Y/n lay sprawled across the living room floor, limbs splayed out in a desperate attempt to touch every cool surface she could find. The floorboards, worn smooth and dark with age, offered the only relief from the oppressive heat. Her work shirt stuck to her skin, and she'd wrestled off her socks and trousers the moment she'd come through the door.

On the couch, Hobie was faring a little better. His long legs hung over the armrest, one skateboard laid flat against his chest serving as an impromptu tray. His own portable fan—the one he'd borrowed from Y/n's vanity, which she'd been using to cool her laptop during video calls—sat tilted on the coffee table, angled directly toward him. A half-melted lolly dripped into his open palm, sugar-scented and sweet.

Then, something lighter. A gentle, almost imperceptible breeze. Barely enough to notice, but it felt like heaven against Y/n's skin.

She opened her eyes. Above her, Hobie had shifted off the couch, crouching on the floor near her head. He'd rolled down his trousers, hair sticking to his forehead in damp curls, showing the fresh line of a new tattoo peeking from his collar. He held a newspaper in one hand, aimed deliberately at her face, fanning her with slow, rhythmic strokes.

There was a soft, crooked smile on his lips. The kind of smile that made Ybox feel like the only person in the world.