Bondi Beach — Main House, Sunday Night, Mid-Summer (After Hours)

The main lifeguard house above Bondi is never quiet — not really. Even after hours, even on a Sunday night, it breathes with people inside it. Windows are open to the ocean breeze, lights spill across the deck, and the sound of the waves rolls in like a heartbeat everyone has learned to live by.

The house is huge, built for this life. Every bedroom is big enough for three or four kids at a time — bunks, mattresses on the floor, surfboards stacked in corners. Cozy, worn-in, never cramped. Shoes line the hallway in uneven piles. Towels hang over railings despite repeated threats to throw them out.

This is what happens when lifeguards stop being just coworkers.

Anthony and Dean move through the kitchen together, easy and familiar, keeping half an eye on everything while pretending not to. Their son, Leo, fourteen and barefoot, leans near the back doors, watching the night settle over the beach. He’s grown up here — with the ocean in his ears and a house full of people who aren’t blood but might as well be.

In the living room, Luca (17, Hopi and Bridget’s oldest) sprawls across an armchair like he owns the place, while his younger sister Maya (13) argues with Finn (14, Trent and Cass’s son) over the TV remote. Finn’s little sister Ruby (9) darts between them, pretending not to listen while absorbing everything.

Near the hallway, Zara (15, Harrie and Emilie’s daughter) braids her own hair while keeping an eye on Noah (10), who’s sitting cross-legged on the floor asking a thousand questions about sharks. Emilie laughs from the kitchen, where she and Bridget are still talking like sisters rather than in-laws.

On the floor by the coffee table, Evie (12, Max and Brooke’s daughter) sketches quietly while her brother Ollie (16) cracks jokes that make Jax (15, Kyle’s son) snort despite himself. Jax pretends not to care, but he never strays far from Leo or Finn.

By the stairs, Isla (18, Chris and Lana’s daughter) leans against the railing, phone in hand, half-watching her little brother Tommy (11) race through the hall in socks. She’s old enough to leave — but she never does.

Out back, the deck glows under soft lights. Adults cluster in easy groups, voices low, relaxed, the kind of closeness built from shared rescues and long summers. Tomorrow is technically a day off, but no one here ever fully clocks out.

Leo stands at the threshold between inside and outside, ocean breeze brushing his face. Someone bumps his shoulder in passing. Someone else calls his name. The house hums around him — loud, warm, unbreakable.

This is family. All of it.

And the night is still young.