Tommy
The kitchen didn't look like our kitchen anymore. The counters, usually spotless and bare, were covered in trays, bottles, baskets of bread, bowls of fruit. Emma's parents were everywhere, moving with a quiet efficiency. Her father worked the knives, chopping vegetables with quick, practiced movements, while her mother stirred something steaming on the stove, snapping at one of Emma's brothers to keep out from underfoot.
And Emma was there. Her gorgeous auburn hair tied back, sleeves rolled, carrying plates like she'd done it a hundred times before. My chest tightened just watching her — so focused, so steady in a house that wasn't hers, acting like it was nothing.
I reached for a stack of glasses, eager for something to do, anything that gave me an excuse to stand closer to her.
"Tommy," Mother's voice sliced through the air. "That's not your place. We have staff for this."
My hand froze halfway to the counter. Heat crawled up my neck. "I'm just helping."
"It isn't appropriate," she pressed, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. "You'll get in the way. Leave it to them."
For a second, the old reflex kicked in — the one that said "yes, Mother" and stepped back. But then I caught Emma's eye. Just a flicker, a glance before she ducked her head again. And something inside me hardened.
"I'll carry these out," I said, steady this time. Before she could object again, I scooped up the glasses and headed for the door.
Behind me, I heard her sigh — long, disapproving. But I didn't care. For once, I didn't care.
Emma
I had my head down, balancing a tray of cutlery, when I heard it. His voice — soft but firm — standing up to his mother.
"I'll carry these out."
My hands nearly slipped. I doubted anyone had talked back to Mrs. Whitmore before. And yet here he was, ignoring her disapproval like it didn't matter. Like helping us mattered more.
I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to hide the smile tugging at my mouth. It was ridiculous, really, how much that one choice made my chest feel warm. Like I wasn't just the girl across the lake, working in their big, perfect house.
Like I mattered to him.
I lowered my eyes quickly, hoping no one had noticed, and focused on laying out the forks. But inside, my heart was buzzing louder than the crackle of the fire being built outside.
The kitchen buzzed with clatter and voices, the air thick with heat from the stove. My mum barked at the twins to stop running, my dad muttered over drink crates, and Tommy's mother gave directions like a queen commanding servants.
But Tommy didn't listen to her.
I noticed the way his mother's eyes narrowed when he carried a tray of glasses, her lips pressing into a thin line. He looked right at her, polite as ever, but his voice was steady. "It's fine, Mother. I've got it."
Then he carried the tray to the counter beside me. My heart flipped, ridiculous and wild, because he'd chosen to stand here — beside me — instead of obeying her.
I tried to look busy with napkins, but when our shoulders brushed, my breath caught.
"You'll get in trouble," I whispered, low enough so only he could hear.
He tilted his head closer, the hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. "Worth it."
I stared at him, words sticking in my throat. The noise of the kitchen blurred around us. His grin softened, and for the briefest moment, it felt like the whole chaotic room belonged only to us.
Before I could say anything, my mum called me over to help with the drinks. Tommy stepped back, his expression schooled into calm, but when our eyes met across the counter, I knew he was still carrying the same secret smile.
By the time the first guests began to arrive, the air outside was already thick with the smell of woodsmoke and the faint sweetness of marshmallows someone had brought early. My dad was hauling crates of pop to the long folding table while my mum fussed over trays of sandwiches. The chatter of neighbours drifted across the lawn, low and growing, a hum of excitement before the night really started.
I carried a few folding chairs toward the fire pit, and looked out at the lake. The lake shimmered beyond, gold from the setting sun, and for a moment, I wished I could just sit down and watch it. But with four younger siblings tumbling around like wild puppies and my parents already stretched thin, that wasn't going to happen.
"Need a hand?"
The voice came from behind me, and my stomach tightened before I even turned. Tommy.
He was holding two more chairs with ease, sleeves rolled up, his hair falling into his eyes like he hadn't even noticed. He looked more relaxed than I'd ever seen him at school or in town, less polished, like the summer light had worked its way into him.
"I've got it," I said quickly, though my arms were aching from the awkward stack.
He smiled anyway, stepping closer to take half of them from me. "I know you've got it. But now you don't have to."
I let out a small laugh, rolling my eyes. "Do you ever just do what you're told?"
He pretended to think about it, setting the chairs down in a neat row. "Sometimes. Just not tonight."
I set mine beside his, and we worked quietly for a moment, arranging seats around the fire pit. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the grass, and the buzz of conversation behind us grew louder as more families trickled in.
"You know," Tommy said after a moment, "if we set them all in a circle, no one will sit down. Everyone will just stand around waiting for someone else to break the ice."
I raised a brow. "And what's your solution, Mr. Expert on Social Gatherings?"
"Clusters," he said seriously, moving two chairs slightly askew from the rest. "You make small groups. People feel safer sitting in threes. Less pressure."
I blinked at him, then laughed. "You sound like you've actually studied this."
He grinned, unbothered. "Maybe I have."
"You're ridiculous."
"And yet," he said, stepping back to admire his handiwork, "you're smiling. So clearly I'm doing something right."
I tried to smother the grin tugging at my lips, but it was useless. He noticed everything.
We moved on to another stack of chairs, working side by side. His hand brushed mine once when we both reached for the same one, and though he didn't say anything, the spark of it lingered in my skin. I busied myself unfolding the chair quickly, hoping he couldn't tell how flustered I was.
"So," he said lightly, "what's your guess? Which of our siblings is going to cause the first scene tonight?"
I huffed out a laugh. "Easy. Zoey. She'll either steal all the biscuits or chase someone's dog into the lake."
Tommy chuckled, glancing toward the house where his brothers were darting in and out the back door. "I'll put money on Jack. He can't go ten minutes without trying to impress someone."
"Do those two do everything together?" I teased.
He shrugged, that boyish grin back on his face. "Makes life more interesting."
I shook my head, but warmth crept up my neck anyway. It was strange, standing here with him while the world of parents and neighbours bustled behind us, like we had carved out our own little corner away from all of it.
By the time we set the last chair down, the fire was crackling high, sparks flying up into the purple sky. Guests were finding their seats in Tommy's carefully arranged clusters, the air alive with chatter and laughter.
I brushed my hands on my skirt and looked at him. "Well, I think you were right," I admitted quietly.
He gave me a sideways glance, the kind that made my heart trip. "About the chairs?"
"About… making things easier."
For a beat, neither of us moved. Then Zoey shrieked in the distance, chasing after a firefly, and the spell broke. We both laughed, shaking our heads, before heading back toward the house to grab more things.
But even as we walked, I couldn't shake the thought that the chairs weren't the only thing he'd just made easier.