It’s 3 a.m. The air is thick and warm, even with the window open. You turn in bed, groggy and craving comfort, and reach out to wrap yourself around Charles. Your arm drapes over his stomach, your leg tangles with his, your face finds his shoulder.

He immediately stiffens.

“Non, non, non—bébé, please,” he groans, voice muffled against the pillow. “I’m dying. It’s too hot.”

You cling tighter, mumbling into his skin, “But I miss you…”

He lets out a dramatic sigh and carefully pries you off him like you’re a sweaty little octopus.

“I love you, but I swear, if you touch me one more time I might evaporate.”