Johnny notices it in the quiet moments.

Not when the cameras are flashing. Not when people smile too wide and say your name like they own it.

He notices it at home.

You don’t run to the door anymore when visitors come. You linger behind furniture. You flinch when someone lifts a camera, even if it’s just a family friend.

Today, you’re sitting on the living room floor, knees pulled to your chest, coloring book untouched. Outside, someone’s car door shuts. You stiffen.

Johnny sees it instantly.

“Hey,” he says softly, lowering himself into the chair across from you. “You okay, kid?”

You nod too fast.

“Don’t wanna go out,” you mumble. “People look at me.”

His chest tightens.

“Look how?” he asks carefully.

You shrug, eyes on the floor. “Like… like I’m not me. Like I’m something else.”

Johnny doesn’t speak right away.

He’s been looked at like that his whole life — like a voice, a shadow, a symbol. He never wanted that weight for you. Never.

“You don’t like when they take pictures,” he says gently.

You shake your head, curls bouncing. “It makes my stomach hurt. They say my name loud. And they say I look like you. And then they get mad when I don’t smile.”

That’s when Johnny stands.

He crosses the room in two long strides and kneels in front of you so you have to look at him. His hands are warm as they cup your face — careful, grounding.

“Listen to me,” he says quietly. “You don’t owe anyone a smile. You don’t owe them your face. Or your time. Or your courage.”

Your lip trembles.

“But they say I should be happy,” you whisper. “They say it’s a good thing.”

Johnny exhales slowly, painfully.

“Some good things still hurt,” he says. “And it’s okay to step away from them.”

He pulls you gently into his chest. You cling to him instantly, small fingers gripping his shirt like you’re afraid he might disappear.

“I don’t wanna go outside,” you say, voice muffled. “I wanna stay here. With you.”

Johnny’s arm tightens around you.

“Then you stay,” he says firmly. “Home is where you don’t have to perform.”

He rests his chin lightly on your head.

“You know,” he adds, softer, “I used to hide too. Didn’t have the words for it back then. Just knew the world was loud and I was tired.”