#johnny sinclair x reader

JOHNNY SINCLAIR X READER WORD COUNT:1241 REQUEST: OPEN

The first crack of thunder jolted you awake.

For a second, you just lay there in the dark, blinking at the ceiling while rain hammered softly against the windows. Then another rumble rolled across the sky, low and deep enough to make the glass in the frame vibrate.

A tiny voice beside you whispered, “Mama?”

You turned immediately, heart softening all at once. Your child was curled up under the blanket at the edge of the bed, eyes wide in the dark, little fists clutching the sheet.

“Hey, sweetheart,” you said quietly, brushing their hair back from their forehead. “It’s okay.”

Another flash of lightning lit the room for half a second. Your child squeaked and scooted closer, practically climbing into your side.

Before you could say anything else, Johnny’s arm reached across the mattress from behind you, warm and steady. He had been asleep only a moment ago, but he was awake now, voice still rough with sleep.

“I think,” he murmured, “that this is officially pirate weather.”

Your child blinked at him. “Pirate weather?”

Johnny propped himself up on one elbow, hair a mess, face half-hidden in the pillow, and somehow still managed to look like he had just been waiting for this exact moment. “Absolutely. Thunder means there’s a storm at sea. And storms at sea mean pirates.”

Your child’s eyes widened a little. “Real pirates?”

“The best kind,” Johnny said solemnly. “The kind who are brave and dramatic and probably very bad at sharing treasure.”

A small smile tugged at your child’s mouth, but another roll of thunder made them burrow into your side again.

Johnny reached over and lightly tapped your child’s blanket. “Captain,” he said, “you are currently aboard the finest ship in all the seven seas.”

Your child peeked out from the blanket. “This is a bed.”

“This,” Johnny corrected, “is the deck of the Sea Biscuit.”

You let out a sleepy laugh despite yourself. “The Sea Biscuit?”

“It’s a very serious vessel,” he said, glancing at you with mock offense. “Don’t disrespect her.”

Another thunderclap crackled overhead, and your child gasped. Johnny immediately lifted one hand and pointed dramatically toward the window.

“Ah. Cannon fire.”

Your child stared. “Cannon fire?”

“Yes,” Johnny said, nodding as if explaining the most normal thing in the world. “The enemy ships are trying to scare us. But they can’t. Because we have a captain.”

He put a hand to his chest and then, with exaggerated ceremony, lowered his voice. “Captain, report. Are we afraid?”

Your child hesitated, then nodded a little.

Johnny’s expression softened instantly. The joking was still there, but his voice gentled around the edges. “That’s all right,” he said. “Brave doesn’t mean not scared. Brave means you stay on the ship anyway.”

Your child looked at him very seriously. “You’re brave?”

Johnny’s eyes flicked to you for one second, then back to your child. “Only on my good days.”

That earned a tiny laugh, small but real, and you felt your shoulders relax a little. The storm outside was still loud, but Johnny had somehow built a whole other world inside the room, one that was safe and strange and bright enough to push the fear back a little.

“Okay,” your child said after a moment. “What happens now?”

Johnny smiled. “Now we sail through the storm. But first, we need to check the crew.”

He pointed to you. “First mate?”

You yawned. “Slightly overworked first mate.”

“Excellent,” he said. “Any reports?”

You squeezed your child closer. “The crew is tired. One of them is scared of thunder.”

Johnny gasped and put a hand over his heart. “A thunderphobic sailor. Tragic. We’ll have to protect them immediately.”

Your child giggled now, the sound small but growing warmer as the storm carried on outside.

Johnny shifted carefully, reaching over to your bedside table. His hand found the small lamp and turned it on, leaving the room in a soft golden glow instead of darkness. The shadows retreated.

“There,” he said. “Much better. No ghost pirates with the lights on.”

Your child leaned against his arm, calmer now. “Are there ghost pirates?”

“Of course there are,” Johnny said. “But they’re not very scary. Mostly just rude.”

You snorted into the blanket, and he glanced at you with a grin that said he absolutely knew what he was doing.

He kept going, building the story piece by piece, speaking with that same easy rhythm he used when he was trying to make all of you laugh.

“The captain,” he announced, “must steer the ship through the storm. The waves are enormous. The crew is nervous. The moon is hiding. And somewhere out there, hidden beyond the rain, is the island of the Golden Blanket.”

