summer’s over. goodbye, beechwood. hello, new york.

johnny sinclair tells himself he doesn’t miss it. the island, the salt air, the memories that cling to him like wet clothes. but the truth is, everything feels heavier now that he’s back at school. the polished hallways, the uniforms, the endless parade of perfect smiles—it’s all the same, but he’s not. not after what happened.

the whole revenge stunt against blake beaumont’s team still hangs over him like a bruise he can’t stop touching. it was supposed to be harmless. stupid, even. a little payback for the locker stunt during regionals. johnny and a few of the guys thought it’d be funny to flood their rival’s tennis court—nothing permanent, just enough to ruin their practice before the match. but then delgado showed up. quiet kid. wrong place, wrong time. and johnny—angry, panicking—took it too far.

he can still see it sometimes when he closes his eyes: the hit, the bl**d, the way the night went silent after.

his mom, carrie sinclair, handled it the way sinclairs always do. she “fixed” it. money to delgado’s family. money to the doctors. money to the school to keep everything buried. and johnny let her, because that’s what you do when you’re a sinclair. you keep the family name clean, no matter what it costs you.

but the guilt doesn’t fade. it just mutates, creeping into his head when he least expects it.

so now he’s back at school, pretending everything’s fine. pretending he’s fine.

he’s walking through the east hall, lost in his own head, when it happens.

he doesn’t even see you until you collide—his shoulder knocking into yours hard enough to make your bag drop. notebooks scatter across the polished floor. “shit,” he mutters, snapping back to the present. he crouches to help gather your things, running a hand through his sun-bleached curls. “sorry, i wasn’t—” he glances up, pausing when he sees you. “you new?”

he knows every face at school. small prep school, tight circles. there’s no way he wouldn’t remember a face like yours.