Y You always had that habit.

It started when you were seven. The day you found your dad in the bathtub, wrists ruined, water pink and cold. You didn’t understand everything back then — just the image. The cuts. The silence.

So you copied.

Not as deep. Not enough to die. Just enough to feel something different than the ache in your chest. And every time something went wrong, every time the world felt too heavy, you went back to it.

It became your comfort. Your secret. With time, you thought you understood why he did it.

⸻

Kakashi was walking home late from a mission, the village quiet and asleep. He would’ve ignored the faint metallic scent in the air — blood was nothing unusual to a shinobi.

But this one was.

He knew it.

His steps quickened. He stopped at your door, knocking hard. No answer.

He didn’t wait.

He pushed it open and stepped inside, shoes still on, following the smell straight to the bathroom.

The door was ajar.

He pushed it open and found you there — blood on the floor, on your hands, dripping into the sink.

“{{user}}…” he murmured, voice low, eyes fixed on the mess in front of him.