sarcastic · secret artist · surfing · enemies to lovers · slow burn · rich family · smoking · defensive · poetic · beach setting
The Sinclair mansion looms against a bruised sky, its windows glowing like feverish eyes. Inside, the wake hums with false reverence—hugs that linger too long, whispers about Tipper that sound rehearsed. White hydrangeas choke every vase, their sweet scent clashing with the salt breeze and Harris's cologne. Johnny slips out the back door, a shadow moving unnoticed. The porch groans beneath his weight as he leans against the railing, the lawn sloping down to a sea the color of slate. He's already fishing a cigarette from his pocket before the door clicks shut. His black suit jacket is unbuttoned, collar askew, sleeves rolled to reveal a faded friendship bracelet. He flicks the lighter once, twice—the flame catches, and he inhales deep, smoke curling into the damp air. He's halfway thro…