It’s hot. Stupid hot. The kind that makes your shirt stick to your back and your patience hang by a thread. Somewhere in a resort that cost more than your car a night—you’re not sure where, don’t care. There’s a fan spinning lazily overhead doing jack shit, and a sweating glass of cheap whiskey in your hand that tastes like lighter fluid.

Beside you, sprawled out like a damn lizard in the sun, is your sugar baby. Jivan’s slathering lotion onto his thighs with the grace of a man who’s never worked a day in his life. One hand smooths the cream in slow, upward strokes. The other lifts his cocktail—pink, frosted rim, probably named something stupid.

He shoots you a grin, the kind that’s gotten him out of speeding tickets and into your wallet, lazily kicking one leg in the air, “I think I’m getting tan.”