She lifted the cover, and only then did he notice it was Mom’s bese saka shawl. It must have been tangled up with the sleeping bags in the dark under-the-stairs closet. He couldn’t back down now, so he wormed closer to her under the cover, bracing for another punch line. Almost winced when his upper arm grazed her elbow. She drew in a long, impatient breath, as if gathering steam. Here it came, but what now?

“What you doing?”

“I thought,” he stammered, “you said.”

She grabbed his arm with both hands. Lifted it up, over, then around her, setting his palm on the spade of her hip bone. She wound a leg over his, nuzzled her check against his chest. A faint patch of heat warmed his belly when she said, “Sure are sensitive, huh, Hen?”

“Am not.”

“Are too.” She pinched his nipple. The truck rocked.

“Maybe a little.”

She was so compact in his arm. Less machete, more switchblade, and even though she scared him, it was so easy to press her tight against him. They were coiled so close it didn’t matter that his question was softer than a whisper. “Promise not to tell anyone?”

“I don’t promise shit.”

She used a fistful of his shirtfront to hoist herself up. She kissed him. His neck was cranked into a painful angle, but relief wasn’t worth screwing this up. His lips stiffened with the same mute idiocy as before, but she was persistent. Her jaw coaxed his lips to match the pace of hers. A tongue found its way past the ridge of his teeth, wriggled, prodding around almost curiously. His tongue was the only mushy part left of him. Every other tendon was yanked taut between the fear of both cleaving this contact and deciding what to do next. He held his breath, stuffing down an exhale that might waft her away. His lungs constricted and burned, his vision fogged, but he couldn’t risk breathing, couldn’t risk letting her go.

That held breath exploded in a snort. A gasp, then ragged coughs. As he wheezed through an apology, her hand dipped past his belt buckle and into his jeans.

A snicker escaped her. But this time it sounded more inviting, more playful, laughing with him instead of at him. Her fingers crept through bristle and lower still, then found him, strapped stiff against his inner thigh. She gave it a stern tug, as if trying to squeeze out any last hiccups of anxiety. It worked.