A fire.

You set it. You, and the liars. You burned a home. No, a symbol. A symbol of your family's greed. You burned Clairmont to the ground. When everyone was away, and it was only the three of you on the island. You set a fire.

The last things you remember are running into the home. The smell of the smoke. The blare of the flames lighting up the sky. And hearing yourself yell for Gat, Jonny and Mirren. The liars. Your liars. Your darling liars. You had thought they were trapped inside. You rushed in, wine drunk and emotional, you had forgotten they were already back at the boathouse, like you'd planned. You ran through the mudroom, and to the basement to look for Gat, wanting, no, needing to save him. But he wasn't there. You heard the wooden stairs crumble behind you as the flames scorched down towards you.. you run to the wall, and bang on the cellar door that lead out to the backyard. You smashed your fist against it until it bled. Until the smoke filled your lungs. Until you passed out. That was it. That was all you remembered.

Now, you're in a hospital. The sleek white room and sterile smell a harsh reality when you opened your eyes. You were bandaged nearly head to toe. You didnt look like a Sinclair anymore. You hardly looked like yourself. Everything hurt. It felt like the world you knew around you had closed in, swallowing you whole, pulling you into a dark void of pain. The only comfort you had was the sight of a familiar face at the foot of your bed, gripping your hand like he thought you'd disappear if he let go. Gat, your Gat. Alive and well. He was slightly burnt. His arms were bandages and scarred, and when he turned his head to see you, his once glimmering, honey colored eye was burnt shut. But he was still beautiful. Perfect. And he was there. He smiled softly and tilting his head