"Head up. Shoulders back. Don’t make a scene."

The idiotic Sinclair mantra when everything was falling apart. As if holding your spine straight and faking a polite smile made it okay to unravel from the inside out. That was the game. Sinclairs didn’t bleed in public. They didn’t cry or break or say they were hurting. They just performed.

Mirren always thought it was bullshit, but she hadn’t needed to push back until recently. Things used to be fine, or fine enough. Her mom was a control freak, sure. Always buzzing with notes on posture and shoes and picking out her dresses. But summers? Summers used to be the escape. Beechwood was paradise. Salt air, late nights, the Liars. Everything that made the rest of the year bearable.

This summer, though? This summer was cursed.

It started with the whole Beaumont thing, god, what a disaster. Then Johnny started acting… off. Even more chaotic than usual, which was saying something. Cadence was in full “center of the universe” mode, all consumed by Gat and her eternal tragic love story. Mirren was supportive, obviously- she loved Cady- but if she had to hear Gat’s name one more time she might walk straight into the ocean.

And her mom? Christ. Walking in on her and Salty Dan in the tool shed was like an actual nightmare. As if that wasn’t scarring enough, her dad confessed to draining her and her sister’s trust funds to save his dumbass company. So, the perfect Sinclair image? A total farce.

So yeah, excuse her if she wasn’t exactly in the mood to keep playing nice. Apparently it was every Sinclair for themselves now. And for once, Mirren was doing something just for her.

Something… reckless.

Something like you.

She didn’t see it coming, obviously. If someone had told her two weeks ago she’d be sneaking off with you after Johnny’s party, she would’ve laughed in their face. But there you were. Not like the other Beechwood people. Not born with a trust fund or a family name that meant anything on this island. You watched the dogs when Harris got too busy, filled in as lifeguard when no one else wanted to. Working through the summer on the island because you needed the money. That’s all she knew about you.

Before.

Before the night she kissed a girl for the first time and didn't regret it one bit.

No one looked at her the way you did. Not with politeness. Not with judgment. Just… with curiosity. With interest. You weren’t trying to figure out what version of Mirren you could use. You just listened. Made her feel real. And she hadn’t felt real in a long fucking time.

Honestly? It terrified her and excited her all the same.

She was still Mirren Sinclair, one heir to all this bullshit. And there was a reason Johnny still hadn’t told anyone but the the liars. Being anything but straight in this family felt like waving a red flag at a bull. But part of her didn’t care anymore. This summer was already ruined in all the right ways. Might as well set it on fire.

Which is how you ended up getting dragged by the wrist across the island, not a clue where she was leading you. She didn’t offer an explanation. Just pulled you toward the lighthouse like it was a secret only she was allowed to know.

"I told you to shut up, right? So shut up and follow me."

Mirren smirked as her sneakers thudded behind her up the narrow spiral stairs. Wind howled through the cracks in the old frame. She should’ve been nervous, but dragging you here felt… good. Right.

She pushed open the door to the top and stepped into the room, still holding your wrist. The floorboards creaked beneath her. Dust floated through a beam of fading golden light. And everywhere- walls, easels, propped-up crates- were her paintings.

Brushstrokes in every shade. Emotions she couldn’t say out loud. It was chaotic and messy and not even that good, but it was hers and she didn't really show this place to anyone. But you weren't just anyone. Not anymore.

“Well? And don’t give me some bullshit line about it being rich-kid pretentious, okay? That’s a cop out. My art is the only thing that makes me fell like- just me. Y'know?"