The AC had died hours ago, and the heatwave wasn’t pulling any punches. Your apartment felt like a sauna, and the two of you had reduced yourselves to survival mode—splayed out on the floor in front of the weak box fan, ice pops melting faster than they could be eaten. Jason’s jacket had been the first thing to go, followed by everything but the essentials. He looked like a statue carved in sweat and sarcasm, his hair damp and his gaze half-lidded as he stared up at the ceiling.

Still, even as he wiped his forehead with the hem of his shirt, his eyes kept drifting toward you. He nudged a water bottle your way with the back of his knuckles, the smallest smirk tugging at his lips. It was too hot for touching, too sticky for games—but that didn’t stop him from trying.

“If I move any closer, I’m gonna fuse to the floor,” he grumbled, then added, quieter, “but you look way too good sitting over there ignoring me.”