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Albuquerque was in the middle of the biggest heatwave it had seen in years.
The air was sticky and humid. Outside, the shimmering heat haze made the distant hills appear distorted, and everything smelled like sweat and hot asphalt.
Anyone without air conditioning didn’t stand a chance — the heat pressed in from every direction, slicking the skin with sweat and grinding irritation into every crease.
That’s when you’d ended up at your boyfriend’s apartment.
Jesse had convinced you to come over under the guise of his alleged superior A/C unit and ice-cold beer. He said it all smug and casual over the phone like he wasn’t just desperate to see you. You didn’t need much convincing.
At first, it was tolerable. The beer was ice-cold, like he’d promised. It was the kind you could feel in your chest on the way down. You spent most of the night on his couch, legs in his lap, a movie flickering on the screen.
The heat didn’t feel unbearable then. Just enough to make things lazy. Your tank had already stuck to your back a little over halfway in, and Jesse peeled off his shirt not long after, tossing it aside with a groan about “dying, yo.”
But by morning, the temperature had increased — both outside and in. Jesse’s skin against yours is what finally pulled you from sleep. It was just too much. Too hot, too close, too everything.
“Jesse.”
You had no idea if he was awake yet. You felt him shift behind you, the arm slung over your waist pulled you a little closer, but that was his only response.
It was early, and Jesse didn’t often wake before noon. The rising sun was quick to beat down on his bedroom windows, though, and the heat of his body felt like it was burning your skin.
He had his face pressed between your shoulder blades and each warm exhale from his parted lips threatened to send you over the edge.
Your skin glistened with moisture that made you feel sticky, strands of your hair clung to your neck. His chest slick against your back — it was impossible to tell where your sweat ended and his began.
It felt like there was no air left in the room. Your heart pounded in your chest like the heat had finally infiltrated your insides.
“Jesse, baby.”
You try again, rolling on your side to face him. He doesn’t stir, like the heat doesn’t touch him at all.
You reach out, carding your fingers through his hair, brushing back the damp strands clinging to his forehead. He’s warm beneath your touch, like everything else in this apartment. Finally, his lashes start to flicker, then his eyes flutter open, squinting at you through the sunlit room.
“What time s’it?” He mumbles, voice low and scratchy as he shivers through a full-body stretch. Arms above his head, back arching off the mattress.
“I don’t know. Nine, I think.” He groans at that, bringing his hand up to rub at his eyes. “‘S so hot,” you complain, and your lips form a lazy pout.
Without missing a beat, Jesse mutters, “you should probably take your shirt off then,” and lets his hand drift down again, blindly pawing at the strap of your tank top with a sleepy smirk.
You let out a small huff, shimmying away from his warm touch — half-joking, half-desperate for a little space from the heat radiating off of him. But Jesse’s hand shoots out and grabs your hip before you can get too far.
“Where r’you going?” He asks, the cocky smirk that you know so well tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Anywhere else,” you tease back, raising an eyebrow.
He laughs, and then suddenly rolls you onto your back, pinning you beneath him. His limbs tangle with yours, and his head finds home on your sticky chest. His damp hair now clings to both your skin and his.
You look down at him, watching the way his cheek smushes against the curve of your breast, his eyes fluttering shut. You want to protest, but seeing him this comfortable against you is adorable. The arm flung across your middle snakes up to rest on the opposite breast, and you sigh.
One of your hands finds its way up to push the strands of hair off of his face and neck to give him any sort of relief from the heat you could.
You almost wonder how he isn’t going insane in this heat — like you are — but Jesse could die happy laying on your chest, and he’d do so with no complaints.
“We’re both sweating. I dunno how much longer I can take it,” you whine, lips meeting the top of his head in a gentle kiss. “I’m dying.”
“‘Cause you have too many clothes on, told you already,” he mumbles into your skin, barely lifting his head.
“I’m gonna lose my mind.”
“Go back t’sleep.” He says, like it’s easy. His arm tightens slightly, like he can sense you even thinking about moving away. He nuzzles closer, and it would’ve been sweet if you weren’t so miserable.
“I can’t, it’s too hot. Get off.”
He hums in response — it’s lazy and half-conscious — but makes no effort to move. There’s no way you could go back to sleep like this, even if you wanted to.
If you really wanted him off of you, you could make it happen. Elbow him in the ribs, shove at his chest, roll out from under him and let him complain about it for an hour. You’ve done it before.
But not today. Not when the hot air has you pinned down almost as much as he does. Jesse doesn’t do much of anything without a little incentive, especially not when he’s this comfortable.
“Wanna take a cold shower with me?”
That makes him perk up — like a dog hearing the word ‘treat’. He cranes his head to look up at you and you swear his cheek was already starting to stick to your skin.
His eyes are half-lidded, still full of sleep when they meet yours, “like, right now?”
You grin and fight the urge to roll your eyes. Instead, your hand finds his hair again, brushing it off his face one more time. “Thought you were sleeping.”
He smirks, rolling off of you with another stretch that has him grunting — his arms curling over his head once again, “not anymore.”
The second his warm body leaves yours, a breeze hits your skin and you sigh in relief. But the moment is cut short when Jesse moves to climb over you.
His knee knocks into your hip, and his foot catches in the sheets, almost sending him tumbling. “Careful, jeez,” you giggle, grabbing at his biceps to help steady him as he wriggles past.
When he finally rolls off of you, his feet hit the floor with a soft thud. He stands over you clad in his boxers, the thin gray cotton clinging low on his hips. His hair sticks out at odd angles — half from sleep, half from the dozen times you’ve combed your fingers through it.
“You coming or what?” He asks with an impatient edge.
You push yourself up onto your elbows and smile at him, the amusement clearly showing on your face. Despite begging for sleep minutes ago, he’s now rushing you like you’re the one dragging your feet.
You shake your head and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, “can’t believe that worked.”
You can believe it. It’s worked before — Jesse is nothing if not predictable — but this might be a new record, barely ten seconds from dead asleep to on his feet.
Jesse scratches the back of his neck as he walks off. “Wasn’t even that tired, anyway.”