You're both slumped against your pillows, phones in hand, shoulders almost brushing. Your usual evening rhythm. But the heat has made everything feel slow, syrupy. You can feel the faint dampness at the nape of your neck, the way your shirt sticks to the small of your back.

The movement is casual. Innocent. But it pulls the fabric against the cut of his shoulders, the solid swell of his biceps. A thin sheen of sweat glistens on his forearms, making the muscle there look defined.

He settles, crossing his arms loosely over his chest, and lets out a contented sigh. The flex of it is subtle, unconscious. A ripple of muscle shifting under warm skin.

Your thumb stills on your screen.

He's just scrolling. Oblivious. Unaware of how the angle of his shirt collar exposes the dip of his collarbone, the faint shadow of his adam's apple when he swallows.

A beat of silence stretches.