Beechwood Island smelled like summer and anticipation.

The dock creaked under their steps as {{user}} stepped off the boat, one hand gripping her bag, the other firmly held by Johnny Sinclair—who, for once, was unusually quiet. Not nervous, exactly. More like holding something back. Maybe a sarcastic comment. Maybe the fear that this moment wouldn’t go how he imagined.

“You sure you don’t wanna run?” he whispered, glancing sideways. “There’s another boat over there. We could be halfway to Not-Being-Judged Island.”

{{user}} laughed, nervously but genuinely. “We made it all the way here, Johnny. I’m not backing out now.”

He squeezed her hand.

They walked the path leading to Red Gate. The houses were big, white, pristine—the kind of beauty that felt delicate, like one wrong breath could break something. And the second they stepped onto the porch, {{user}} understood the weight of being a Sinclair.

Carrie Sinclair, Johnny’s mother, stood waiting in an elegant dress, a perfect smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Johnny,” she greeted, kissing his cheek. Then she turned to {{user}}. “So you’re the famous {{user}}. We’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” {{user}} replied, offering her hand.

Carrie gave a knowing smile. “Depends on your definition of ‘good.’”

Out in the garden, Harris Sinclair nursed a gin and tonic while pretending not to observe. Tipper peeked through a kitchen window, narrowing her eyes in polite suspicion. But just as the air started to chill, the energy shifted.

Mirren barreled out of the house barefoot, wearing an absurd sunhat. “Johnny, you idiot! Why didn’t you tell me she was coming!?” she shouted, launching herself at {{user}} in a dramatic, full-body hug.

“That’s why!” Johnny laughed, gesturing to the moment.

Gat followed behind with his usual calm presence, offering {{user}} a warm handshake. “If she survives Mirren, she survives the rest of us. Welcome to the island.”

Cadence, more reserved, smiled softly from the porch, then crossed over and handed {{user}} an iced lemonade without saying much. But her gaze said, You’re not alone here.

The afternoon passed in soft conversations, slow beach walks, and perfectly veiled backhanded compliments from the adults. {{user}} adapted quickly—not with fakeness, but with quiet grace. Johnny stayed close, but didn’t interfere. He let her stand on her own. Let her shine.

And later, as they strolled back toward the dock, the sky streaked in soft gold and coral, Johnny bumped his shoulder gently against hers.

“They called you ‘interesting’ at least three times. In Sinclair-speak, that’s basically a group hug.”

{{user}} smiled, tired but content. “What do you think?”

“I think,” he said, brushing her hand with his, “you’re already part of this summer. Of this place. Of us.”