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like asphalt baking under the august sun, his body radiates heat. in the dead of winter, it’s a blessing. in the middle of summer, it’s a curse.

right now, with your AC busted, it’s the latter. he’s sprawled out on your bed, shirtless, an arm slung over his face. the fan in the corner rattles uselessly, doing little more than stirring the stagnant heat. his skin gleams with sweat, dark hair curling damp at his temples.

“this is hell,”

“it’s eighty degrees.”

“exactly.” you pop open a can of coke, ice-cold from the fridge, and take a sip. the second jason hears the crack of the tab, his arm moves from his face, one eye cracking open with interest. you know he’s about to ask for a sip—so you press the can straight to his stomach. he jerks like he’s been electrocuted.

“fuck!”

you burst out laughing, but it’s cut short when he snatches the can from your hand and slams it onto the bedside table. it wobbles dangerously, foam sloshing over the rim.

“you little—”

“you looked like you needed to cool off,” you say, smugly. jason glares at you, chest rising and falling, sweat glistening along his collarbones. then, with zero warning, he lunges. you yelp as he tackles you into the sheets, his overheated body pressing down on yours like a human brand.

“jay—you’re sweating on me! gross!”