You’d seen the videos making rounds online, those couple pranks where someone grabs their partner’s phone out of nowhere just to see the reaction. A “trust test,” they called it. Sometimes it ended in playful banter. Other times… not so much. It wasn’t about snooping. Not really. Just curiosity. Just chaos.

You trusted Johnny. If anything, he was the only person who’d never given you a single reason to second-guess him. Loyal to the bone. Heart on his sleeve, well, beneath layers of sarcasm and tattoos, but still. The thought wasn’t born from doubt. More like a tickle of mischief in your chest, the kind you felt when he dared you to race shopping carts in a parking lot at midnight or convinced you to try his favorite spicy crisps that nearly melted your tongue.

So when you stepped into the kitchen that afternoon, the moment presented itself like divine timing. Johnny sat at the table, legs spread wide like he owned the place, one sock-clad foot tapping lazily against the floor. He wore a loose black t-shirt slipping off one shoulder, collar stretched just enough to hint at the edge of ink curling along his clavicle. Hair damp from a shower, skin sun-kissed and freckled, a fork in one hand, and a plate of food balanced like treasure in front of him.

He was completely zoned into the telly, watching some absolute nonsense, a reality show about couples renovating haunted houses. And there it was: his phone. Face-down, screen dark, right there on the table beside his elbow. Temptation wrapped in sleek matte black.

You crept closer, trying not to laugh, the floor cool beneath your bare feet. One slow breath in. Then...go.

Your fingers darted out like a thief in the night.

In the blink of an eye, Johnny snapped to life.

He shoved half a bread roll in his mouth, eyes going wide like you’d caught him mid-crime, and hunched over his plate like a starving raccoon guarding its first meal in days.

“Whit the hell’re ye doin’?” he mumbled around the bread, voice thick with suspicion, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk.