I was rewatching the summer I turned pretty and I got inspired to make this fic but put a spin into it
The air was thick with it charcoal smoke curling from the grill, citronella candles sputtering against the humidity, the overlapping symphony of a dozen conversations spilling from the back porch into the deepening July twilight. I was elbow-deep in a cooler of sweating beer bottles when my mother's voice sliced through the noise, bright and imperative as a bell.
"Y/N! The Raj's are here!"
My stomach did that thing again. That inconvenient, traitorous lurch I'd spent the better part of a decade trying to train out of myself. A Pavlovian response, pure and simple. Lara Raj and I had been a packaged deal since before we could tie our own shoes our mothers' friendship a force of nature that had swept us through sandcastle competitions, disastrous family road trips, and the particular mortification of adolescence spent in too-close proximity to someone who'd seen you at your absolute worst.
By the time I'd wiped my palms on my shorts and made my way to the driveway, the welcoming committee was already in full swing. Mr. Raj, beaming as always, was clasping my father's hand in that warm, two-handed grip of his. Mrs. Raj was locked in a tight embrace with my mother, their laughter bright and familiar. Rhea had cornered my little sister, already deep in conversation about something that was making them both grin.
She stood slightly apart from the group, and the sight of her hit me somewhere in my chest with the force of a physical blow. She was wearing a strapless top in red and white stripes that clung to her in all the right ways, her light brown hair threaded with blonde highlights that caught the golden evening light. She looked like she'd stepped out of a magazine spread effortlessly beautiful, completely unattainable.
And on her arm, looking every bit the modern-day rockstar with his artfully disheveled dark curls and vintage band tee that probably cost more than my monthly rent, was Orlando. Her boyfriend. A singer just like her, with a voice that had apparently been deemed "hauntingly beautiful" by some music critic I'd never heard of.
"Finally," Orlando drawled, his British accent smooth as honey dripping from a spoon. "Lara's told me so much about you. The legendary beach house summers. I feel like I already know you."
Lara's eyes met mine over his shoulder. That practiced smile she wore for cameras and strangers softened, just a fraction, into something real. Something that looked almost like relief.
"He's heard the pool story," she said, a small smile playing at her lips. "And the glue-in-the-hair story. And the—"
"Okay, okay," I laughed, feeling some of the tension in my shoulders ease. "Let's not traumatize him on his first visit. Drinks are in the cooler, burgers are imminent."
The party swelled like the tide, filling the backyard with the comfortable chaos of family and friends who'd become family through sheer force of proximity. Alexia arrived ten minutes late, all tanned legs and a perfume that announced her presence before she'd even reached the deck jasmine and salt, clean and sharp. She pressed a kiss to my cheek, her assessing gaze already sweeping the crowd.
"Cute house," she said, though her attention had snagged on something or someone across the lawn. "Is that...?"
"Lara's boyfriend, yeah. Orlando."
Alexia's whistle was low and appreciative. "The singer? You didn't mention that."
"It didn't seem relevant."
But I was already watching Lara watch Alexia watch Orlando, a complicated circuit of observation that made my skin prickle with something I didn't want to name.
The kitchen was a refuge, cooler and quieter than the backyard chaos. I'd slipped in to grab more ice when I heard my Aunt May's voice carry from the hallway something about needing a proper drink, the familiar complaint that had punctuated every family gathering since I could remember.
I was leaning against the counter, letting the hum of the refrigerator drown out the party noise, when Lara appeared in the doorway. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat, a strand of hair escaping its careful arrangement.
"What are you doing?" I asked, though the answer was obvious she was already scanning the counter, her eyes landing on a notecard that Aunt May had left behind.
"Making a drink," she said, holding up the card with a mischievous smirk that transported me straight back to adolescence. "Seems like Aunt May left her famous margarita recipe out."
"Absolutely not." I pushed off the counter and crossed to her. "The last time I let you near a blender was 2015, and I spent an hour cleaning margarita off the ceiling."
She hit my chest, a light, familiar smack. "Never mention that again."
"Never happened," I agreed, and we both laughed that easy, comfortable laughter that came from too many shared memories to count.
That was when the kitchen door swung open, and suddenly the space was crowded. Rhea appeared first, her dark eyes dancing with curiosity. Behind her, Orlando ducked through the doorway, his presence immediately filling the room with that magnetic energy he seemed to project. And trailing behind him, Alexia, her perfume now overlapping with the citrus and salt of Lara's drink.
"What are you guys doing?" Rhea asked, her gaze flickering between us with an interest that felt too sharp.
