so you can take care of him

✬༄ you had to explain to him patiently many times that you don’t always want sex when you touch him or do something nice for him.

✬༄ eventually he eases into the idea and gets more comfortable. Now, he’s not good with verbal comfort, as said before he didn’t grow up with it so he’s awkward with words. But he will do acts of service or physical touch with you to show you he loves you.

✬༄ he’s so gentle too. But only you though. He’s rough with anyone else. He’s passionate about you and will fight for you any way he has to.

Theodore nott

✬༄ he just needs a woman he feels safe with. And you do exactly that, making you remind him of his gorgeous mother he lost so long ago yet the grief still lingers solid.

✬༄ he probably taught you Italian if you don’t already know it, wanting you to be able to communicate with him in the language his mother taught him and loves. It means so much to him.

✬༄ Theo needs that reassurance so please touch him. Hand to his hair, hugging him, a kiss or 10, giving belly rubs or leaning against him. Anything. Your touch calms him down

✬༄ now, he’s so touch starved yet he hates being touched. It’s one of those things where he only wants to be touched by the one he loves and that one is you, babe.

✬༄ oh my goddd he loves it when you lay on him to sleep. Rather it’s just your head on his chest snugged into his side or your body on top of his with your face in his neck. He doesn’t care he just needs it to feel grounded.

✬༄ your scent is comforting to him too, not just your touch or presence. Everything about you screams ‘safe’ in his mind.

✬༄ he doesn’t mind showing casual affection in public either you as long as you’re comfortable with it. Hand holding, gentle yet warm hand in the small of your back, hand on waist or shoulder or a kiss occasionally. He just needs you like nicotine.

✬༄ he’s rough around the edges but his love and devotion towards you is one thing that’s never a question to him.

Draco Malfoy

✬༄ ugh, malfoy🫩

✬༄ mama’s boy, obviously. But it’s more of a slow burn for him.

✬༄ it takes a long while but let’s say you’re already in a relationship by this time. He will be more comfortable being affectionate with you or showing he cares;just in small ways

✬༄ in public, right before dating and even beginning of dating; hand holding with occasional gentle squeezes, soft glances though quick, a quick peck to the forehead before you go into your classroom (he often walks you to class). Little things like that. Subtle but there.

✬༄ when he’s more comfortable being affectionate let alone dating you, he becomes more vulnerable. I also believes he hates touch unless it’s his lifetime lover;you.

✬༄ now at first, like I said earlier, he’d be hesitant for showing you affection in public or even much interest in you simply because of his reputation as a malfoy and a snake. But that can’t stop him forever, and it sure didn’t for long.

✬༄ now he’s putty in your hands as you gently wipe his lip with a napkin to get the sauce there he missed, or how he sighs deeply in contentment every time you put your fingers in his hair at night after a long day as he hugs your waist and rest his head on your chest or stomach.

✬༄ he’s a hopeless, lovesick goner. But he can’t help but want more only from you. And damn right he’ll keep eating up your attention and affection as long as you keep feeding it to him. He might have to sometimes swallow his pride and beg for it though.

Lorenzo Berkshire

✬༄ tricky, but he’s a hardcore player dawg. That’s how I see him.

✬༄ but let’s say he magically became loyal once he started perusing you and eventually you both start dating.

✬༄ he’s completely gone for you despite his act of denying it, and you’re stupidly in love with the idiot, somehow,

✬༄ I really don’t see Enzo having an issue at all with affection. I don’t think his home life is as bad as the others but surely not the best. But despite him sleeping around so much, there’s never no connection, just satisfaction.

✬༄ so with you, he genuinely enjoys the bond between you two and how connected he feels with you before sexual encounters even come into play. He didn’t think it was possible but here he was.

✬༄ he’s a womanizer, but you unknowingly changed him for the better. Especially if you’re more bubbly you’re definitely a great influence on him and he kinda likes it. Oddly. It’s different and a little scary at first but he trusts you so much.

✬༄ he loves your touch and he loves touching you so it’s a win win. He doesn’t care if someone casually touches him, but he definitely refers yours.

✬༄ so overly smitten for you even he doesn’t know how or when it happened. But he can’t complain when you’re beautiful, his future wife, AND taught him there’s so much to life than sleeping around all the time. He craves your attention and loves and is so overly greedy for it it’s sickening. Almost.

"Tell me about it," you mumble, throwing the blanket off yourself as you swing your legs off the side of your bed to stand and move to the closet.

"I didn't see Johnny..." Mirren informs you, like you were Johnny's keeper and he'd gone missing (again). "But Cadence and Gat are at Clairmont, all smiley and exchanging their stupid notes. It's unbearable."

You pull coat hanger after coat hanger across the metal rod in the closet, but take in none of the options. Yellow and or white were the dresscode, as Johnny had told you months ago, when the plan was still for you to pack your own things instead of having items curated in a room for you. "Oh, remember something yellow for the lemon hunt. Gat wore red one year; it was a disaster between the moms," he noted, mindlessly tossing a tennis ball up just to fall right back in his skillful hands while horizontal on your bed. "Lemon hunt?" you repeated. "Yeah. Like, a hundred lemons are hidden around the island and whoever finds the most gets a prize. There's one lime too and there's a different prize for finding that," he explained. "Should I also pack a trust fund and ballroom dancing lessons?" you teased. He rolled his eyes at you once again pointing out the wealth gap — it having been made apparent once again — between your families, but was quickly and pleasantly distracted by you settling onto his lap; your favourite spot.

"What do I wear?" you ask in a droning tone, putting your forehead to the skirting around the open closet with exhaustion. Mirren jumps up from your yet to be (and it wouldn't be unless one of the staff make it while you're out) made bed to help you pick.

