Sam sucks in a deep breath to be released in a long, controlled exhale. That gives her a point of focus as the knife cuts into her skin: slow, measured, careful; entirely unlike every other time that knife has gone into her. If a blade could caress, it would feel like this. That almost makes her burst into laughter for how ridiculous it sounds, a thought tailor-made for those baby pink Tumblr blogs that Sam learned to block on sight, before she got the chance to stumble across the inevitable violent fantasy set to yearbook photos of Billy Loomis.

It doesn't make any anatomical sense, but Sam can almost feel her pulse throbbing at the wrist, just under his fingertips. She accepts the knife back without thinking, realizing immediately that she should have reached for the spare strip of his shirt instead, to get started dressing her wound. An easy fix would be to pull her hand free from his grip. Sam does not do that.