"Making drinks," Lara said smoothly, sliding the recipe card into her pocket. "And we're finished. Y/N, get cups. We're heading down to the beach."
The moment my bare feet hit the sand, I felt the last of the formal party pretense slough away. The beach stretched out before us, dark and endless, the roar of the Atlantic filling the spaces where conversation lapsed. Shoes were abandoned in a pile. The cooler was dragged down to the waterline. Someone produced a blanket, and we settled into the familiar rhythm of sand and salt air and the particular magic of a summer night.
The game of "Never Have I Ever" started innocently enough. Orlando was in his element, his laugh a booming, melodic thing that seemed to roll across the waves. He taught us a raucous British drinking song that involved increasingly complex clapping patterns, and the tequila flowed freely.
But it was Lara who surprised everyone. Her "Never have I ever... stolen a street sign" was met with groans and several gulps from the group. But it was her next one softer, delivered with a glance that seemed to find me even in the darkness that made the air change.
"Never have I ever... kissed someone I knew was bad for me just to feel something."
She drank deeply herself, her eyes finding mine for a fleeting second before she looked away. I followed suit, the tequila burning its way down, unable to shake the feeling that we were talking about something neither of us was ready to say aloud.
I slipped away from the group, needing a moment to myself. I volunteered to dig in the dunes for tonight's fireworks.
grass. I'd managed to get sand everywhere, and I made my way to the outdoor shower, letting the cold water rinse the grit from my skin.
I was standing under the spray, my eyes closed, when I heard her voice.
I turned. Lara was standing a few feet away, a drink clutched in her hand, her silhouette backlit by the distant party lights. Something in her posture was off a looseness that spoke of too many drinks and not enough food.
"Sup," I said, turning back to the water. "Privacy would be nice."
"You look so hot with wet hair. So romantic."
I looked at her again, really looked. Her eyes were glassy, her smile a little too bright. "Lara, how many of those have you had?"
I shook my head and turned back to the shower head. "Can I have some privacy, please."
"You know I know." Her voice had gone sly, almost singsong. "I know you had a crush on me. Since forever ago."
I froze. Turned slowly, water streaming down my face. "What?"
"Stop playing dumb, Y/N/N." She laughed, a sound that was too sharp, too bright. "I know you like me. I read your fucking journal when we were ten. With Rhea."
The words hit me like a physical blow. "You went through my shit?"
"Oh my fucking god." She was still laughing, the sound grating against my nerves. "It was adorable. You were so—"
"Can I have some privacy? Please. Jesus."
She swayed on her feet, and for a moment I thought she might argue. Then she shrugged, an exaggerated gesture that nearly sent her stumbling, and turned back toward the house.
I watched her go, my heart pounding, the cold water suddenly feeling like needles against my skin.
I should have followed her. I know that now. But I stood there, frozen, letting the water wash away the moment. By the time I'd dried off and made my way back to the party, it was too late.
I saw it happen in slow motion. My mother, beaming, carrying the magnificent red-white-and-blue sheet cake toward the picnic table. Lara, weaving through the crowd with that drunk's unseeing determination, cutting across her path.
The collision was almost gentle a bump of hip against shoulder. But it was enough.
The cake left my mother's hands. It seemed to hang in the air for a suspended moment, a patriotic asteroid, before it met the flagstone patio with a sickening, definitive splat.
Silence fell over the backyard like a physical weight. Everyone stared at the ruin buttercream and sponge and careful decoration, all of it destroyed.
My mother's face crumpled.
"Oh, god." Lara's hand flew to her mouth. "I'm so... I'm so sorry, Mrs. Y/N, I didn't—"
Orlando was there in an instant, his performer's charm switched into caretaker mode. "It's alright, love, accidents happen." His voice was soothing, loud enough for the whole party to hear. He put a firm arm around Lara, who had started crying, silent, mortified tears. "Let's get you some air, yeah? A little lie down."
He guided her away from the stunned crowd, toward the house, throwing an apologetic look over his shoulder that somehow managed to be both gracious and dismissive.
The party tried to restart, but the spark was gone. The mood had sunk into the cake-smeared flagstones.
Alexia appeared at my side, her lips curled in that faint, contemptuous smile she wore like armor. She watched Orlando lead Lara inside, her eyes glittering with something that looked like satisfaction.
"Well," she said, sipping her drink. "The princess can't hold her liquor. And the knight in shining armor sweeps in. How very... predictable. And messy."
Something inside me snapped.
"You heard me." My voice was quiet, which made it worse. "Take your judgment and your shiny little observations and get the hell out of my house. This isn't a show for your entertainment."