"This was even a question?" she rhetorically questions, pulling out a white dress, falling right above your knees in length, adorned in little lemons. You nod and take it from her, now digging in the drawers for what to wear underneath.

Clairmont was decorated to the high heavens, as it always was for events. It was one positive thing about the Sinclairs; they loved and committed to a theme. Staff carried out more and more lemon flavoured and decorated food to the table laid with a lemon printed tablecloth, walking down the aisle made with poles wrapped in yellow and white ribbon, the occasional leaf garland, leaf garlands that were overtaking the wooden beams of the gazebo.

Maya was here.

You'd only met Gat's mother a handful of times, but even she could recognise the bond between you and Gat, and for that, she loved you. She also had to be one of the biggest cheerleaders of you and Johnny's relationship.

Watching her behave with Cadence how Carrie did with you, Johnny— Gat trailing behind them with a smile, you wanted to scream at him, like he'd done something wrong. But he hadn't. And he wasn't who you were mad at, despite him being a cheating asshole this summer. And you weren't even sure you were mad so much as hurt.

"Do I really have to do this?" you ask Mirren at your first glimpse of Johnny in over a week. You could examine and work through the codependent nature of this at a later date, but right now, all you knew was you felt physical pain with how much you missed him.

"I mean, no," she answers. "You're not a Sinclair, no parent's forcing you to do anything here. I just think it'd be good for you to do something other than mope around about Johnny."

She wasn't wrong. That's all you'd been doing since the fight. However, in your defense, what else were you to do? Everything about this island was so Johnny. Golden sand like his hair, hair in waves like the water, water the same colour as his eyes. You could tell how his summers here defined and built who he was today.

Besides, you were still all upset about him. Now just in his view. And you didn't want that.

"You could be on my team?..." Mirren suggests. "Teams aren't really a thing but I never win anyway, so we'd just be walking around together and talking."

It makes you recall after you'd straddled Johnny's lap, snatched the tennis ball from the air and put it aside, felt his lips against your own filled with warm blood, he mumbled about you being on his team. What happened to that?

"No offence, Mirren," and you mean that, "but I only really want to talk to my boyfriend right now." You hated the girl you've become in the face of all of this. "And since I can't, I'm in a mood, and you don't deserve me in a mood."

She nods.

"I get that. And thanks."

"It's the bare minimum," you remark. "...I'm gonna head back to Windemere."

"Okay, I'll drop by later."

You start to walk off, but are called back by Penny.

"y/n! Come back for a moment!" You do as you're told. Her voice drops to a hush. "Where are you going?"

"Back to Windemere," you answer.

"Uh-uh, no, you're not," she denies. "I don't know the whole story, but I can tell more than you think. And no girl in my house is going to put her life on hold for a boy." It was confronting — obviously. More so coming from Penny. Her presence was strong, perfectly controlled. She was judgemental, and in a place to be, being the perfect Sinclair daughter and all. Beyond that in fact; the perfect woman — minus the cheating husband and subsequent divorce. But what woman in your life didn't have one if not both of those? So you were always high strung around her.

Since storm day night however, you felt like she had a soft spot for you.

You also knew you were a fool for believing such.

"What you've been doing isn't working. You've given him power of you — over your mood — therefore, satisfying his primal man need for it. So, no, you are not going back to Windemere. You are going to act as if nothing is wrong. It'll be uncomfortable, but it will yield results."

You feel no other option but to obey, nodding as Harris calls everyone's attention.

"Gather 'round, everyone!"

Everyone forms into a loose line; from your left to right, Maya, Gat, Cadence, Will, Johnny, Carrie, Penny, you, Mirren, Bess, Liberty, Bonnie.

Harris begins explaining "as usual" there are two hundred lemons and one lime hidden on the island.

"None on rooftops or in brambles!" Will chimes in, a rule Tipper always repeated to a mischievous younger Johnny. People chuckle and Johnny bumps Will with his arm. Just the sight of him makes you feel so many things, but you repeat nothing is wrong, nothing is wrong, act perfectly fine in your head.

"Those are the old rules," Harris corrects. "This time, all's fair. No rules." You gather from the line of knitted brows that this is unusual — even for them. Harris snaps his fingers and staff brings you all lemon themed fabric lined baskets with bows of yellow and or white ribbon around the handle. "Now, for the prizes. The one who finds the most lemons..."As you remember Johnny explaining, the prizes were boring. Fudge, bookstore giftcards— "will win the Boston house."

Maya chokes on her edible orchid and it's awfully appropriate.

Everyone's stunned into silence.

"And should you find the lime, I will name you the sole recipient... of Beechwood — upon my death."

Penny and Bess express everyone's disbelief and belief Harris is joking.

He doesn't retract his statement.

"We'll start on my signal. And you'll know it when you hear it. And for now...enjoy the food."

You would be lying if you said the consumables covering the table didn't pique your fancy, but he'd just dropped real estate like this is the game Monopoly.

Individual chatter picks up again, Mirren giving you a glance she was going off to find Ebon, Penny calling for Cadence, and Will tugging at your hand to come play croquet with him. You don't know how to play croquet. You amuse him, letting him teach you though it goes in one ear and out the other as you focus on eavesdropping on Carrie and Johnny's conversation.

After a startling gunshot, the Sinclairs are running around like chickens with their heads cut off. You take a walk; not actively participating but not unengaged. It's not like you were trying to win at all, you just needed something to do in the name of keeping up the normal, occupied, unbothered act.

You pass two lemons just lying in the slightly overgrown grass, something that would be fixed tomorrow. Nothing was ever not perfect on Beechwood for over a day. Appearance wise at least.

Strolling past tiny beach, the memories crash over you like the waves on the shore and reality hits you again that you are — in fact — not normal and very bothered.

