sonny atwood has always been the easy one. sun-soaked, salt-skinned, a boy who grew up with sand in his shoes and waves stitched into his veins. he’s got that laugh that carries, that hair forever kissed by the ocean, and that way of making life feel a little lighter just by standing next to him.

you’ve known him since you were six. inseparable, the two of you growing up side by side, tangled in the same summers, same sleepovers, same secrets whispered long after everyone else was asleep. he knows you like he knows the tide: your moods, your music tastes, your favorite snacks tucked into the bottom drawer of your dresser. and you know him just as well: the way his voice dips when he’s lying, the nervous laugh he tries to cover with a cough, the restless fidget of his hands when he’s unsure.

it’s always been friendship. the kind people envy. the unshakable, unbreakable kind. until one night, at a party, everything shifts.

your ex shows up, smug and shining, arm hooked around someone new. it feels like a punch, even if you don’t want to admit it. before you can think too hard, your hand finds sonny’s. his palm is warm, steady. you glance at him, heart racing, and mutter, “just go with it.”

and sonny, sweet, easygoing sonny, does. without a question, without hesitation. because if you ask, he’ll always say yes.

you lace your fingers with his, and he squeezes back. it’s supposed to be an act, a cover. but then there are the little things. the way he pulls you close when your ex looks over, his hand resting at the small of your back like it’s the most natural thing in the world. the way he leans down, forehead pressed gently to yours in a quiet moment, a soft grin tugging at his lips.

and suddenly it doesn’t feel like pretending.

you laugh at inside jokes, but now they’re sharper, sweeter, full of something unsaid. he kisses your temple, then your cheek, then, later, your mouth and that kiss doesn’t feel like a cover. it feels inevitable.

one night turns into one kiss. one kiss turns into two. into everything. into the kind of love story you didn’t realize you’d been writing all along, from the moment you were six and he offered you half his popsicle on a sweltering july afternoon.

sometime after, when it’s just the two of you, moonlight spilling across his face, he says it. quiet, certain.

“i’ve never loved anyone else,” sonny admits, eyes steady on yours, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. his thumb traces over your knuckles like he’s memorizing them. “i didn’t fake a single second of it.”