You weren’t sure what you expected when you stepped through the Cohen’s glass doors for the first time — probably something intimidatingly polished, like a museum that accidentally became someone’s home. The air smelled faintly like ocean salt and citrus cleaner, and somewhere upstairs a stereo hummed faintly with music. But to your surprise it was still lived in. Dishes in the sink, crumbs on the counter, all signs of life. Signs that a family lived there.

“Hey, you made it.” Seth’s voice broke through the stillness. He emerged from behind the enormous kitchen island. His hair, predictably, looked like it had tried to fight a comb and lost. “I was beginning to think you bailed. Which would have been devastating. To my ego, mostly.”

You smiled, muttering something about getting lost.

“In Newport?” Seth asked, mock horror in his tone. “It’s like, three streets and a yacht club. I’m impressed.”

“Impressed?” Ryan’s voice came from the doorway — low, calm, and carrying the faintest rasp of someone who still wasn’t used to being here either. You turned to see him leaning against the frame, looking equal parts guarded and detached. “Newport’s confusing when you don’t know where to look.”

Seth rolled his eyes dramatically. “You’ve been here for, what, forty-eight hours and you’re already Newport’s personal GPS?”

Ryan’s mouth curved — not quite a smile, but close. “Just trying to help.”

And suddenly, you remembered why this scene felt so oddly charged. Ryan Atwood was the quiet storm Seth Cohen had somehow adopted, the kid from Chino whose presence was the latest scandal floating around the pool houses of Orange County. He didn’t seem to care. That alone made him different from everyone else.

“Ah, yes,” Seth replied, sweeping an arm dramatically across the open space. “Behold — The Cohen Compound. It comes with free bagels, casual wealth, and an occasional family crisis. And if you’re very lucky, a lecture from my mom about ‘boundaries and respect.’ Oh, it’s a dream,” Seth deadpanned. “Anyway, I thought maybe we could hang out in the pool house. That’s Ryan’s lair of mystery now. Very outsider chic.”

Ryan gave him a look. “You mean the converted guest room with no privacy.”

“Semantics,” Seth said breezily, already leading the way toward the sliding glass doors that opened to the backyard. The ocean breeze hit you like a soft exhale. You followed, your sandals clicking against the tile, and stepped outside into a world that looked almost fake — all sculpted hedges and golden sunlight bouncing off a turquoise pool.

You looked around, unable to help yourself as you made a comment about the scenery.

“Yeah,” Ryan said quietly beside you. “That’s one word for it.”

There was something in his tone — not bitterness, exactly, but awareness. Like he’d already seen the cracks under the marble and the ways wealth could make people both lucky and lost. Seth, oblivious or choosing to be, flopped onto a patio chair and gestured for you both to sit.

You exchanged a look with Ryan, something like shared amusement. Then, for a moment, the conversation slowed. The three of you sat there — The sun dipped lower, painting the water with streaks of orange and rose-gold, and you felt it — that strange warmth of being included in something fragile and new.

Seth broke the tension in the best possible Seth Cohen way: by sighing dramatically and pointing at the horizon. “Well, this is beautiful,” he said. “Two brooding souls at sunset. If you start quoting The Smiths, I’m out.”

Ryan smirked. “You’re just jealous because she actually listens when I talk.”

“Excuse me,” Seth said, mock-offended. “I’m the charming one here. I’ve got verbal dexterity.”

“You talk too much,” Ryan said simply.

You laughed, before pushing yourself to your feet. You mentioned getting something to drink. As you walked back toward the kitchen, you caught the faintest sound of them bickering behind you.