You duck into Cuddledown for refuge, hiding your upset from the world outside Mirren's bedroom.

"Money in the bank, put it right there. Thank you."

Johnny's voice.

He's on the balcony with the Littles in a line.

Frozen in place, spear through your gut seemingly pinned into the wall behind you, you watch, and quickly put together he was bribing them. Of course he was! It was cute in its own way. You smiled for the first time in days (at something other than at Mirren's jokes).

The three kids run off and Johnny's sweeping look around spots you. Inside Cuddledown.

You try to hurry up the stairs before he can catch you but you're too slow.

"Hey!" he calls. You stop in place on the fifth step. "Do you uh," he pats his hand onto the stairs handrail, "know what a sacrificial altar knife is? And should a twelve year old have one?" You gather that was Bonnie's price for her lemons. Did he want your two? He was no stranger taking your firsts — first kiss, first boyfriend, first time, first lemon hunt lemons; it wouldn't be out of the ordinary. Your mind's blank on anything to say. That's another first. He was on a roll. All your body allows you to do is take another step, so you do. "Good to see Mirren's officially stolen my girlfriend," he jokes, tone pathetic? bitter? You would be the authority on such.

"Yeah, almost like when you abandon your girlfriend, she'll find solace in her friend," you sardonically reply, spinning around to face him at the bottom of the stairs, squeezing the handle of your basket tighter.

You didn't want to speak to Johnny like that, but you couldn't have withstood another second of silence on your part, back facing him.

He nods acceptingly, knowing he deserves your attitude with the way he's been acting.

You pull your thoughts together for what to say after that.

"You've been a dick."

Talk about eloquent.

"I have. ...I'm a stupid fuck."

You don't deny it.

However, a self loathing him didn't make an upset you feel any better.

"Hey. That's my boyfriend you're talking about," you respond, being begrudgingly lighthearted.

He huffs a chuckle like exhaling his bated breath, and you step down a stair.

"He's been doing a pretty shit job on the boyfriend front though lately..." he admits, his eyes on his large hand still on the wooden rail.

"Yeah, well, I haven't been an astounding girlfriend recently either..." you confess, coming to take a seat on the stair you just stood on, basket on your lap.

"And that's my fault."

"Yes and no. I could've communicated earlier."

"You wouldn't have had to if I didn't get unrightfully mad at you," he points out, slowly ascending the stairs to you.

"True."

"So, now that we are talking," he starts, moving to sit beside you (you scoot aside for him to fit), "talk to me."

"What do you want me to say? I've been moping around like some male centered loser?"

"Doesn't sound like you," he shakes his head.

He wasn't wrong there. But it was him. The exception to your almost every rule. Only he could have you like that. And maybe that's what Penny didn't understand, not knowing you outside of Johnny; it was only Johnny.

"Exactly."

"But you know what I mean. Scold me for being a dick. It'll make you feel better," he insists.

"Do you think I get off on being mean to you?"

"I'd rather you be mean to me than say nothing at all. I like your voice."

"So you get off on me being mean to you?" you jokingly accuse. He shrugs.

"Angry you is hot. Why do you think I always want you after your debates?"

You roll your eyes with a smile.

"Really not the time or place, Johnny."

"Right."

"...Do you really want me to rant at you? Because I do think it would help."

You can tell he's proud of himself for knowing you so well with his previous statement, but also knows you'd probably slap him upside the head if he tried to brag right now. So he just nods.

"Yeah. Shoot."

You take a deep breath as you think of how to word it all without sounding like a rambling list, turning to face him, together knees now against the side of his thigh.

You can't. You can't articulate it.

You never could when it came to things surrounding Johnny. Maybe because there was something so instinctual about your relationship with him — something so fundamental. They'd find his fingerprints on your heart during an autopsy one day.

When you come up blank for an argument, your head drops to his shoulder with a whined "we're on break, don't make me be smart." He laughs, wrapping his arm around you and pressing a kiss to the top of your hair.

"Got it," he accepts. "But, I don't know how to tell you this, you're always smart?" You roll your eyes again.

"But I get complaining rights when I can word it!" you jump back up straight with. Johnny groans, head rolling back, before returning upright.

"Fine."

"Perfect."

"...Still wanna be on my lemon hunt team?"

You're overwhelmed with his gesture of remembering and referencing such that you can't think of anything else to do than...

"I love you," you profess, grabbing his face to pull it into a kiss. Johnny shoves his sudden surprise aside instantly for your lips. Lips he'd live and die for, lips that left a cherry coloured tint on his more often than not, lips only he'd kissed and only he got to — you liked that fact more than he did.

"I love you too..." he smiles into the kiss when he can manage words, eyes rolled back behind his closed eyelids from such an intoxicating simple pleasure.

You withdraw and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand to ask, "was there any point during us not talking that you thought we'd break up?"

His brows furrow as he recalls, then he shakes his head.

"No...why?"

"I didn't either."

"I mean, there were times I thought you'd want to break up with me, but I never thought that we actually would."

"I didn't think that once. Is that weird?"

"Weird or not, we're not breaking up, so it's fine by me," Johnny declares.

"Oh, and let me guess, the glass is half full?" you tease.

"From here right now?" he questions, eyes adoringly sweeping over you, "hell yeah." Heat rises to your cheeks and you playfully shove him with your left hand, right lifting your basket, as you come to stand back up to distract from it.

"Are you trying to win the lemon hunt or not? Because right now it doesn't even look like you're playing and it'd be really embarrassing to lose the first year I'm here to watch it," you lightheartedly tell him.

"Oh, I'm winning," he affirms, pushing himself off the stair to stand face to face with you.

"Really?"

