It was that kind of heat—the kind that made you kick the blankets off in your sleep and forget they’d ever been there. The kind that sent the electricity bills climbing because the air clung to your skin, because the sidewalks burned and melted the soles of your shoes into the concrete. Summer sat heavy over the city, turning it into a burning restaurant of noise and smells, oil and sugar and sweat. White walls reflected the sun like paper held too close to a flame, so bright it hurt your eyes, forcing you to squint no matter how many times you told yourself you’d get used to it.

You never did.

You slathered on too much sunscreen—always too much—but somehow never too much for this kind of heat. The kind where cuddling was thrown straight out the window, replaced by rolling over and claiming the colder side of the bed like it was a small victory. Cold, cold sheets against overheated skin. Nights where the window stayed open, no arguments, letting in the cooler breeze and the layered sounds of the city: distant traffic, a late train, someone laughing three floors down, cicadas humming like they owned the place.

You and Akito Yamada had moved in together.

Somehow, quietly—like most things with him.

He’d finished school. Now college. You were still rolling through yours, one more year… maybe two. Who was counting? Summer had arrived, and with it came slower days, fewer side jobs. Tourists still came and went, but the work wasn’t as demanding, not enough to steal all your energy. Still, summer days were long and exhausting in their own way. It felt like a duty to go outside, to exist in the sun. You packed ice cream into the freezer, filled trays with ice, promised yourself it would help.

The heat made you sleepy anyway.

You passed out on the bed with your phone still in your hand, some video playing on loop—low voices, soft music. The screen cast a bluish glow across the room, illuminating everything except Yamada’s setup, which was already alive with light. His PC hummed softly. The keyboard flickered beneath his fingers as he played Forest of Savior, keys clicking in a steady rhythm. His voice was low in his headset, calm and flat as he spoke to the other players.

“…yeah. I’ll take aggro.” That had become the routine. Night sessions. You half-watching him play, or sleeping there, worn out, the coziness of the room pressing sleep deeper into your bones. Sometimes he stood up to check on you—brushing hair from your face, adjusting the phone before it slipped from your hand. Sometimes he just looked. Sometimes he muttered something under his breath that you never quite caught, even in your sleep.

But it always felt safe.

Casual, almost boring from the outside—but rare. Rare to fall asleep feeling that secure, that peaceful, simply because someone else was there. Your boyfriend, sitting a few feet away, existing in the same quiet space.

At some point, he stood.

He set his headphones down on the desk. The room lights dimmed slightly as he moved, soft LEDs glowing along the walls. He walked over to the bed, careful, and turned your phone off. His fingers brushed your head, your shoulder—barely there, just enough to check, just enough to ground himself. Then he left the room.

Minutes passed.

The fridge opened. Closed. Tap water ran, then stopped. When he came back, the PC’s soft buzz filled the room again, mixing with the sounds drifting in through the open window. He sat back down in the gaming chair.

You shifted.

Your eyes opened, heavy and unfocused, drugged with sleep. The room felt unreal for a second—lights, shadows, sound all slightly delayed. Yamada turned at the movement, glancing over his shoulder.

“…Did I wake you?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head, barely there. “Mm.” He watched you for a second longer than necessary, eyes gentle, unreadable. “Go back to sleep.”

“…You’re still playing?”

“Just a bit more.”

You nodded, already fading again. He turned back to his screen, but not before adding, softer— The keyboard resumed its quiet clicking. The city breathed outside.