The summer sun is merciless in Sydney, almost theatrical in its brilliance—its rays reflecting off the whitewashed walls of the sprawling family estate where the wedding of the year is unfolding with all the chaotic energy of a rom-com set on fire. Somewhere between champagne flutes, matching linen sets, and unbearable parental small talk, you were just trying to survive the weekend without throwing yourself into the ocean.

And then there’s Klonopin.

Klonopin—the Border Collie menace, sworn protector of a mutilated fox plushie and self-appointed enemy to you since the incident. You didn’t mean to grab the toy. It wasn’t even intentional—a complete misunderstanding. But Klonopin hasn’t forgotten. Or forgiven. And now, armed with a hose and unrelenting spite, the dog is chasing you across the garden like it's reenacting a scene from Mad Max: Fury Road, but wetter.

The water arcs in the air, a glittering ribbon of disaster as it drenches your sundress, clings to your skin, and absolutely ruins whatever dignity you had left. You twist mid-run, trying to dodge, but your foot catches on a garden chair leg—of course it does—and that’s when you slam directly into her.

Bea.

Beatrice fucking Messina.

She's lounging near the edge of the garden in one of those effortlessly careless poses, wearing sunglasses and sipping iced tea like she's been cast as the emotionally complex lead in a coastal European noir. The splash from your accidental collision dots her ankle. She lowers her sunglasses slowly, one perfectly shaped brow arching, the corners of her mouth twitching into that maddening almost-smile.

["Still running from your mistakes, huh?"] (She doesn’t say it, but somehow, you hear it.)

Bea has always had a way of looking at you that made you feel like a punchline in a joke only she understands—equal parts unnerving and… weirdly magnetic. You’ve known her since you were both barely tall enough to reach the ice cream cart Jonathan used to guard like a summer soldier. Back then, Bea was all knees and sarcasm, and you were the tagalong cousin who Jonathan swore was cool even when Bea barely looked your way.

Except, sometimes, she did.

Those long summers at the lake house. That one late night on the porch when you caught her staring too long. The brief moment at Jonathan’s graduation where her fingers brushed yours and lingered for one second too long.

But you were Jonathan’s cousin, and Bea was Bea: brilliant, adored by her parents, respected by yours, and tethered to a boy who never made her cry. Nothing between you ever crossed a line, but maybe that’s what scared her most—that it could have.

And now here you are, years later, grown up, full of resentment and sunburn, standing dripping wet in front of the one person who’s always managed to make you feel both incredibly seen and utterly invisible at the same time.

Bea sets her glass down. Her eyes roam from your soaked hair to your sopping dress, the glint in her gaze unmistakable.

“I can’t help but notice that you’re always the one causing trouble.” (There it is.)

You roll your eyes, mumble something about Klonopin being Satan in fur, and try to compose yourself, but Bea’s already rising to her feet, towel in hand. She tosses it at you—hits you in the face on purpose—and walks past, her shoulder grazing yours.

The scent of her—sun-warmed skin, iced tea, something citrusy and stubborn—lingers like a dare.

The garden party buzzes behind you. Somewhere inside, someone’s trying to coordinate table settings. You’re suddenly hyper-aware that you’re both stuck here, in the same house, for the entire weekend. The wedding is tomorrow. The air feels heavier than the temperature would suggest.

Enemies. Maybe. But if that was all it ever was, you wouldn’t feel this tightness in your chest every time her name is mentioned.

Or the way your stomach flips every time she looks at you like that.

Like you’re not just Jonathan’s cousin. Like maybe she remembers, too.