"In more ways than one, baby," he adds with a peck on your lips before skipping down the stairs. He's so cheesy. "You coming?"

You nod, following him out of Cuddledown.

"Soooo!" you start, swinging your basket back and forth, making the two lemons roll in the fabric lined basket's inside. "What are you willing to bribe me with for my lemons?"

"My incredible personality and endless charisma?"

"That might have been enough for me to start dating you but my lemons come far more expensive," you joke.

"Well, I don't know what else to offer," Johnny forfeits. "I'm basically bribing you to stay in a relationship with me all the time, so does that work?" You roll your eyes.

"I wish I was only here by bribes; I actually love you," you sarcastically confess, "which is so much more emotionally exhausted—"

"Cut it out, aye?" he requests with his elbow nudging your side.

"About how loving you consumes me whole? No, no I don't think I will."

As you approach Clairmont, Johnny spots Mirren climbing a tree for a lemon and runs off for a tennis racket — no further explanation — leaving you to your lone devices once again. You abandon your basket, you didn't care for the lemon hunt anyway, and run to Windemere. A race up the stairs and swift change in some swimwear later, you're sprinting down to tiny beach.

You needed that aquatic tranquility again; a water break, away from everyone and everything.

Wading into the waves lapping at your thighs, you're appalled you took these dips for granted, not indulging in them when you very well could've and might as well have been the last few bland weeks. For the first time today (and the past weeks), a deep breath is able to enter your lungs and satisfies them.

Floating on the sparkling surface, the Liars call for you from the shore.

Johnny: "y/n/n!"

Gat: "y/n!"

Mirren: "y/n/nn!"

Cadence: "y/n!"

The sight of them in something Mirren would paint; all yellow clad, arms around each other, looking out at the water, from the perspective of the ocean.

You swim back in and take the towel Gat hands you.

"What happened while I was out there?" you question, all of them enjoying the others' presence when no less than an hour ago, they were at each other's throats. Was I in tiny beach that long?

"We fought over a lemon, Gat found the lime, then he gave one of his speeches, but... this one...actually did something," Johnny tells you, thankful glance to Gat as he finished.

"Harris wants us miserable and we're not giving him what he wants, so we're giving Gat all our lemons to return with," Cadence explains. You nod.

"Where was the lime?" you ask Gat.

"In Harris' office. He was never going to give up Beechwood."

"Duh."

"Have any lemons you'd like to add to the bajillion we've already piled in Gat's basket?" Mirren inquires, perky voice having returned.

"I kinda already may have stolen the lemons y/n had in her basket..." Johnny admits.

"Wouldn't be out of the ordinary," you shrug.

The Liars usual banter is a breath of fresh air on your walk back to Windemere for you to re-dress, and outside your door as you change. Except Johnny, who you yanked into the room with you.

"They were really on the nose with some of the clothes they bought you, huh?" Johnny comments, holding up your dress as you adjusted how your bra sat.

"I don't know if I should be worried my boyfriend didn't take the chance to watch me strip off," you lightheartedly mention, snatching your dress from him.

"What can I say? I'm a matured man," he claims, eyes locked on your chest as you gather your dress and pull it over your head.

"Sure."

Drying your hair off with the towel, you think about why Harris would have an office on Beechwood if this is where they vacation? He was rich; it's not like he needed to keep working. And, if he kept the lime in there to torture everyone under his rule, what else did he keep?

What had to be kept in a secret office on a private island?

"Is it weird that I now want to look through more of Harris' office?" you ask.

"Yeah," Johnny replies. "It's just a bunch of paperwork and old copies of the New Yorker."

"Have you ever been in there?"

"No, 'cause it'd be boring."

"Then you can't say anything for certain," you respond, brushing through your wet hair to be somewhat presentable back at Clairmont when the Liars did their big fuck you to Harris. And all the attention would be on them... "Do you want me to be there when you do the thing with the lemons?" you inquire, turned around to face him. Johnny shrugs.

"A little but not if you don't want to."

"I want to snoop through Harris' office and, since everyone will be focus on you guys, I shouldn't get caught and therefore in trouble," you reason, walking over to him on your bed, dropping down beside him.

"Alright," Johnny agrees, pushing himself up to stand, extending a hand back to help you up. "Make sure you tell me all the knee slappers you read in the old man's newspapers," he teases as you take his hand and join him upright.

You vaguely make out Harris call the Liars clever, attributing it to Sinclair genes, through the wall as you twist open his office doorknob and ease it shut behind you.

The office was immaculate and more like a display living room than a place of work. Only his desk and the set of drawers behind it indicated it was an office.

You push his open laptop closed from behind, just in case the webcam was on, then move around the desk for its drawers, top right one locked. Till you find the key, your search through the others five.

Tipper's funeral paperwork, old letters detailing nothing interesting, business, business, and more business, a photograph from 1985 of Harris, Tipper, Carrie, Penny, Bess, and a little girl. Not the cousin Penny told you had gone her own way; there's no way she grew as much as she did between this photo and the other you saw of her in 1987, and why would a cousin be included with just Harris and Tipper?

You place everything back just as it was and begin the search for the key to the top drawer.

It's not under books or under his desk, or under anything. Not behind books or shelves, but a portrait of young Tipper. Pre children Tipper to be specific. The lock flicks undone, movement felt through the silver blade and black plastic covered bow (bit cheap for Harris Sinclair), and you pull the handle.

His working will.

You lift out the papers to read it.

So far, Cadence got Beechwood, Carrie got a six monthly stipend of eight hundred thousand dollars as long as she remained unmarried and in the event she did marry (especially Ed Patil), she'd be cut off. Penny got the same as Carrie, same "must stay unmarried rule" too, and Bess gets the Boston house.

