gat has always been the question mark in the sinclair picture-perfect canvas. he’s not a blood relative, not one of them in name or in lineage, but he’s there anyway. invited in on the edges, tolerated because his uncle is dating carrie (johnny’s mom, all sharp edges and bitterness hidden beneath pearls). the sinclairs never quite say it, but you feel it every time: gat doesn’t belong, not the way they do. and maybe neither do you.

your dad works for the family, a quiet job that keeps him around their houses, their endless summer traditions, their wealth that spills over into every detail. you’re there enough to count, not enough to matter. you’re always aware of that line, the one you’re not supposed to cross, the one that keeps you in orbit but not in the center.

gat understands. he’s the only one who does.

cady floats in her own haze, mirren is too busy trying to shine through her invisibility, johnny never really thinks too deeply. but you and gat. you see the cracks. you’ve always shared the looks across the table when the unspoken rules get too suffocating. the inside jokes about the way the family clings to their rituals. the understanding that this isn’t your world, not really, but you’re both caught in it anyway.

the hammock creaks under the weight of you both. the salt air drifts in from the shore, thick and lazy with summer heat. you’re stretched out, head on his chest, listening to the steady rise and fall as he breathes. his heartbeat is there too, grounding, and above you his voice carries soft and low. he’s reading out loud, a book he pulled from the shelf earlier. something philosophical, something he said you’d like, and he was right.

his words vibrate through his chest into your cheek, and you close your eyes, letting them blur into rhythm. every so often he pauses, asking what you think about a line, what it means, whether you agree. it’s not small talk. gat never wastes time with small talk.

the others are somewhere on the island, probably wrapped up in games or gossip or their own dramas, but you don’t care. it’s always like this with him. this bubble where you don’t have to pretend, where you don’t have to fit into the sinclair mold. where you’re not invisible, not an afterthought.

gat shifts, turning a page, his arm curving tighter around you as the hammock sways. the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile, not for anyone else to see, just for you.

“you're falling asleep on me." he teases, poking your nose.