Your child looked up, fascinated. “The Golden Blanket?”

“The only place in the world where stormy nights become sleepy nights,” he said. “But it can only be found by the bravest captain.”

Your child sat up straighter, the fear easing out of their face in tiny pieces. “I can be captain.”

Johnny’s smile turned proud and warm. “I knew you could.”

He made a grand sweeping gesture toward the ceiling. “Captain, what is your first command?”

Your child thought seriously for a second. Then they said, “Go faster.”

Johnny laughed. “A bold choice.”

He lowered his voice, pretending to grip an invisible wheel. “Then it is done.”

The three of you stayed like that for a while, huddled together under the blanket while Johnny narrated the imaginary voyage like the world’s most committed storyteller. Every thunderclap became a wave. Every flash of lightning became a lighthouse in the distance. Every burst of wind against the windows became the sea itself trying and failing to catch you.

At some point, your child’s eyelids started to droop.

You noticed first, because they were leaning more and more heavily against your side. Their breathing had slowed. Their small hand had loosened on the blanket.

Johnny noticed too. He lowered his voice even more, turning the story softer, gentler.

“And the captain,” he said, “after steering the ship through the storm, reached the island of the Golden Blanket. There, the captain found a warm bed, a safe room, and the best crew in the whole world.”

Your child’s eyes fluttered open. “Did they win?”

Johnny brushed your child’s hair back from their face. “They always win, because they’re never alone.”

That did it.

Your child gave one last sleepy smile and curled fully into the blankets. A minute later, their breathing evened out completely, the tension gone from their shoulders, their face soft in sleep.

You looked at Johnny, and he gave you a quiet smile in return, one full of that private, tired affection that made your chest ache.

“Pirates,” you whispered.

Johnny shrugged, though he looked pleased. “Worked, didn’t it?”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek, careful not to disturb the sleeping child between you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he said, settling back against the pillows, “I am a hero.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling when you did it.

Outside, the storm kept going, all thunder and rain and wind. Inside, your child slept peacefully, one hand still tangled in the blanket like they were holding on to the ship.

Johnny reached for your hand under the covers and squeezed it once, soft and certain.

“Goodnight, Captain,” he whispered.

When the Room Gets Too Loud

JOHNNY SINCLAIR X READER WORD COUNT:1576 REQUEST: OPEN

It started with the feeling that something was wrong.

Not dramatically wrong. Not the kind of wrong you could point to and explain. Just a creeping, invisible wrongness that settled into your chest while you were standing in the kitchen, staring at the half-made cup of tea on the counter.

Your hands were shaking.

You stared at them for a second, confused, as if they belonged to someone else.

The kettle was still humming. The refrigerator made its low mechanical sound. Outside, a car passed on the street. A neighbor’s dog barked once. Every little noise seemed to catch in your head and repeat itself, louder and louder, until the world felt too full of sound, too bright, too close.

You swallowed hard.

Your pulse was starting to race.

No, you told yourself. Not now.

But your breathing had already changed. Shallow. Fast. Your chest felt tight, like there wasn’t enough room inside your ribs. You pressed one hand against the counter, trying to anchor yourself, trying to remember the breathing exercise Johnny had done with you before.

In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.

You tried.

It didn’t work.

Your throat tightened as panic surged in a wave that felt impossible and humiliating all at once. You hated this part most, the way it could sneak up on you even after a good day. Even after laughing. Even after feeling normal for hours.

You heard the front door open.

Johnny’s voice floated in from the hall. “I’m home,”

Then he stopped.

You closed your eyes tightly, as if that could stop everything collapsing around you.

The sound of his footsteps changed immediately. Faster now. Closer.

“Hey,” he said, suddenly right there in the doorway. His voice was gentle, careful, like he had walked into a room full of broken glass. “Hey, look at me.”

You tried to answer, but the words caught in your throat.

Johnny didn’t ask again. He just came closer slowly, stopping in front of you so you didn’t have to move. His face softened the second he saw yours. Whatever he had been thinking when he came home disappeared completely.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “You’re safe. I’m here.”

You shook your head once, breath stuttering. “I can’t,” you managed, though the sentence collapsed halfway through.

“I know,” he said. “That’s all right. You don’t have to.”