That's why Carrie broke up with Ed.

You put the papers back how they were and relock the drawer, re-hiding the key too.

The unit behind Harris' desk is just what Johnny said: old copies of the New Yorker, and paperwork, for company buildings built decades ago, dentist billings regarding a Caroline Sinclair's jaw surgery in 1986, staff paychecks in 2008, Red Gate's original clearance, basically anything that has had documentation in Harris' lifetime.

You lift another sheet of legal jargon, expecting only to find more underneath, but there's letters.

From a Buddy Kopelnick to Harris Sinclair.

Discussing camping trips.

And calling Carrie "his daughter."

Repeatedly.

Considering the common Re:, and his tone in the letters, you rule out him being some delusional stranger. This was a family friend, or something close to it.

With the recollection that Clairmont had wifi unlike anywhere else on the island, you whip out your phone and google Buddy Kopelnick.

There's very little, but there's a family member's facebook post with his image.

His jaw is identical to a pre surgery Carrie's.

Carrie wasn't a tall, strong jawed Sinclair at all.

Meaning...neither was Johnny, or Will.

"Baby," Johnny whispers from the door, making you shutter in place and racing to clear your open apps. "Do I need to get better at not jumpscaring you or do you need to get better at not being jumpscared?" he playfully questions, voice quiet as he comes to join you closing the unit drawer.

"Bit of both," you answer. Nothing is wrong, nothing is wrong, act perfectly fine.

"Find anything?" he asks, arm around your shoulders as you walk out. You stop to reopen Harris' laptop then shake your head.

"Just a bunch of old copies of the New Yorker."

You see the lemons across the table and floor in the grand room on your way out. Mirren was right; there was like bajillion of them.

"How did the lemon thing go?" Johnny sucks in a deep breath.

"Harris declared the prizes void since Gat was winning them and gave him an interview back in New York the morning after next." He doesn't look at you as he delivers such news, just moving forward on the perimeter path.

"Wait, so, Gat's leaving?" Johnny nods.

You were right back on the fourth of July. Ed leaving meant you and Gat were next.

a/n: getting through this installment was genuine hell so I don't care if parts come across rushed or like filler or whatever because I just needed it to be over

"Tell me about it," you mumble, throwing the blanket off yourself as you swing your legs off the side of your bed to stand and move to the closet.

"I didn't see Johnny..." Mirren informs you, like you were Johnny's keeper and he'd gone missing (again). "But Cadence and Gat are at Clairmont, all smiley and exchanging their stupid notes. It's unbearable."

You pull coat hanger after coat hanger across the metal rod in the closet, but take in none of the options. Yellow and or white were the dresscode, as Johnny had told you months ago, when the plan was still for you to pack your own things instead of having items curated in a room for you. "Oh, remember something yellow for the lemon hunt. Gat wore red one year; it was a disaster between the moms," he noted, mindlessly tossing a tennis ball up just to fall right back in his skillful hands while horizontal on your bed. "Lemon hunt?" you repeated. "Yeah. Like, a hundred lemons are hidden around the island and whoever finds the most gets a prize. There's one lime too and there's a different prize for finding that," he explained. "Should I also pack a trust fund and ballroom dancing lessons?" you teased. He rolled his eyes at you once again pointing out the wealth gap — it having been made apparent once again — between your families, but was quickly and pleasantly distracted by you settling onto his lap; your favourite spot.

"What do I wear?" you ask in a droning tone, putting your forehead to the skirting around the open closet with exhaustion. Mirren jumps up from your yet to be (and it wouldn't be unless one of the staff make it while you're out) made bed to help you pick.

"This was even a question?" she rhetorically questions, pulling out a white dress, falling right above your knees in length, adorned in little lemons. You nod and take it from her, now digging in the drawers for what to wear underneath.

Clairmont was decorated to the high heavens, as it always was for events. It was one positive thing about the Sinclairs; they loved and committed to a theme. Staff carried out more and more lemon flavoured and decorated food to the table laid with a lemon printed tablecloth, walking down the aisle made with poles wrapped in yellow and white ribbon, the occasional leaf garland, leaf garlands that were overtaking the wooden beams of the gazebo.

Maya was here.

You'd only met Gat's mother a handful of times, but even she could recognise the bond between you and Gat, and for that, she loved you. She also had to be one of the biggest cheerleaders of you and Johnny's relationship.

Watching her behave with Cadence how Carrie did with you, Johnny— Gat trailing behind them with a smile, you wanted to scream at him, like he'd done something wrong. But he hadn't. And he wasn't who you were mad at, despite him being a cheating asshole this summer. And you weren't even sure you were mad so much as hurt.

"Do I really have to do this?" you ask Mirren at your first glimpse of Johnny in over a week. You could examine and work through the codependent nature of this at a later date, but right now, all you knew was you felt physical pain with how much you missed him.

"I mean, no," she answers. "You're not a Sinclair, no parent's forcing you to do anything here. I just think it'd be good for you to do something other than mope around about Johnny."

She wasn't wrong. That's all you'd been doing since the fight. However, in your defense, what else were you to do? Everything about this island was so Johnny. Golden sand like his hair, hair in waves like the water, water the same colour as his eyes. You could tell how his summers here defined and built who he was today.

Besides, you were still all upset about him. Now just in his view. And you didn't want that.

"You could be on my team?..." Mirren suggests. "Teams aren't really a thing but I never win anyway, so we'd just be walking around together and talking."

It makes you recall after you'd straddled Johnny's lap, snatched the tennis ball from the air and put it aside, felt his lips against your own filled with warm blood, he mumbled about you being on his team. What happened to that?

"No offence, Mirren," and you mean that, "but I only really want to talk to my boyfriend right now." You hated the girl you've become in the face of all of this. "And since I can't, I'm in a mood, and you don't deserve me in a mood."

