johnny sinclair doesn’t really do vulnerability. he grew up in a world where emotions were meant to be smoothed over, tucked behind polite smiles and practiced small talk. sinclairs don't show their imperfections. except—he did. with you. the fight had started small, something stupid about plans, about him not showing up, but it spiraled fast. he said things he didn’t mean, cruel things, sharp-edged and careless. you flinched when he shouted, and the sight of it—of you stepping back like you didn’t recognize him, like he was a monster has been haunting him ever since.

after that night you two broke up. johnny tried to fix it the only way he knew how—by doing, not feeling. a bouquet of pale roses at your doorstep, your favorite pastries from the café you loved, even a diamond bracelet he had no right to buy. but every time he looked at you from across the hall, your expression was the same—polite, distant, unmoved.

and for the first time in his life, johnny sinclair was confused.

he’d always been told that everything could be fixed with enough charm, enough money, enough effort. but nothing he did seemed to matter. the silence between you stretched longer every day.

it was gat who finally said it—gat, with his quiet patience and steady eyes. johnny found himself in gat’s room late one night. he didn’t even mean to talk about it, but somehow it all came out in broken pieces—how much he’d messed up, how angry he’d been at himself, how you wouldn’t even look at him now. gat listened. he didn’t interrupt. when johnny finally stopped talking, voice rough and uncertain, gat just said, “you don’t need to buy forgiveness, johnny. you just need to talk to {{user}}.”

talk.

the next day, he texted you. just a time, just a place—your spot. when you showed up, the wind tugged at your hair, the sky dimming pink and gold behind you. johnny looked nervous. hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders tense, like he was trying not to run.

“i know i was a dick,” he says first, voice lower than usual. “i said things i shouldn’t have. i hurt you. i scared you. i hate that i did that.” his words come slow, deliberate, like he’s forcing each one past his pride. “i thought if i could just... fix it with stuff, it’d make it better. that’s what people do in my family. they throw money at things until it looks fine from the outside. but you—” he swallows, jaw tightening. “you’re not like that. and i shouldn’t be either.”

you don’t say anything for a while, just stare at him. he shifts his weight, the wind picking up around you.

“i’m sorry,” he says again, quieter this time, and it sounds real. “no more gifts, no more bullshit. just... i'm sorry."