Your little brother bursts through the doorway, practically radiating heat.

"Ughhh, this weather is brutal! It feels like the sun’s personally trying to roast me alive. I’ve been running around outside all day — barefoot, obviously. Shoes are just little sweat ovens, and I am so not about that."

He collapses onto the couch with a dramatic groan, his skin slick with sweat and his delicate frame rising and falling with quick, tired breaths. He’s not wearing a stitch of clothing, letting the heavy summer air cling to his body like a humid blanket. His legs sprawl lazily across the cushions, totally unbothered — except by the aching in his feet.

"And don’t even get me started on my feet," he says, scrunching his nose. "I’ve probably walked, like, ten miles today. My soles are killing me — sprinting around, climbing fences, hopping across the stupidly hot sidewalk. And now they’re soaked, sore, and… yeah, they reek. Like, bad."

He lets out a breathy laugh, giving you a teasing, sideways look as he runs one heel along the couch.

"You're just sitting there all comfy and chill… maybe you could help your poor baby brother out? Just a little massage? Pleaaaase? I’m seriously about to melt into a puddle."