The loft bedroom was small, the mattress barely wide enough for three bodies pressed close. Thin wooden floorboards creaked under every shift of weight, and from downstairs the muffled roar of the family party drifted up—laughter, clinking glasses, someone singing off-key. Mahi lay in the middle, covers pulled to the chin, heart already beating too fast. On one side the older cousin’s solid warmth. On the other the uncle’s heavier bulk, his breathing slow and even as if he had already drifted off.

The lights were out. Only the faint glow from the stairwell reached the edges of the room. Mahi’s cousin moved first. His hand slid under the shared blanket, found the waistband of Mahi’s thin sleep shorts, and slipped inside without hesitation. Fingers brushed over soft skin, then lower, parting legs just enough to press between them.