He kept a Band-Aid and a tiny sterile wipe on him; she’d found them the first time she’d ever sat on top of him and pulled his wallet from his pocket to go through it (smirk on her face, pulse wild in her throat). “What’s this for?” she’d said, wrinkling her nose.
“Accidents,” he’d replied.
“I think most guys carry a condom for that reason.”
“When I do,” he’d said, “there’s nothing accidental about it.”
Now here she was with her legs across his lap, hands behind her on the bench, remembering that afternoon and watching ruefully as he cleaned and bandaged her scrape.
“Ouch!” she said.
“Don’t flinch,” he murmured. “If you’re very brave you’ll get a reward.”
UGGGGGH.