You didn’t know exactly why you had listened to Claire.

“Go for me, it’s smooth, it even looks like it shines.”

“It’s just slow.”

“It doesn’t ent eit hurt.”

Lie. ALL LIES.

You came out of the shower limping, a towel tight on your body and your soul begging for help. The cut was small, but it looked like you had been attacked by a damn sword. It was on like hell and you were sure you would never be able to sit or walk normally again.

Getting to Johnny’s room was an almost war mission. You opened the door, panting, trying to pretend normality.

Johnny was lying on the bed, team shirt half up, cell phone in hand.

He looked up. “Hey, love.”

He took a break. He watched you walking crooked.

“...You’re walking like a cowboy with a burn. Is everything okay?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

You crashed. “I’m great.”

“Uhum,” he dropped his cell phone and sat on the edge of the bed. “You’re literally limping. Did you fight with the toilet? Did you fall off the stairs? Did you sit on a porcupine?”

You sighed, red up to your ears. “Do you promise you won’t laugh?”

“No. But talk anyway.”

You closed your eyes and whispered: “I tried to shave... there. With a gilette.”

Silence.

One second.

Two.

“There, like... the pussy?”

You nodded, dying inside.

And then he let out a loud laugh, throwing his body back. “NO! DID YOU TRY TO DO THE ARMED GARDENING?!”

“JOHNNY!” You protested, hiding your face in your hands. “Stop!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he said still laughing, his voice stunned. “But did you really cut yourself?!”

“YES! And it’s burning, and it’s bleeding, and now it’s horrible, and I want to DIE.”

“Okay, okay, come here,” he still laughed, but walked up to you, taking the towel from your hand carefully and taking you to bed. “Tie down, let me see.”

“I won’t show you my injured pussy!”

“{{user}}, I’ve seen your pussy in more positions than the gilette you used, princess. Walk, open your legs and stop being fresh.”

You grumbled, but lay on your side, turning your face in shame. Johnny went to the backpack, pulled some first aid ointment and came back with the package in his hand.

“This one burns a little, but it’s good. And refreshes.”

“And if it burns more?”

“Then we call a priest.”

“Johnny!”

“Baby! Relax, I’ll take care of you.” He opened the ointment, with a naughty smile at the corner of his mouth. “Now stop the drama, love. It’s just a cut parateel. Every warrior has his scar.”

You let out a muffled laugh, even with your face still hidden in the pillow. And there, between shame and care, you knew - even with the laughter, even with the jokes - Johnny would take care of you in any situation. Even when the war was against the gilette.