She nods.

"I get that. And thanks."

"It's the bare minimum," you remark. "...I'm gonna head back to Windemere."

"Okay, I'll drop by later."

You start to walk off, but are called back by Penny.

"y/n! Come back for a moment!" You do as you're told. Her voice drops to a hush. "Where are you going?"

"Back to Windemere," you answer.

"Uh-uh, no, you're not," she denies. "I don't know the whole story, but I can tell more than you think. And no girl in my house is going to put her life on hold for a boy." It was confronting — obviously. More so coming from Penny. Her presence was strong, perfectly controlled. She was judgemental, and in a place to be, being the perfect Sinclair daughter and all. Beyond that in fact; the perfect woman — minus the cheating husband and subsequent divorce. But what woman in your life didn't have one if not both of those? So you were always high strung around her.

Since storm day night however, you felt like she had a soft spot for you.

You also knew you were a fool for believing such.

"What you've been doing isn't working. You've given him power of you — over your mood — therefore, satisfying his primal man need for it. So, no, you are not going back to Windemere. You are going to act as if nothing is wrong. It'll be uncomfortable, but it will yield results."

You feel no other option but to obey, nodding as Harris calls everyone's attention.

"Gather 'round, everyone!"

Everyone forms into a loose line; from your left to right, Maya, Gat, Cadence, Will, Johnny, Carrie, Penny, you, Mirren, Bess, Liberty, Bonnie.

Harris begins explaining "as usual" there are two hundred lemons and one lime hidden on the island.

"None on rooftops or in brambles!" Will chimes in, a rule Tipper always repeated to a mischievous younger Johnny. People chuckle and Johnny bumps Will with his arm. Just the sight of him makes you feel so many things, but you repeat nothing is wrong, nothing is wrong, act perfectly fine in your head.

"Those are the old rules," Harris corrects. "This time, all's fair. No rules." You gather from the line of knitted brows that this is unusual — even for them. Harris snaps his fingers and staff brings you all lemon themed fabric lined baskets with bows of yellow and or white ribbon around the handle. "Now, for the prizes. The one who finds the most lemons..."As you remember Johnny explaining, the prizes were boring. Fudge, bookstore giftcards— "will win the Boston house."

Maya chokes on her edible orchid and it's awfully appropriate.

Everyone's stunned into silence.

"And should you find the lime, I will name you the sole recipient... of Beechwood — upon my death."

Penny and Bess express everyone's disbelief and belief Harris is joking.

He doesn't retract his statement.

"We'll start on my signal. And you'll know it when you hear it. And for now...enjoy the food."

You would be lying if you said the consumables covering the table didn't pique your fancy, but he'd just dropped real estate like this is the game Monopoly.

Individual chatter picks up again, Mirren giving you a glance she was going off to find Ebon, Penny calling for Cadence, and Will tugging at your hand to come play croquet with him. You don't know how to play croquet. You amuse him, letting him teach you though it goes in one ear and out the other as you focus on eavesdropping on Carrie and Johnny's conversation.

After a startling gunshot, the Sinclairs are running around like chickens with their heads cut off. You take a walk; not actively participating but not unengaged. It's not like you were trying to win at all, you just needed something to do in the name of keeping up the normal, occupied, unbothered act.

You pass two lemons just lying in the slightly overgrown grass, something that would be fixed tomorrow. Nothing was ever not perfect on Beechwood for over a day. Appearance wise at least.

Strolling past tiny beach, the memories crash over you like the waves on the shore and reality hits you again that you are — in fact — not normal and very bothered.

You duck into Cuddledown for refuge, hiding your upset from the world outside Mirren's bedroom.

"Money in the bank, put it right there. Thank you."

Johnny's voice.

He's on the balcony with the Littles in a line.

Frozen in place, spear through your gut seemingly pinned into the wall behind you, you watch, and quickly put together he was bribing them. Of course he was! It was cute in its own way. You smiled for the first time in days (at something other than at Mirren's jokes).

The three kids run off and Johnny's sweeping look around spots you. Inside Cuddledown.

You try to hurry up the stairs before he can catch you but you're too slow.

"Hey!" he calls. You stop in place on the fifth step. "Do you uh," he pats his hand onto the stairs handrail, "know what a sacrificial altar knife is? And should a twelve year old have one?" You gather that was Bonnie's price for her lemons. Did he want your two? He was no stranger taking your firsts — first kiss, first boyfriend, first time, first lemon hunt lemons; it wouldn't be out of the ordinary. Your mind's blank on anything to say. That's another first. He was on a roll. All your body allows you to do is take another step, so you do. "Good to see Mirren's officially stolen my girlfriend," he jokes, tone pathetic? bitter? You would be the authority on such.

"Yeah, almost like when you abandon your girlfriend, she'll find solace in her friend," you sardonically reply, spinning around to face him at the bottom of the stairs, squeezing the handle of your basket tighter.

You didn't want to speak to Johnny like that, but you couldn't have withstood another second of silence on your part, back facing him.

He nods acceptingly, knowing he deserves your attitude with the way he's been acting.

You pull your thoughts together for what to say after that.

"You've been a dick."

Talk about eloquent.

"I have. ...I'm a stupid fuck."

You don't deny it.

However, a self loathing him didn't make an upset you feel any better.

"Hey. That's my boyfriend you're talking about," you respond, being begrudgingly lighthearted.

He huffs a chuckle like exhaling his bated breath, and you step down a stair.

"He's been doing a pretty shit job on the boyfriend front though lately..." he admits, his eyes on his large hand still on the wooden rail.

"Yeah, well, I haven't been an astounding girlfriend recently either..." you confess, coming to take a seat on the stair you just stood on, basket on your lap.

