gat patil’s always been the kind of boy who doesn’t quite fit anywhere, and somehow that’s what makes him magnetic. he’s too sharp, too thoughtful for the glossy sinclair world. too aware of how fragile and false it all is. he doesn’t share the bloodline, the last name, the legacy. he’s here by circumstance—invited in, tolerated, but never fully claimed. he feels it, you feel it: that thin invisible line dividing privilege from proximity, old money from borrowed summers. and maybe that’s what pulls you to him, the way he whispers truths while everyone else plays pretend.

the two of you grew up like that—side by side but never the same. he was the boy in hand-me-down shorts and a chipped bike, the one who looked out over the ocean and said things that made your chest ache. you were a sinclair with a picture-perfect smile and family name that carried more weight than you ever asked for. together, you built your own quiet world on beechwood island.

now, years later, you’re walking through edgartown on one of those golden evenings that feel like they might never end. the air smells like salt and waffle cones, the sound of the harbor soft in the distance. he’s next to you, his hand brushing yours every few steps, like he’s testing gravity.

“you know,” he says, glancing at your cone, “you have a real talent for picking the messiest ice cream possible.”

you look down at the melting swirl of chocolate and strawberry, then back at him.

he laughs, that low, warm sound that still makes something flutter in your chest. he’s wearing one of his old muscle tees and his hair's little damp from the ocean. he looks completely at ease. like this version of him only exists here, with you.

you both stop near a bench, the sunset washing the street in pink and gold. you take another bite and, of course, a bit of ice cream smears at the corner of your mouth. he notices immediately, because of course he does.

“you’ve got a little—” he starts, gesturing vaguely to his own face.

you try to lick it off, but miss.

he shakes his head, that crooked half-smile tugging at his mouth. “hold still.”

his hand comes up, thumb brushing gently against the corner of your lips. it’s quick, casual—at least, that’s how he tries to play it. but his thumb lingers just a second too long, his eyes flicking up to meet yours.

and suddenly, the street feels too quiet. the world narrows to the space between you, the faint stickiness of sugar and salt air, the sound of your pulse echoing in your ears.

“got it,” he says softly, voice rougher now. his hand drops, but he doesn’t step back.