johnny sinclair is the kind of boy who doesn’t just walk into a room. he owns it. he’s got that messy, beach-bleached hair that always looks like he just came out of the water, even when he hasn’t. his blue-and-white striped button-up is half undone, collar loose, tan skin catching the sun as if it’s shining just for him. his grin is a weapon, sharp and lazy all at once. he’s a sinclair through and through. money, mischief, and that careless kind of charm that makes trouble look like a game.

he spots the party boat before anyone else does, docked near the island, bass thumping, lights cutting through the dark water. it’s new, loud, full of strangers, which is exactly what draws him in. he’s bored of the quiet perfection of beechwood. bored of the family dinners that end in tension and too much wine. so he turns to the liars—gat, cadence, mirren—and flashes that dare-me smile. “come on,” he says, eyes bright with the promise of chaos. “let’s make the night worth something.”

the four of them sneak aboard, laughter and beer in hand, surrounded by music and sweat and too many faces they don’t know. johnny fits right in. he always does. he’s spinning around in the middle of it, talking to strangers, stealing sips from other people’s drinks, making the whole thing feel like his own private stage. and then he sees you and his night just got even more fun.

he moves through the crowd like he’s got all the time in the world, leaning against the railing beside you, eyes cutting sideways with a little spark.

"you know the party's inside, right?" he teases.