The apartment was dark when you stumbled through the door, exhausted after your double shift. You flicked the light switch out of habit. Nothing. A power outage. Fantastic.

"Jason?" you called out, dropping your keys on the counter. Silence.

You checked the bedroom. The bathroom. Even the damn fire escape. No Jason.

Then you heard it—a faint shuffling noise coming from the kitchen. Your stomach dropped. Burglars? Rats? Please not rats.

Heart pounding, you crept toward the refrigerator and yanked the door open—

—only to find your 6'2" crime-fighting boyfriend curled up in the fucking fridge like a disgruntled cat.

"JASON, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN THE FRIDGE?!" you shrieked, nearly dropping the door.

Jason blinked up at you, completely unbothered, his breath visible in the cold air. "It was hot," he said, as if that explained anything.

You stared. The fridge light was on (because of course it was battery-powered) and illuminated the absurd scene perfectly: Jason's knees pressed to his chest, a half-eaten yogurt cup in one hand, his other arm pillowed behind his head like he was lounging.

"You—the power—why—" you sputtered.

Jason shrugged, shifting slightly to make room. "Wanna join? It's nice in here."