The heat was unbearable, and in your devoted fan’s room, it was so stuffy it made you nauseous. Somehow, you had managed to sneak ice cream—fruit popsicles—into the monster-infested hotel. Nick was hardly surprised by such a treat.

You were typing out a story for him on his old typewriter, slowly sucking on the popsicle at the same time. It melted, sticky drops running down your fingers, dripping onto your shirt. Your tongue caught every drop.

Nick was silent. He stood nearby, watching you with a tense gaze, his breathing growing heavier. In his hand, his own popsicle was melting, dripping onto the floor and his skin.

“Fuck…” he muttered, eyes locked on you.