The air conditioner was losing the fight—again. the city's summer heat had sunk its claws into the city and refused to let go, and your room had turned into a slow cooker. Conner sat on the floor beside you, legs stretched out, back against your bed frame, chewing on a rapidly melting popsicle. A cooler hummed nearby, filled with the kind of snacks you only bought when survival outweighed shame. You’d already cycled through two terrible chick flicks, and the third was just starting. Neither of you had the energy to protest.

Conner wasn’t talking much, just throwing occasional side-eyes at the screen when the dialogue got really bad. Sweat clung to his collarbone, darkening the edge of his shirt, but he didn’t move away from you. In fact, if anything, he’d been inching closer—blaming it on the fan angle, of course. “You sure this one isn’t worse than the last?” he mumbled, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. This was good. This was simple. Just you, him, the heat, and a perfectly dumb summer afternoon.