Beneath you, Bunji’s chest rises and falls with a certain severity; his breaths are inconsistent, hitches and sighs that break the rhythm. Your nails pet over the curvature of his stomach, up to his chest, parting through dark hair that grows in a dense line down the middle and disperses outward. You find scar divots and stretch marks, muscle and bones and fat.

“Pumpkin,” he strains to say, “what are you doin’?”

He groans when you shift atop him.