Y/n's bare feet padded across the cool tile floor, the sleep-addled brain fixating on a single, inexplicable thought. Pineapple. The word echoed through the fog of drowsiness like a beacon. Not the canned kind, not the chunks in a fruit salad—the whole, fresh, golden fruit sitting in the crisper drawer of the massive industrial refrigerator.

The fridge door opened with a soft sigh. There it was. One perfect pineapple, its spiky crown catching the light, the skin a pattern of diamond-shaped scales. Y/n's mouth watered. The ache was almost primal, a deep, gnawing need that made no logical sense but demanded to be satisfied.

Minutes later, the cutting board bore the evidence. The pineapple lay sliced into thick, juicy rings, the core discarded, the fragrant sweetness filling the kitchen. Y/n ate standing up, leaning against the counter, juice dripping down fingers and chin. Each bite was pure, blissful satisfaction. The craving didn't stop until the last piece disappeared.

The empty plate sat in the sink. Y/n washed hands, wiped the counter, and slipped back into the warm darkness of the hallway, leaving the evidence of the midnight raid gleaming under the dim kitchen light.