He set his keys down somewhere behind him, then reached out but didn’t touch you yet, giving you the choice. “Can I?”

You nodded, barely.

His hands came to your upper arms, warm and steady. Not restraining. Not pushing. Just there. Grounding. He guided you away from the kitchen counter and toward the living room, one slow step at a time, like he had all the time in the world.

The room felt hazy. Far away and too close at once.

Johnny sat down on the couch and tugged you gently with him until you were beside him. Then he took one of your hands in both of his and held it against his chest.

“Feel that?” he asked.

You nodded weakly.

“My heart’s beating like I just ran a marathon,” he said. “Which is rude, because I did not run a marathon. This is all on you.”

A shaky, broken sound left you that might have been a laugh if it had more room.

“That’s it,” he murmured, seeing it. “You can laugh. Or not. Either is fine.”

You shut your eyes again, trying to keep the tears from spilling over. “I hate this.”

“I know,” he said immediately. No hesitation. No correction. No trying to fix the feeling with a pep talk. Just simple truth. “I know you do.”

Your breath was still too fast. Johnny noticed the moment your fingers curled tighter around his hand.

“Okay,” he said softly. “We are going to do one thing at a time.”

He shifted slightly so you could see him better. “Can you tell me five things you can see?”

You blinked at him.

He kept his voice low. “I’ll do it with you.”

His gaze flicked around the room. “The lamp. The blanket. Your tea on the table. The stupid plant that I keep forgetting to water. And your face.”

Even now, even like this, he made that last one sound like the most important thing in the room.

You swallowed. Your breathing was still ragged, but it had slowed a fraction.

“The couch,” you whispered.

Johnny nodded. “Good. Keep going.”

“Your shirt.”

“Excellent choice.”

“The window.”

“The carpet.”

You exhaled shakily.

“There,” Johnny said, the corner of his mouth lifting just a little. “You’re doing it.”

Your body was still trembling, but the panic had begun to loosen its grip by inches. Johnny never rushed you. He simply stayed close, one hand rubbing slow circles over your knuckles.

“Four things you can feel,” he said.

You looked down at your own hands, at his hands wrapped around them. “Your hands.”

“Good.”

“The couch.”

“Good.”

“The blanket.”

“Good.”

You hesitated. “My heart.”

Johnny’s expression changed, softening into something almost unbearably tender. “Yeah. I know.”

He waited a second, then asked, “Three things you can hear?”

You listened, really listened.

“Your voice,” you said.

“That’s one.”

“The clock.”

“Great.”

“Traffic outside.”

Johnny nodded. “Two things you can smell.”

You laughed weakly because the tea had gone cold on the counter and you could still smell its faint sweetness.

“Tea,” you murmured.

“And?”

“Your laundry detergent.”

That pulled a real smile from him. “I knew my smell would save the day.”

You snorted once, then immediately had to close your eyes because the panic still lurked at the edges, but it was softer now, less overwhelming.

“One thing you can taste,” he said.

You swallowed. “Tea.”

Johnny squeezed your hand. “There you go.”

The room was still the same room, but you were returning to it. Piece by piece, breath by breath.

Johnny rested his forehead against yours. “You’re here,” he whispered. “You’re with me. This is passing, okay? It feels awful, but it is passing.”

Your eyes stung.

“I thought I was fine,” you admitted, voice small.

“You don’t have to be fine every second,” he said. “You don’t have to earn being cared for when this happens.”

That made your throat tighten all over again, but in a different way this time. You looked at him, really looked at him, and the fear in your chest loosened enough for something else to take its place.

Relief. Love. Exhaustion.

“Can I have water?” you asked quietly.

Johnny immediately stood. “Yes. Absolutely. Best request all night.”

He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a glass before you could even manage to wipe your eyes properly. He handed it to you and sat back down at your side.

You drank slowly, the cold water soothing your throat.

“Do you want the lights lower?” he asked.

You nodded.

He got up again, dimmed the lamp, and returned, slipping back beside you like he had never left.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

He kept one hand on your back, rubbing slow, steady circles between your shoulder blades. His touch was a message all by itself: stay, breathe, rest, I’m here.

Eventually your breathing settled enough that the tightness in your chest felt more like soreness than panic. Your hands still trembled, but less. The room no longer felt sharp-edged and hostile. It just felt like home again.