Her face hardened. For a second, I thought she might argue. Then she shrugged, a brittle, elegant movement. "Fine. It was getting boring anyway. Call me when you're done cleaning up other people's messes."
She set her cup down with a sharp click and walked away, her heels tapping a final, dismissive rhythm on the pavement.
I didn't watch her go. I was already moving toward the house.
Upstairs, the guest room door was ajar. Orlando had Lara sitting on the edge of the bed, her shoes removed, a glass of water in her hand. He was speaking in low, gentle tones.
"...just sleep it off, darling. You'll be right as rain."
Lara was nodding, her eyes closed, tears still streaking through the dirt on her cheeks.
Orlando saw me in the doorway and stood. "She's alright," he said, moving past me into the hall. He pulled the door mostly closed behind him. In the dim light, he looked tired the performer's energy finally drained.
"Look, Y/N... I've got a car coming. I'm due in LA for a session first thing tomorrow. I was going to leave in the morning, but..."
He nodded, running a hand through his curls. "Yeah. I hate to leave her like this, but... she's in good hands. I can tell."
He gave me a long, appraising look, one that saw far more than I wanted him to. "You'll look after her?"
"Right." He clapped me on the shoulder, a gesture that felt oddly genuine. "Cheers, then. Tell her I'll call."
And with that, he was gone, his footsteps fading down the stairs.
I slipped into the room. Lara had curled onto her side, still in her dirty dress, already sinking into a tequila-heavy sleep. I moved quietly, fetching a glass of water and two Advil from the bathroom, setting them on the nightstand where she'd see them. I hesitated, then carefully brushed the sand from her hair. She murmured something unintelligible and nestled deeper into the pillow.
I left her to sleep, closing the door softly.
The party downstairs had fizzled. People were leaving, offering my mother sympathetic hugs and murmured reassurances. I helped her clean up the cake atrocity or what was left of it, scraping the congealed buttercream and crumbling sponge into the trash. The silence between us was comfortable, the kind that only exists between people who know each other intimately.
"She didn't mean it," I said quietly. "She was drunk, and she didn't see you, and she—"
"I know, honey." My mother sighed, wiping her hands on her apron. "Poor thing. She looked so mortified. And that boyfriend of hers left in quite a hurry."
"Work," I said, and it wasn't entirely a lie. "He has a session in LA tomorrow morning."
My mother nodded, but I saw the skepticism in her eyes. She'd always been able to read me, and she'd always liked Lara. "You should check on her. Make sure she's okay."
"She's asleep. I left her water and Advil."
"Good." She patted my cheek, her hand warm and familiar. "That's what I raised you to do. Take care of people when they can't take care of themselves."
By ten o'clock, the house was quiet. The real fireworks were about to begin the town's official display launched from the pier, visible from the beach. Most of my family had claimed spots on the deck, blankets and folding chairs arranged for optimal viewing.
I grabbed a blanket and wandered back to the beach. I needed the open air, the vastness of the ocean, the feeling of being small against something bigger than myself.
I wasn't surprised when I saw her figure, silhouetted against the first distant bloom of color in the sky. She was barefoot, wearing one of my old hoodies over her dress the one from my college, faded and soft with age. Her hair was damp and clean, and she held the glass of water I'd left, the Advil gone.
I walked up and stood beside her, not speaking. The fireworks began in earnest great shattering flowers of green and gold and red, their thunderous BOOMs echoing over the water long after the light had faded. The salt air was cool now, cleansing, carrying the scent of the ocean and the faint remains of smoke from the party's dying embers.
In a lull between volleys, her voice was clear, sober, and heavy with shame. "I ruined everything."
"The cake. The party. I made a scene. I... I said things." She paused, and I could feel the weight of her next words before she spoke them. "I said things to you. On the dunes."
I watched a cascade of white sparks weep down the sky. "You said you knew."
She was silent for a long time. A huge, triple burst of red, white, and blue illuminated her face, showing the tracks of earlier tears, the deep, weary regret in her eyes. Her expression was raw, unguarded in a way I'd never seen before.
"I did know." Her voice was barely audible over the distant boom of the finale building. "And I was a coward. I let you be the good one, the easy friend, while I chased things that were... shiny. And loud. And easy in a different way." She finally turned to look at me, the reflected colors of the fireworks dancing in her dark eyes. "Orlando left, didn't he?"
"He had to work. A session in LA tomorrow."
She let out a short, humorless laugh. "He always has to work. There's always a session, a show, a meeting. Something more important than me." She hugged herself tighter. "Alexia?"
"Gone. I told her to leave."