"And that's my fault."

"Yes and no. I could've communicated earlier."

"You wouldn't have had to if I didn't get unrightfully mad at you," he points out, slowly ascending the stairs to you.

"True."

"So, now that we are talking," he starts, moving to sit beside you (you scoot aside for him to fit), "talk to me."

"What do you want me to say? I've been moping around like some male centered loser?"

"Doesn't sound like you," he shakes his head.

He wasn't wrong there. But it was him. The exception to your almost every rule. Only he could have you like that. And maybe that's what Penny didn't understand, not knowing you outside of Johnny; it was only Johnny.

"Exactly."

"But you know what I mean. Scold me for being a dick. It'll make you feel better," he insists.

"Do you think I get off on being mean to you?"

"I'd rather you be mean to me than say nothing at all. I like your voice."

"So you get off on me being mean to you?" you jokingly accuse. He shrugs.

"Angry you is hot. Why do you think I always want you after your debates?"

You roll your eyes with a smile.

"Really not the time or place, Johnny."

"Right."

"...Do you really want me to rant at you? Because I do think it would help."

You can tell he's proud of himself for knowing you so well with his previous statement, but also knows you'd probably slap him upside the head if he tried to brag right now. So he just nods.

"Yeah. Shoot."

You take a deep breath as you think of how to word it all without sounding like a rambling list, turning to face him, together knees now against the side of his thigh.

You can't. You can't articulate it.

You never could when it came to things surrounding Johnny. Maybe because there was something so instinctual about your relationship with him — something so fundamental. They'd find his fingerprints on your heart during an autopsy one day.

When you come up blank for an argument, your head drops to his shoulder with a whined "we're on break, don't make me be smart." He laughs, wrapping his arm around you and pressing a kiss to the top of your hair.

"Got it," he accepts. "But, I don't know how to tell you this, you're always smart?" You roll your eyes again.

"But I get complaining rights when I can word it!" you jump back up straight with. Johnny groans, head rolling back, before returning upright.

"Fine."

"Perfect."

"...Still wanna be on my lemon hunt team?"

You're overwhelmed with his gesture of remembering and referencing such that you can't think of anything else to do than...

"I love you," you profess, grabbing his face to pull it into a kiss. Johnny shoves his sudden surprise aside instantly for your lips. Lips he'd live and die for, lips that left a cherry coloured tint on his more often than not, lips only he'd kissed and only he got to — you liked that fact more than he did.

"I love you too..." he smiles into the kiss when he can manage words, eyes rolled back behind his closed eyelids from such an intoxicating simple pleasure.

You withdraw and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand to ask, "was there any point during us not talking that you thought we'd break up?"

His brows furrow as he recalls, then he shakes his head.

"No...why?"

"I didn't either."

"I mean, there were times I thought you'd want to break up with me, but I never thought that we actually would."

"I didn't think that once. Is that weird?"

"Weird or not, we're not breaking up, so it's fine by me," Johnny declares.

"Oh, and let me guess, the glass is half full?" you tease.

"From here right now?" he questions, eyes adoringly sweeping over you, "hell yeah." Heat rises to your cheeks and you playfully shove him with your left hand, right lifting your basket, as you come to stand back up to distract from it.

"Are you trying to win the lemon hunt or not? Because right now it doesn't even look like you're playing and it'd be really embarrassing to lose the first year I'm here to watch it," you lightheartedly tell him.

"Oh, I'm winning," he affirms, pushing himself off the stair to stand face to face with you.

"Really?"

"In more ways than one, baby," he adds with a peck on your lips before skipping down the stairs. He's so cheesy. "You coming?"

You nod, following him out of Cuddledown.

"Soooo!" you start, swinging your basket back and forth, making the two lemons roll in the fabric lined basket's inside. "What are you willing to bribe me with for my lemons?"

"My incredible personality and endless charisma?"

"That might have been enough for me to start dating you but my lemons come far more expensive," you joke.

"Well, I don't know what else to offer," Johnny forfeits. "I'm basically bribing you to stay in a relationship with me all the time, so does that work?" You roll your eyes.

"I wish I was only here by bribes; I actually love you," you sarcastically confess, "which is so much more emotionally exhausted—"

"Cut it out, aye?" he requests with his elbow nudging your side.

"About how loving you consumes me whole? No, no I don't think I will."

As you approach Clairmont, Johnny spots Mirren climbing a tree for a lemon and runs off for a tennis racket — no further explanation — leaving you to your lone devices once again. You abandon your basket, you didn't care for the lemon hunt anyway, and run to Windemere. A race up the stairs and swift change in some swimwear later, you're sprinting down to tiny beach.

You needed that aquatic tranquility again; a water break, away from everyone and everything.

Wading into the waves lapping at your thighs, you're appalled you took these dips for granted, not indulging in them when you very well could've and might as well have been the last few bland weeks. For the first time today (and the past weeks), a deep breath is able to enter your lungs and satisfies them.

Floating on the sparkling surface, the Liars call for you from the shore.

Johnny: "y/n/n!"

Gat: "y/n!"

Mirren: "y/n/nn!"

Cadence: "y/n!"

The sight of them in something Mirren would paint; all yellow clad, arms around each other, looking out at the water, from the perspective of the ocean.

You swim back in and take the towel Gat hands you.

"What happened while I was out there?" you question, all of them enjoying the others' presence when no less than an hour ago, they were at each other's throats. Was I in tiny beach that long?

"We fought over a lemon, Gat found the lime, then he gave one of his speeches, but... this one...actually did something," Johnny tells you, thankful glance to Gat as he finished.

"Harris wants us miserable and we're not giving him what he wants, so we're giving Gat all our lemons to return with," Cadence explains. You nod.