Johnny kissed your temple gently. “There you are.”

You leaned into him, tired to the bone. “I’m sorry.”

His head snapped back just enough for him to look at you properly. “No.”

That single word was firm, but not harsh.

“No,” he repeated more softly. “Not one bit.”

You swallowed. “It’s just… embarrassing.”

Johnny’s expression turned thoughtful, then stubborn in that way you knew so well. “It’s not embarrassing to be hurting.”

You stared at him.

He brushed a strand of hair away from your face. “And it’s not embarrassing to need help. You’d never make me apologize for being sick, would you?”

“No,” you whispered.

“Exactly.” His thumb moved gently over your knuckles. “So don’t do that to yourself.”

Another quiet minute passed.

Then, because he knew you well enough to know when to lighten the air, he said, “For the record, you were very brave and also extremely annoying.”

Despite everything, you laughed.

“There it is,” he murmured, relieved and smiling at the sound.

You leaned against his shoulder, finally letting yourself be held properly. The shaking had mostly stopped now. The worst part had passed, like a storm moving off in the distance.

Johnny pressed a kiss to your hair.

“Next time,” he said, voice soft and steady, “we do the breathing sooner. And I am making you tea before your brain can start a coup.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “My brain did not start a coup.”

“Your brain absolutely attempted a coup,” he said. “A very rude one.”

You closed your eyes, comforted more than you could say by the normalcy of his tone, the steadiness of his hands, the fact that he did not act frightened by your fear.

You were allowed to fall apart here.

He would still be here when you did.

And when you finally whispered, “Thank you,” Johnny only kissed your forehead again and said, “Always.”

Outside, the world kept moving. Cars passed. The clock ticked. The night went on.

johnny x female!reader

warnings: alcohol and weed mentioned, kind of suggestive??

wc: 1.3k

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

3. late night

It’s nearly eleven o’clock when you get the text. It’s simple, straightforward, and a little confusing. Your breath catches slightly when you see who it’s from.

Johnny: come outside

You read it twice. And then a third time before texting back.

For what, exactly?

Five minutes pass and you start to think maybe it was supposed to be for Gat.

Johnny: oh and also wear a bathing suit

Nope. Not for Gat. You get out of bed where you were comfortable, but your curiosity gets the best of you. You rifle through your bathing suits until you find a cute one that’s pink with white stripes. You decide at the last minute to throw on a cover, because who knows what Johnny is planning at this hour. You finally make it outside to find Johnny laying in the yard.

You stifle a laugh at his appearance. He's sprawled out on the lawn in a starfish position with a beer in one hand and half of a joint in the other.

“Johnny- what the hell?” you laugh. He sits up abruptly at the sound of your voice.

“Hey! Finally, I'm bored and I don't wanna go to sleep yet.” He says excitedly. You sigh.

“Exactly how many beers have you had and- Jesus, you’re already almost through that thing.” you say, looking at the joint he’s currently bringing to his mouth. He shrugs, getting up.

“Dunno. Come on, let's go swim.” he says. You shake your head, smiling.

The two of you make your way down to Little Beach, where he hands you the beer and the joint while he swiftly takes off his shirt. You stare for a moment. You take in his lean, but toned, stomach and chest in the dark. His biceps flex as he pulls his shirt over his head. Any words you were going to say at the moment get stuck in your throat.

You clear your throat. “Uh- can I..?” you ask, nodding to the joint in your hand.

He nods his head wildly. “Yeah, do whatever you want.”

For some reason, that statement makes warmth bloom in your stomach. You ignore it, and take a hit. It goes down smoothly and you don’t cough as much this time. You take a swig of his beer to wash it down, and then gag because beer is disgusting.

“God- how do you drink this stuff? It tastes like puke.” You tell him, handing them back to him. He quickly downs the rest of it.

“Why do any of us do anything?” he says, shrugging his shoulders. You raise your eyebrows at him and grin.

“Right, right.” you nod sarcastically.

He sets his things down near his shirt and motions for you to follow him into the water. You take off your cover up and notice how his gaze lingers at your chest for a moment. You convince yourself that it’s just because he is nowhere near sober right now.

You both run across the sand and jump into the calm ocean. You splash around together laughing louder than you should be. Something touches your ankle under the water and you shriek before he puts a hand covering your mouth. He lifts a finger to his own as if saying ‘shush’.