Lara's breath hitched. The grand finale was building, a furious, rapid-fire barrage of light and sound that shook the very air red and white and blue exploding in rapid succession, casting the whole beach in a stroboscopic glow.
I turned to face her fully, the world exploding in color behind her.
"Lara," I said, my voice steady, cutting through the noise. "You don't know the effect you have on people."
Her eyes widened. The confession on the dunes, the ruined cake, the departed boyfriend and fling it all coalesced into this single, charged moment under the artificial stars. The last firework, a tremendous, weeping willow of silver, burst and began its slow fade to darkness.
In the sudden, profound quiet that followed, broken only by the sigh of the waves, she closed the distance between us.
The kiss was not sweet. It was not easy. It was a decade of suppressed longing unleashed, salted with tequila and regret and the bitter tang of lost time. It was her hands fisting in my shirt, pulling me closer as if to bridge all those years of distance. It was the soft, desperate sound in the back of her throat a muffled mmph-ah that spoke of relief and hunger and a profound, aching want.
It tasted of salt and lime and something uniquely, fundamentally Lara.
When we finally broke apart, breathless, the only light came from the distant pier and the cool glow of the moon on the water. Her forehead rested against mine, her breathing ragged, her fingers still tangled in my shirt.
We stood there for a long moment, anchored to each other in the dark.
Then, without a word, I took her hand. Her fingers laced through mine, tight, anchoring. I led her away from the beach, up the familiar path, past the quiet, dark house. We moved like shadows, silent and certain, through the back door and up the stairs.
I didn't turn on the light in my room. The moonlight through the window was enough.
I pushed the old hoodie from her shoulders, and she reached for the hem of my shirt, her movements slow, sure, sober. Her eyes met mine in the silver light, and there was no hesitation there, no regret.
"This is real," she whispered. "This is what I want. Not Orlando, not some shiny thing. You. I should have chosen you years ago."
"There's no time limit," I said, my voice rough with emotion. "There's just now."
She pulled me down onto the bed.
Her hands were everywhere, mapping my back, my shoulders, my face as if she were memorizing me by touch. Her touch was different now not the playful, teasing brushes of our youth, nor the careful, performative affection she'd shown Orlando. This was deliberate, hungry, reverent. Her fingers traced the line of my jaw, slid into my hair, pulled me down to kiss her again, deeper this time. A low, wanting sound vibrated in her throat, a soft ahhn that was swallowed by my mouth.
I broke the kiss to trail my lips along her jaw, down the column of her throat. She arched into the touch, a sharp inhale catching in her chest. "Y/N," she breathed, my name a prayer and a plea all at once.
I helped her out of the striped top, the fabric whispering over her skin. In the moonlight, she was breathtaking. All soft curves and sharp angles, the pale skin of her stomach, the gentle swell of her breasts. I let my hands learn her, my thumbs brushing over her ribs, the dip of her waist. She watched me, her eyes dark and wide, her chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths.
"You're staring," she whispered, a ghost of her old smirk touching her lips.
"I'm making up for lost time."
I leaned down and took one peaked nipple into my mouth, swirling my tongue around the taut bud. She gasped, her back bowing off the bed, her hands flying to my hair. "Oh—fuck," she moaned, the word drawn out and breathy. Her hips rolled up, seeking friction.
I lavished attention on one breast, then the other, listening to the symphony of her reactions the hitched breaths, the little whimpers, the way her fingers tightened in my hair. I kissed a path down her stomach, my tongue dipping into her navel, feeling the muscles of her abdomen flutter under my lips.
When I reached the waistband of her shorts, I looked up. Her head was thrown back against my pillow, her lips parted, her eyes half-lidded and fixed on me with an intensity that stole my breath. I hooked my fingers into the fabric and slowly, slowly, drew them down her legs, along with her underwear. She lifted her hips to help, and then she was bare before me, bathed in silver light.
I settled between her thighs, my hands spreading her open. She was already wet, glistening, the most intimate and beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to her inner thigh, and she jumped.
"Please," she begged, her voice a ragged thread. "Don't make me wait. Not anymore."
I lowered my mouth to her cunt and licked a slow, firm stripe from her entrance to her clit.
The sound she made was raw, unfiltered a choked-off cry that broke into a shuddering moan. "Yesss..." she hissed, her thighs trembling on either side of my head.
I dove in, learning her taste salty and sweet and uniquely her. I licked and sucked, circling her clit with the flat of my tongue before focusing into a tighter, more insistent point. I slid two fingers inside her, curling them, and she cried out, her hips bucking off the bed.
