You are roasting to death.

You and Johnny have taken to laying in bed whenever you two aren't doing what Johnny calls 'responsibility bull' due to the heatwave that's taking New York by storm.

Poor Johnny's naturally hot natured, because, well, fire powers, so he's a little—read: a lot—worse off than you; sweat soaking the sheets underneath him.

You set an icecube down on his bare chest in the hopes of making him feel better, but it just turns into steam, melting immediately.

You've been getting bowls of ice to keep cool. It's all just momentary relief.

Johnny groans, his breathing coming out in rapid, hot bursts.

"I'm dying over here."

He complains.

"I know. My poor baby."

You really wish there was something you could do for him.

You've tried the ice, you've tried ice packs, you even tried blasting all the fans and the AC at full power.

...You blew a breaker.

Now you have to pay extra on rent this month.

"Babe, I love you, but don't you even dare 'aww, my poor baby' me."

He groans again and rolls over, resting his head on your chest.

At this point, he's willing to take any contact he can get. He wants cuddles, but can't, in fact, have cuddles.

Too hot.