“We can’t be too loud now, can we?” he teases. You roll your eyes at him.

“Something touched my ankle!” you whisper-yell at him.

“Oh, whatever. It was probably just some seaweed. Or a shark.” he jokes. You playfully smack his chest, but your hand doesn’t lift off for a good five seconds. You attempt to play it off by moving to float on your back. You hear him clear his throat before he does the same.

“You sure it’s a good idea to be in the ocean while you’re intoxicated?” you ask, keeping your gaze on the stars.

“You’re here, you’d save me.” he says pointedly. You laugh.

“Hm, don’t be so sure about that.” you tease. The two of you float like that for a while, and it makes you think of otters. How they float together at night, holding hands so they don’t drift apart. Except you and Johnny weren’t holding hands. You were close, but not touching. Maybe you wish you were.

“Johnny?” you ask, breaking the silence.

“Hm?” he mumbles.

You wait for a moment before asking your question. It’s nothing serious and you don’t know why you’re nervous all of the sudden.

“What’s your life like?” you start, “off-island, I mean.”

He waits a beat before answering.

“Not much different.” he chuckles, “Well, yeah. It's different. Living in New York with My mom, Will, Ed, and Gat is… different.”

You stop floating on your back and stand in the water, listening to him. He does the same. He doesn't look directly at you when he speaks, but you don’t mind.

“Different how?” you question, unable to stop yourself from asking. Again you think, I guess his life isn’t as perfect as I had imagined it was.

He shrugs. “Well after my dad…” he pauses, looking up at you. “You know Ed isn’t my actual dad, right?”

You laugh softly. “No, yeah. I kinda figured.” a slight smile appears on his lips.

“My dad wasn’t the greatest dude. He had his issues, we all do. But, uh, he wasn’t good for us. So just being with Ed, it feels… lighter, I guess? If that makes any sense-” he rambles. You nod, understanding. You contemplate whether or not now would be a good time to take his hand, but you decide against it.

“It makes sense, Johnny. I get it.” you tell him. He stares at you for a moment.

“It does?”

“Yeah, it does.” You smile at him, and, finally, he smiles back. He has a beautiful smile, you think. What? Shut up, your brain corrects itself. You come back to focus to see he’s still looking at you. Gratefulness, and… something else… in his eyes. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You can both sense the tension, but neither one of you wants to say anything about it.

He speaks first, clearing his throat. “Um, yeah. Thanks. I’m feelin kind of tired now, I’ll walk you back to Cuddledown.” he says, getting out of the water.

You bite your lip to keep yourself from saying, ‘no, stay.’ You follow him out of the water anyways. He hands you a towel- when did he bring towels down?- and you wrap it around yourself. It doesn't do much in the chilly night air, but at least you have it. He wraps his own around his waist and grabs his t-shirt. He nods towards the island, silently telling you to follow him.

You walk in silence until you reach Cuddledown. All of the lights are off except yours, which you left turned on on accident in your hasty attempt to leave. You let out a small laugh at nothing at all.

“What?” Johnny chuckles.

“Nothing, nothing. I don’t know.” you tell him, “goodnight, Johnny.”

“Goodnight. Sweet dreams.” He says in a sing-song tone as he walks backwards, waving his now empty beer can in the air. You roll your eyes and laugh softly as you quietly open the front door. Once it’s shut, all of the muscles in your body relax. You make your way back to your bedroom where you don’t even bother rinsing off. It’s now one in the morning.

“Shit.” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your forehead.

You wanted to get up early so that you and the girls could go get breakfast in Edgartown. Whatever, it was worth it, you think. And it was. Johnny thought so too as he walked back to Red Gate. His walk was silent, except for the occasional hum of whatever song was stuck in his head. You knew this because he texted you almost immediately after you said good night.

