Page 20 of Puck You Both

Wall doesn’t move. His jaw does.

"It helps if you breathe," I add.

"I'm breathing," he says.

"You sure? Seems like you've been holding that same breath since the doorway."

The muscle in his cheek jumps. Which doorway, he does not ask, because we both know I didn't mean this one.

I snap the first latch and rise toward the second, slow, letting my shoulder drag along the panel. And his hand.

"Angle it toward me?"

He does.

"More."

He does.

"Little more."

He lets out an audible exhale through his nose. When I glance up, his face is twice as taut as before.

"See, this is nice," I say, thumbing the latch. "Teamwork. You hold things in place, I handle the delicate mechanism, everybody gets what they need."

Nothing.

"You're very tense for a man doing charity."

His ears have been climbing toward maroon the entire time, and honestly, I could do this all day. He's stone everywhere except those two body parts that keep snitching on him.

So I go for the throat. I look up at him from the latch, big-eyed, summoning my most innocent expression, and say, "You know, if you want a better view, you can always come closer."

Wall looks down at me, and doesn’t avert his gaze this time. Instead, he holds my stare for a moment that drags toward infinity. Then, "I didn't need one last time."

The latch snaps shut on my thumb.

"Fucking— Son of a diseased moose—" I yank my hand back and jam my thumb in my mouth.

He said it. He actually acknowledged it. Days of institutional silence and he chose now, in a closet, with a comeback so dry I need lotion.

Wall turns the panel upright. "Careful with the latches."

I stare at him. He looks exactly the same as thirty seconds ago—stone face, red ears. Except his eyes have narrowed a little at the corners, a self-administered standing ovation.

I've got nothing. For the first time since juniors, somebody chirped me and I've got nothing.

We finish the crate in silence. The second goes faster. By the third, he's stopped checking the instructions, and I've stopped pretending I'm not watching those hands work the latches, thumb and forefinger, zero effort, and if I don't get out of this alcove soon, I'm going to say something that gets me banned from charity as a concept.

When we carry the last crate out, Mama Paws clasps her hands. “Perfect. You make a wonderful team.”

“He’s excellent with his hands,” I say.

Wall walks into the doorframe.

God, I love charity.

***