Being famous doesn’t make the weather easier to deal with.

The world outside was all heat waves and melted sidewalks, sun glaring like it wanted to burn through skin. You had canceled plans, postponed meetings, canceled interviews. The city itself had shut down by noon.

Jenna didn’t mind at first — neither of you were strangers to the quiet hours spent indoors. She’d been staying over more and more lately. Not officially moved in, not technically. But her side of the bed was always warm by morning.

But unlike you — she didn’t know what to do with herself when trapped. She didn’t write songs. Didn’t disappear into headphones. She didn’t mix tracks or tweak verses or vanish into a haze of reverb and emotion.

You did. Because you were a rapper.

You were in your studio by the afternoon, hoodie half-zipped, gold chain brushing your collarbone as you leaned over the desk — beat looping in your headphones, lyric sheet scratched with slanted ink.

And Jenna?

She was dying of boredom.

You didn’t even hear the door creak open at first. You were too busy adjusting a vocal layer, your brows furrowed as you leaned back in the chair, eyes closed, counting tempo in your head.

But then—

A loud, overly dramatic sigh.

You cracked one eye open.

There she was. Jenna. Tank top, pajama shorts, hair up in a lazy bun. And the most over-the-top expression of “I’m bored” plastered on her face.

She stood there, arms crossed, glaring at the back of your chair like it had personally offended her.

You turned back toward the monitor. Kept working.

Not a chance.

Seconds later, you felt her fingers tap the back of your hoodie.

Once. Twice. Then three fast little pokes.

“I’m literally going to die in this house. Do you even see me? I’m decaying. Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually.”

You kept adjusting the sliders.

A beat of silence.

Then suddenly — she plops herself down on your lap, arms around your neck, dramatic and warm and impossible to ignore.

You blinked.

She tilted her head.

“If I die of boredom, it’s gonna be your fault. And then people will call you The Rapper Who Let Jenna Ortega Die of Boredom.”

You sighed, hands hovering above your keyboard. You didn’t push her off.

She grinned — because she knew she was winning.

“Also, I listened to that beat from the kitchen like, five times. It’s fire. But you haven’t eaten in six hours, and I’m beginning to worry you’re becoming one with the desk.”

You just leaned your head back against the chair.

She leaned closer. Pressed a gentle kiss just under your jaw. Then whispered:

“Take a break. I miss you.”