Johnny: i had another beer

Johnny: Gat is awake now

Johnny: i have music stuck in my head

Johnny: sorry, goodnight

His texts make you laugh. You decide not to respond, as you’re too tired and have never been more excited to go to sleep. You decide to shower in the morning before your Edgartown outing and promptly pass out on the full bed.

boyfriend! johnny sinclair who is beyond whipped for you and doesn’t care who knows it. he’s the type to carry your bag, your water bottle, your sunglasses, and still say, “you sure you don’t need anything else, baby?” like you didn’t just hand him your entire existence.

boyfriend! johnny sinclair who always finds a way to touch you. not even in a clingy way—it’s instinct. a hand at the small of your back. fingers brushing yours as you pass him something. a knee knocking into yours under the table. like if he doesn’t remind you with his body that he’s yours, he might combust.

boyfriend! johnny sinclair who gets relentlessly mocked by the other Liars—cadence playfully shields her eyes every time you kiss. mirren fake gags every time he calls you “sweetheart”—but he never stops. gat calls him “a pathetic golden retriever.” he just grins and says, “jealousy doesn’t look good on you, gat. not my fault you can’t pull.”

boyfriend! johnny sinclair who will sit through things he hates just to be near you. beach yoga? he’s there. rom-com movie night? he brings snacks. bookstore browsing even though he reads one book a year? he’s the one carrying your stack. “whatever you’re into, i’m into,” he says. and he means it.

boyfriend! johnny sinclair who is the king of forehead kisses, hand-holding under the table, and possessive arm drapes around your shoulders when someone looks at you for even half a second too long. not in a jealous way. in a “this is mine and i’m proud of it” way.

boyfriend! johnny sinclair who teases you nonstop but turns to absolute mush the second you’re even the tiniest bit upset. affectionately teasing you is his olympic sport– and he’s a gold medalist. but if he sees he touched a subject you’re feeling particularly sensitive about one day, his heart drops from even your slightest frown. “hey, hey, no, don’t do that—you get sad, i get sad, and that’s a whole thing,” he whispers, pulling you into his chest. his apology is a whispered, “i’m sorry, i didn’t realize,” and a kiss on the forehead. 

boyfriend! johnny sinclair who knows your coffee order, your sandwich order, your favorite clothing store on the vineyard, and the weird little face you make when you’re thinking really hard. he notices everything, stores it away, and uses it like it’s second nature—because to him, it is. you’re like a second part of him.

boyfriend! johnny sinclair who, though he lets you wear his clothes whenever you want, he can’t help but give you a hard time about it. but he is a weak man when it comes to you completely melts the second he actually sees you in his clothes. 

it’s a lot of, “that sweater looks oddly familiar, hmm?” and “seems like no one loves my closet more than you do.” but his teasing is immediately followed it by: “that hoodie looks way better on you, for the record.” and when you give him a look and say “yeah?” he replies, “yeah. you’re ruining my life a little bit.” 

because seeing you swallowed in something twice your size—sleeves past your hands, yet looking effortlessly at home just because it’s his? it drives him insane. in the best possible way.

boyfriend! johnny sinclair who would absolutely fight someone for you, no hesitation—but also proofreads your texts when you’re nervous, walks you home in the dark, holds your hand when you’re sad, and kisses your tears when you can’t hold them back. because that’s the real kind of protection.

boyfriend! johnny sinclair who is more than just your boyfriend—he’s your best friend. he’s the person who knows what kind of silence means you’re just tired, and what kind means something’s wrong. he’s the one who’ll sneak out with you at midnight just because you said you felt restless. the one who makes you laugh when your chest feels heavy. the one who says “talk to me,” and actually wants to hear it. you’re more than just connected to him, you’re comfortable with him. you don’t feel like you need to always look your best or feel your best, because he can handle every version of you. he wants to. 

he wants to see you in your sleepy hoodie and messy hair. 

he wants to hear your unfiltered rants about things no one else understands.

he wants to lie on the floor with you when the world feels too loud.

he wants to hear the stories you’ve never told anyone else.

boyfriend! johnny sinclair who doesn't just say "i love you"—he shows it a hundred different ways, every single day.

reckless! johnny sinclair who dives headfirst into danger without thinking twice. he’s the first one to jump off the highest cliffside, the one who races storms on the water just for the thrill. he grins at risk. he dares it to break him. it’s not about showing off or proving anything to people. Its just that, sometimes it’s just easier to feel anything than nothing at all.

reckless! johnny sinclair who runs straight into fights — physical or emotional. It’s his bad habit, his addiction to being hurt. he doesn’t know how to sit with pain unless it’s loud. unless it leaves a mark. quiet suffering terrifies him — because no one sees it, and no one saves you from it. and beyond his own mind, his protector instincts are loud. if someone talks about you behind your back, if someone disrespects one of the Liars — johnny doesn’t hesitate. he yells. he hits walls. he says things he’ll regret. and later, he stares at his hands like he doesn’t know what they’ve done. 