"There—right there, oh god, oh fuck," she babbled, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other returning to my hair, not guiding, just holding on. Her words dissolved into incoherent, guttural sounds—ah-ah-ah-oh!—as I worked her with my mouth and fingers, building her rhythm, following the tells of her body.
Her legs began to shake violently. Her breathing became ragged sobs. "I'm gonna—Y/N, I'm—nnngh!"
Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave. Her back arched spectacularly, a long, broken wail tearing from her throat as she came against my mouth, her cunt pulsing rhythmically around my fingers. I rode it out with her, gentling my touch until the last tremor subsided and she collapsed back onto the mattress, boneless and panting.
I crawled up her body, kissing her stomach, her sternum, between her breasts, finally claiming her mouth again. She tasted herself on my lips and groaned into the kiss, her arms coming up to wrap around my neck, holding me close.
"That was..." she breathed when we parted, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "I've never... no one's ever..."
"I know," I murmured, kissing her temple. "Me neither. Not like that."
She reached between us, her hand sliding into the waistband of my shorts, finding me hard and straining. Her touch was tentative at first, then sure. She stroked me, her eyes locked on mine. "I want you. All of you. Now."
I kicked my shorts off, and she guided me to her entrance. I paused, my forehead against hers, our breaths mingling. "Are you sure?" I asked, even as every cell in my body screamed to push forward.
"I've never been more sure of anything in my life," she said, her voice firm, clear. "I want this. I want you."
I pushed inside her, slowly, inch by exquisite inch. She was so tight, so warm, so perfect. Her eyes fluttered shut, a soft, continuous ohhh escaping her lips as she stretched to accommodate me. When I was fully sheathed, we both went still, connected in the most profound way imaginable.
I opened my eyes to find hers open, too, watching me with a wonder that mirrored my own. "Hi," I whispered, a stupid, giddy word for such a moment.
"Hi," she whispered back, a smile breaking through.
I began to move, a slow, deep roll of my hips. She met each thrust, her own hips rising to meet mine, our bodies finding a rhythm that felt less learned and more remembered, as if we'd been doing this in some other lifetime. The room filled with the sound of our skin sliding together, our ragged breaths, the soft, wet sounds of our joining.
I kissed her, swallowing her moans. She broke the kiss to gasp against my neck. "Harder," she pleaded, her nails scoring down my back. "Please, I need—I need to feel it."
I obeyed, driving into her with more force, each thrust jolting the bedframe against the wall with a soft, rhythmic thump-thump-thump. The pace became frantic, desperate. She wrapped her legs high around my waist, locking her ankles, pulling me deeper.
"Right there, yes, fuck, right there!" she chanted, her voice climbing in pitch. Her second climax was building faster, tighter. I could feel her inner muscles beginning to flutter and clench around me. I reached between us, my thumb finding her clit, rubbing tight, fast circles.
She shattered with a cry that was half-sob, half-scream, her body convulsing under mine. The intense, rhythmic squeezing of her cunt was my undoing. With a guttural groan, I buried my face in her neck and followed her over the edge, my own release crashing through me in hot, pulsing waves, spilling deep inside her.
For a long time, we lay tangled together, slick with sweat, breathing in ragged unison. The world slowly filtered back in the distant, final pop of a leftover firework, the creak of the house settling, the steady, comforting sound of the ocean.
Eventually, I softened and slipped out of her. I rolled to the side, pulling her with me, tucking her back against my chest. She snuggled into me, her head on my arm, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my forearm.
"So," she said, her voice drowsy and satiated. "What happens tomorrow?"
I kissed the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo and sex and salt air. "Tomorrow," I said, "we wake up. I'll probably make you eggs. You'll probably have a headache from the tequila. My mom will give you a hug and tell you the cake was too sweet anyway. We'll go for a walk on the beach. And we'll start figuring it out. All of it. Together."
She was silent for a moment. Then she turned in my arms, her face serious in the moonlight. "Orlando..."
"Will call. And you'll tell him the truth. That this," I gestured between us, "is where you're supposed to be."
"And if he's angry? If he... if the press..."
"Let them talk," I said, meaning it. "Let them write whatever they want. I've spent ten years caring too much about what everyone else thought. I'm done. This is ours."
A slow, real, breathtaking smile spread across her face the first completely unguarded, joyful smile I'd seen from her all day. "Ours," she repeated, as if testing the word. She liked the taste of it. "I like the sound of that."
She settled back against me, her breathing gradually evening out into sleep. I held her.
Happy fourth (lowkey I hate this holiday) thought I might upload a Lara fic today since I’m gonna be a house full of people. But enjoy your day guys!
