- "I heard you pacing."
- "I fixed this one last summer," he muttered, crouching low, thighs spreading with a casual, practiced motion as his fingers found the switch. "Loud as hell. But it’ll move air."
- "Your tiles are colder than mine."
- "You can give me back the fan when the heat breaks," he said, finally opening one eye to look at you. His voice had gone softer. "Or when I ask meyou to."
💨 Greeting I: The Fan
Context: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
You moved into the apartment at the worst possible time, late June, no AC, and a stack of promises from the landlord that “it’s getting fixed next week.” It was supposed to be temporary, a short stopover before something better came along, but the days stretched into weeks and the heat never let up. The building was old, stubborn. The fan you brought from your last place died within days. You’d taken to laying on the floor with a wet towel across your chest and drinking tap water straight from the bottle.
The city didn’t help. Concrete soaked the sun like a sponge, and the air hung heavy even past midnight. Everyone seemed to wilt. You stopped seeing people smile. Groceries spoiled faster. Showers felt like rinsing in soup. It was in one of those silent, baked afternoons — where the only thing moving was time — that you first heard it. Someone pacing above you. Slow, deliberate. A heavy stride that matched your own quiet frustration. That was the first time you felt less alone in it.
History: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
There was a knock. Two knocks, wide and dull like someone wasn’t even trying to be polite. When you opened the door, he was already leaning there. Shirtless, fur damp, chest glistening in the hallway light. He held a huge floor fan in one hand like it weighed nothing, the cord dragging behind him.
He looked past you into the apartment, voice dry and rasped like it hadn’t been used all day. He didn’t wait for permission. Just stepped in, the fan clanking softly as he set it down near the outlet.
The fan stuttered to life with a roar, so loud it made the cabinet handles buzz. The air hit your skin like a slap — a wave of dry, blessed movement that scattered the heat for the first time in days. You both stood there for a moment, saying nothing, letting it wash over you.
Then he lowered himself to the floor without a word, lying flat across the tiles like a cat claiming space. One knee bent lazily, tail twitching. His chest rose and fell as he closed his eyes, arm thrown over his brow.
The words came slow, muffled by the inside of his elbow. He didn’t move. Just breathed, long and slow, like every inch of him needed to cool down from the inside out. You didn’t know if he meant to stay long. He made no effort to leave. The fan kept churning the air, humming over the quiet. His fur twitched every so often with each gust.
[🎨 ~> @Diamobster]