reckless! johnny sinclair who hides hurt behind impulsive grins. he’ll make a joke when he’s bleeding. say he’s fine when he’s absolutely not. he’ll walk around with bruised knuckles and say he “bumped into something.” you’re the only one he’ll let see through that. the only one who knows when to say, “johnny. stop.”

reckless! johnny sinclair who’s terrified of becoming his father — and pushes people away when he gets too close to that edge. he’ll pull away mid-argument. shut down. go quiet. not because he doesn’t care, but because he cares so much he’s afraid of hurting you with it. you once whispered, “you’re not him,” and he didn’t answer. just buried his face in your shoulder and let you hold him.

reckless! johnny sinclair who is so gentle with you it contradicts everything else about him. he brushes your hair behind your ear like it’s sacred. unzips his hoodie and places it over your shoulders before you even say you're cold. lets everyone else think he’s all teeth — but you know the truth: he’d never hurt you. not even by accident. never.

reckless! johnny sinclair who apologizes with actions, not words. he buys you your favorite snacks after a fight. leaves notes scribbled on napkins with half-hearted jokes. stays close without saying anything, just so you know he's still trying. it’s not perfect— it’s deflecting— and you want him to tell you, actually tell you, when he’s sorry. because flowers doesn’t make up for your tears. but an explanation maybe could. he’s working on it. for you. to be able to give you the best version of himself.

oblivious! johnny sinclair who looks at you like you hung the damn sky. like no one else in the world makes him feel as excited, as safe, as real. but when you look at him the same way—soft, full of something too big for words—he chalks it up to how long you’ve known each other. “they're just like that,” he tells himself. “they love people hard.”

oblivious! johnny sinclair who throws his arm around your shoulders when you’re walking down the beach and doesn’t notice the way your entire body stills for half a second. he leans on you, comfortable. familiar. and you’re trying to breathe like your heart isn’t already wrecked.

oblivious! johnny sinclair who rants about the people you date. you tell yourself it cant possibly be because he’s jealous—oh no. he says things like, “you could do so much better,” and “why do you always go for people like that?” and “you deserve someone who actually sees you.” the irony is so loud it could shatter glass.

oblivious! johnny sinclair who tells you things like, “you’re my favorite person,” and “it’s always better when you’re around,” like it’s the most casual truth in the world. he says it with his whole chest, heart on display. and then never once pauses to ask why you always go quiet after. why you blink a little too fast.

oblivious! johnny sinclair who hugs you like it’s second nature. drags you into his side on the couch. falls asleep with your head on his shoulder. says, “you’re my person,” like that doesn’t mean everything. like he hasn’t already ruined you for anyone else.

oblivious! johnny sinclair who texts you “come outside” at 1 a.m. because he couldn’t sleep and wanted to go for a walk. he thinks you see it as just a best friend thing. he doesn’t know that you spend the whole walk pretending you’re not falling deeper in love every time he softly hums along to the song stuck in his head.

unraveling! johnny sinclair who doesn’t always know he’s coming undone. sometimes it starts small—his leg bouncing, his jaw tight, his voice just a little too sharp. other times it hits like a wave: fists clenched, vision blurry, chest tight. he doesn’t want to talk about it, not right away. he doesn’t know how. he just paces, pushes his hair back, and mutters, “i just— i need a second, okay?” and you know him well enough to understand exactly the space he needs— his own air to breathe, but you close enough to hold. 

unraveling! johnny sinclair who keeps telling himself he’s not like his dad—but sometimes he sees it. in the way his voice echoes too loudly when he snaps. in the way his anger feels so fast, so hot, and so impossible to stop once it’s burning. and then afterward, the guilt is worse. but he doesn’t cry. he just sits on the floor, silent, breathing like the air is poison.

unraveling! johnny sinclair who can't differentiate himself from his anger. he needs you for that. he needs to hear you say the words he hopes to be true. that he is more than his worst moments. that he is allowed to get angry but not be an angry person. he doesn't agree with you when you say it, not verbally. but he doesn't stop you— just listens to the person who knows him the best and hopes you do really know him better than he knows himself.

