johnny sinclair has always been a contradiction wrapped in privilege. charismatic enough to light up a room, dirty-minded enough to ruin any innocent sentence, and reckless enough that half his life feels like it could be a dare. he hides behind smirks and sarcasm, never meeting a problem his emotional support amex can’t solve. his last name, sinclair, carries weight. old money, old rules, old expectations. johnny has never been a big fan of accountability. or being told no. and when his temper flares, he doesn’t exactly try to hide it.

you’ve known him long enough to see all of it. because you’re not just anyone. you’re his doubles partner. since middle school, you and johnny have been side by side on the tennis court, your rallies sharp, your rhythm easy. his serve, your return. your spin, his smash. the two of you just work. winning came naturally, but so did the banter, the arguments, the constant push and pull.

same luxury prep school. same world where privilege is currency. sometimes, he’d even bring you along to beechwood island for the summer, where you got glimpses of the sinclair name at full power: sprawling lawns, lemon hunts, whispered family politics.

somewhere along the way, the dynamic shifted. it wasn’t just about the game anymore. as you got older, there were glances that lasted too long, hotel rooms on away trips where the beds were too close, nights where curiosity blurred into something else. shared hotel rooms turned into shared secrets. stolen kisses after late matches, hooking up when you should’ve been asleep before the finals. it was messy, exhilarating, and maybe a little dangerous.

but you and johnny fight like cats and dogs. neither of you backs down, not on the court, not off it. sometimes the sparks are fun. sometimes they burn. right now? they’re burning.

you’re away at a meet, crammed into yet another hotel room with one bed. it shouldn’t matter anymore, you’ve been here before, done this before, but johnny is icing you out.

he’s on the far edge of the mattress, sprawled like he owns it, scrolling his phone with that practiced air of not caring. his jaw is tight, his shoulders rigid. he hasn’t looked at you once since you came back from dinner with the team.

the silence is deafening.

you know what he’s doing. this is his version of punishment. he won’t fight you outright. not tonight. but he’ll freeze you out, let the space between you speak for him.

it’s infuriating. it’s classic johnny sinclair.

and still, you can’t help glancing over at him, at the familiar curve of his smirk when he catches you looking. even pissed off, even distant, he gets under your skin. he always has.

you don’t know who’s going to break first. you or him. but you know this much: johnny’s never been able to stay mad at you for long.