"Where was the lime?" you ask Gat.

"In Harris' office. He was never going to give up Beechwood."

"Duh."

"Have any lemons you'd like to add to the bajillion we've already piled in Gat's basket?" Mirren inquires, perky voice having returned.

"I kinda already may have stolen the lemons y/n had in her basket..." Johnny admits.

"Wouldn't be out of the ordinary," you shrug.

The Liars usual banter is a breath of fresh air on your walk back to Windemere for you to re-dress, and outside your door as you change. Except Johnny, who you yanked into the room with you.

"They were really on the nose with some of the clothes they bought you, huh?" Johnny comments, holding up your dress as you adjusted how your bra sat.

"I don't know if I should be worried my boyfriend didn't take the chance to watch me strip off," you lightheartedly mention, snatching your dress from him.

"What can I say? I'm a matured man," he claims, eyes locked on your chest as you gather your dress and pull it over your head.

"Sure."

Drying your hair off with the towel, you think about why Harris would have an office on Beechwood if this is where they vacation? He was rich; it's not like he needed to keep working. And, if he kept the lime in there to torture everyone under his rule, what else did he keep?

What had to be kept in a secret office on a private island?

"Is it weird that I now want to look through more of Harris' office?" you ask.

"Yeah," Johnny replies. "It's just a bunch of paperwork and old copies of the New Yorker."

"Have you ever been in there?"

"No, 'cause it'd be boring."

"Then you can't say anything for certain," you respond, brushing through your wet hair to be somewhat presentable back at Clairmont when the Liars did their big fuck you to Harris. And all the attention would be on them... "Do you want me to be there when you do the thing with the lemons?" you inquire, turned around to face him. Johnny shrugs.

"A little but not if you don't want to."

"I want to snoop through Harris' office and, since everyone will be focus on you guys, I shouldn't get caught and therefore in trouble," you reason, walking over to him on your bed, dropping down beside him.

"Alright," Johnny agrees, pushing himself up to stand, extending a hand back to help you up. "Make sure you tell me all the knee slappers you read in the old man's newspapers," he teases as you take his hand and join him upright.

You vaguely make out Harris call the Liars clever, attributing it to Sinclair genes, through the wall as you twist open his office doorknob and ease it shut behind you.

The office was immaculate and more like a display living room than a place of work. Only his desk and the set of drawers behind it indicated it was an office.

You push his open laptop closed from behind, just in case the webcam was on, then move around the desk for its drawers, top right one locked. Till you find the key, your search through the others five.

Tipper's funeral paperwork, old letters detailing nothing interesting, business, business, and more business, a photograph from 1985 of Harris, Tipper, Carrie, Penny, Bess, and a little girl. Not the cousin Penny told you had gone her own way; there's no way she grew as much as she did between this photo and the other you saw of her in 1987, and why would a cousin be included with just Harris and Tipper?

You place everything back just as it was and begin the search for the key to the top drawer.

It's not under books or under his desk, or under anything. Not behind books or shelves, but a portrait of young Tipper. Pre children Tipper to be specific. The lock flicks undone, movement felt through the silver blade and black plastic covered bow (bit cheap for Harris Sinclair), and you pull the handle.

His working will.

You lift out the papers to read it.

So far, Cadence got Beechwood, Carrie got a six monthly stipend of eight hundred thousand dollars as long as she remained unmarried and in the event she did marry (especially Ed Patil), she'd be cut off. Penny got the same as Carrie, same "must stay unmarried rule" too, and Bess gets the Boston house.

That's why Carrie broke up with Ed.

You put the papers back how they were and relock the drawer, re-hiding the key too.

The unit behind Harris' desk is just what Johnny said: old copies of the New Yorker, and paperwork, for company buildings built decades ago, dentist billings regarding a Caroline Sinclair's jaw surgery in 1986, staff paychecks in 2008, Red Gate's original clearance, basically anything that has had documentation in Harris' lifetime.

You lift another sheet of legal jargon, expecting only to find more underneath, but there's letters.

From a Buddy Kopelnick to Harris Sinclair.

Discussing camping trips.

And calling Carrie "his daughter."

Repeatedly.

Considering the common Re:, and his tone in the letters, you rule out him being some delusional stranger. This was a family friend, or something close to it.

With the recollection that Clairmont had wifi unlike anywhere else on the island, you whip out your phone and google Buddy Kopelnick.

There's very little, but there's a family member's facebook post with his image.

His jaw is identical to a pre surgery Carrie's.

Carrie wasn't a tall, strong jawed Sinclair at all.

Meaning...neither was Johnny, or Will.

"Baby," Johnny whispers from the door, making you shutter in place and racing to clear your open apps. "Do I need to get better at not jumpscaring you or do you need to get better at not being jumpscared?" he playfully questions, voice quiet as he comes to join you closing the unit drawer.

"Bit of both," you answer. Nothing is wrong, nothing is wrong, act perfectly fine.

"Find anything?" he asks, arm around your shoulders as you walk out. You stop to reopen Harris' laptop then shake your head.

"Just a bunch of old copies of the New Yorker."

You see the lemons across the table and floor in the grand room on your way out. Mirren was right; there was like bajillion of them.

"How did the lemon thing go?" Johnny sucks in a deep breath.

"Harris declared the prizes void since Gat was winning them and gave him an interview back in New York the morning after next." He doesn't look at you as he delivers such news, just moving forward on the perimeter path.

"Wait, so, Gat's leaving?" Johnny nods.

You were right back on the fourth of July. Ed leaving meant you and Gat were next.

a/n: getting through this installment was genuine hell so I don't care if parts come across rushed or like filler or whatever because I just needed it to be over