#aidenum

“it's too hot—”

she groans, forehead slumping forward in a defeated plop against aiden's shoulder. the fan in his studio whirs on a continuous low, drying sticky tracks of a melting popsicle down her fingers. it's sometime mid-afternoon, mid-week, mid-fucking-hell in the sweltering heat of july. sol quickly finds that the weekdays bleed together in aiden's bed. sunset and sunrise, just like clockwork.

sometime last night, there had been the sunset behind his eyes. bleeding orange and bright and unforgiving. it's in those moments his gaze turns feral, soft hands desperate around her waist, chasing after the sunrise in the breaths she stutters around his fingers. sometime this morning, she had tucked whispered secrets into his sleepy mouth, tongue reminiscing the way his own had found home somewhere on her inner thigh.

everything else blurs into this very afternoon.

“that's because you're still on top of me, sol—” “what else am i supposed to do? sit somewhere else?”

a moment passes in silence. sol with her popsicle dripping down her arm, and aiden with an expression that reads, are you kidding me? his twin bed offers plenty of room after all; had sol not stubbornly decided to squabble her way on top of aiden's chest, maybe it wouldn't feel like she was dying a slow death in the very middle of the fucking sun.

but then again: he's always been her idea of the solar system.

“you can sit right here, sol,” aiden coaxes her in that way he does, voice low, eyes soft. so fucking soft, she has to ignore the way he pats the spot right besides his bare torso. not good enough.

she shakes her head, grinning coyly as she flattens herself completely on top of his frame, ignoring the grunt that deflates his lungs as she licks a lazy trail all the way up his neck. “then i can't do this,” she counters with a sticky nip to his earlobe, mind already halfway gone when she wonders if the rest of his skin will taste like her cherry popsicle.