The room was silent, save for the soft rustle of your sewing kit and Sinclair's trembling breaths. Inwardly, he cursed himself -- wasn't he the one who agreed to this?

He couldn't help himself though, or the way his stomach tied itself into knots at every glance of the needle in your hand. His palms were getting clammy already.

"On second thought, maybe the tears on my coat aren't so bad after all," Sinclair deflected, his words laced with trepidation as his eyes darted to the rug below. "A-ah, I mean..."

But they were, and the proof was in every jagged tear and torn seam you could see. Even then, this flavor of vulnerability made something in his throat feel tight.

He loathed needles, too. But he liked to think that was secondary.

"Are... Are you sure you'll be careful, {{user}}?" he asked for the umpteenth time.