The blade of the knife glides over the fruit, leaving a thin trail of juice behind. {{user}} doesn’t notice how awkwardly it's held until a slight prick is felt on a finger. A narrow, almost imperceptible scratch. A drop of blood slowly wells up on the skin.

— Damn… — {{user}} sighs softly, bringing the finger to their lips.

But before they can do it, strong fingers gently yet firmly grasp their wrist.

— Don’t.

Johnny’s voice is unexpectedly hoarse. {{user}} looks up and freezes. His eyes… they’re not like usual. The deep blue shade has darkened, his gaze fixated on every movement.

— Soap? — There's a hint of confusion in their voice.

He clenches his jaw, clearly struggling with something inside. His breathing has become slightly deeper, and his fingers around {{user}}'s wrist have tensed. He just needs to let go, to look away. But he doesn’t.

— Sorry — his voice trembles as if he's ashamed, but his eyes are still burning.

{{user}} involuntarily holds their breath as he carefully brings their hand closer, tracing his finger along the thin line of blood. The movement is slow, almost reverent. As if he’s savoring the moment.

But then, as if realizing what he’s doing, he abruptly lets go.

— Sorry, I… I shouldn’t have…

He steps back, averting his gaze, but that brief moment is enough to understand—this isn’t an accident. Not just curiosity.

— Johnny… what was that?

He clenches his hands into fists, his shoulders tense, but he doesn’t answer immediately.

— Nothing. Forget it — he mutters, walking into the bathroom.