unraveling! johnny sinclair who can’t handle seeing his mom spiral. again. the bottles, the slurred voice, the way she forgets what day it is. he pretends it doesn't get to him but the second he’s alone, it hits him like a gut punch. the helplessness. the shame. the aching hope that this time will be different. (it never is.) 

unraveling! johnny sinclair who you find one day sitting in the grass behind Red Gate, head in his hands. his eyes downcast, his voice hoarse, he says, “don’t say she’ll get better.” you sit beside him, joining him on the ground, and say, “i won’t. but i’ll sit with you until it stops hurting.” he flicks his eyes to you with a look you can’t place. 

unraveling! johnny sinclair who doesn't believe he's a good person. he plays the part—cracks jokes, protects the people he loves, and tells his cousins he’s got them no matter what—but deep down? he’s terrified he’s not doing enough. that his heart is heavier than his actions, and that under all of it is something darker. he even says it to you one night, in a whisper, “i think i might be a bad person.” 

unraveling! johnny sinclair who silently listens when you tell him with the most confidence he has ever heard from you that he is not a bad person. you tell him like it's an indisputable fact that he simply loves hard, protects, cares. he wears his heart on his sleeve, and when it bleeds, he doesn’t always know how to hide it. but that doesn't make him a bad person. it makes him human. 

unraveling! johnny sinclair—who’s used to deflecting with sarcasm, who’s mastered the art of pretending he’s fine— finally goes still. just stunned into silence. his hands freeze mid-motion. his jaw slackens, ever so slightly. he blinks, and you can almost see the words land like a weight he didn’t expect to carry. he doesn’t know how to respond. because no one’s ever said that to him...not like this. not with conviction. so he swallows hard, stares at the floor, then at you. like he’s trying to decide whether he’s allowed to believe you. but he does. because it’s you. and he has never trusted anyone like he trusts you. 

unraveling! johnny sinclair who finally allows himself to let down the walls he fought so hard to put up. who stops brushing off your concern with a joke or a halfhearted “i’m fine.” who lets the silence stretch between you without trying to fill it, realizing that not all quiet is dangerous. that this silence, with you, is safe. and even the talks, the real conversations, don’t feel like don’t feel like traps, or tests, or puzzles he’s supposed to solve just right. they feel like being seen, and for once, liking it. 

unraveling! johnny sinclair who always thought being strong meant being okay. holding it together. taking the hit. smiling through it. until you showed him a different kind of strength—the kind that lets someone see you crack open. the kind that doesn’t flinch when you say, “i’m scared i’ll end up just like them.” the kind that says, “then let me remind you who you really are.”

observant! johnny sinclair who notices when your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. everyone else laughs, keeps talking—but johnny’s watching. tucked into the corner of the room with a drink in hand, eyebrows drawn together slightly. he doesn’t call you out, but he’s got his eye on you.

observant! johnny sinclair who picks up on the tiny shifts. you wore your hair different? he clocked it before you said a word. you’re fidgeting with the necklace you only pull on when you’re nervous? he’s carefully watching you twist it between your fingers.

observant! johnny sinclair who sees the way you shrink a little when people interrupt you. so he always makes sure you get to finish your sentence. doesn’t matter if someone cuts you off—he’ll circle it back: “wait, what were you saying?” and then he listens. fully.

observant! johnny sinclair who always spots you in a crowd first. doesn’t matter how many people are at the bonfire, or how dim the boathouse lighting is—his eyes find you like it’s instinct. he’ll be in mid-conversation and go still for just a second, eyes only on you. 

observant! johnny sinclair who notices the books on your nightstand, the ones you keep picking up but never finish. he likes to tease you, just to watch the way your face scrunches up when he picks up a half-read book and says, “didn’t peg you as a quitter.” you roll your eyes as he holds up a book of his own. “never read it,” he says, when you raise an eyebrow at him, “but the lady at the bookstore said it was popular, and it sounded like something you’d get.” 

observant! johnny sinclair who remembers the smallest details and pretends it’s no big deal. he brings up something you mentioned offhand two months ago like it’s no big deal. he turns his head to you when he hears a song play that you once said made you sad. he brings you tea on a rainy day saying, “chamomile for this weather, right?” he says it like it’s nothing. but it’s everything.