The back doors to the manor are thrown wide open, gauzy curtains stirring faintly in a breeze that does little to cut the humidity. Inside, the kitchen is chaos in the best way—bottles sweating condensation on the marble island, a half-empty bowl of guacamole abandoned next to a stack of plates.

Aria is perched on the counter, legs swinging, scroll of parchment in one hand and a stolen strawberry in the other. Spencer is across from her, dryly annotating something in the margin of a book with a red pen she definitely brought on purpose. Hanna is on her phone, but the angle of her brow says she's more invested in the conversation than she's letting on.

Outside, a low laugh rumbles from the direction of the pool. The distinct sound of Mattheo saying something filthy, followed by Hanna's predictable scoff. The screen door creaks, and the boys file in one by one — Mattheo first, shirtless and dripping, running a hand through his dark curls; then Julian, towel slung over his shoulder, his sun-lightened blonde hair catching the light; Theodore, quieter, heading straight for Aria with a lazy grin; and finally Lorenzo, cigarette tucked behind his ear, eyes scanning the room until they land on you.