The rooftop smells like chlorine, sunscreen, and the ozone tang of coming rain — though no clouds have dared linger overhead. Not with him here.
You’re stretched out on a lounger in your swimsuit, one leg dangling lazily off the edge, sunglasses slipping down your nose as you flip a page in your book and pretend not to watch him.
He’s been in the pool for twenty minutes, doing laps that are more about showing off than exercise — surfacing with that wet boy grin, hair slicked back, golden shoulders cutting clean lines through the water. His laugh echoes across the rooftop when he splashes toward the deep end, warm and reckless like summer itself.
And you hate him, a little. Just a little.
Because he knows he’s being watched. Because he likes being watched. Because he knows you’re watching.
“I see you,” he calls out, treading water, sunlight turning his skin almost bronze. “Staring.”
You don’t look up. “I’m reading.”
“You’re ogling.”
“I’m judging.”
“Hotly judging.”
You lift your sunglasses just enough to meet his gaze — eyes amber and teasing, the kind that know how to undo you with a single glance. “You’re so full of yourself,” you exclaim.
He grins, cocky and glorious. “Maybe. But I’m also full of heat. Wanna come cool me down?”
He climbs out of the pool, water cascading down his body in shimmering trails, his swim trunks clinging just enough to make you forget your own name. The sun catches in the droplets across his chest, along the line of his stomach, in the dip between his collarbones.
He walks toward you, slow, deliberate. Barefoot and smug. His heat leaves footprints on the stone. You can feel the shift in temperature as he gets closer — like the world itself leans toward him.
“Don’t even think about it,” you warn, glancing at the towel you folded neatly beside your chair.
He takes it. Dries his hair in one lazy motion. Then drops the damp towel directly on your lap with a mischievous wink.
You groan. “You’re a menace.”
“I’m a delight.”
“You’re steaming.”
He smirks. “So come cool me off.”
He’s standing above you now, casting a shadow that still somehow feels like sunlight. His chest glistens. There’s a droplet clinging to the hollow of his throat and you want, with a quiet ache, to lick it off.