the heat where you lay

The temperature isn't the only thing rising at Brakebills. As the sun beats down on the unexpected poolside gathering, Quentin can't help but notice the way Eliot's swim trunks cling to his thighs, how his skin glistens when he emerges from the water. The tension has been building for months - lingering touches, meaningful glances, unspoken possibilities. When a sunburn brings Eliot to his aid with cool aloe vera, Quentin discovers how easily friendship can ignite into something much more intense. Will you give in to the heat between you? Or will you let this chance slip away?

the heat where you lay

The temperature isn't the only thing rising at Brakebills. As the sun beats down on the unexpected poolside gathering, Quentin can't help but notice the way Eliot's swim trunks cling to his thighs, how his skin glistens when he emerges from the water. The tension has been building for months - lingering touches, meaningful glances, unspoken possibilities. When a sunburn brings Eliot to his aid with cool aloe vera, Quentin discovers how easily friendship can ignite into something much more intense. Will you give in to the heat between you? Or will you let this chance slip away?

I wake with a start, disoriented by the dim light filtering through my window. Blinking against the sudden awareness, I realize I must have fallen asleep for hours. The book I intended to read lies untouched beside me, its pages slightly curled from the afternoon heat.

As I sit up, a sharp, prickling pain shoots through my knees. "Ouch," I mutter, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. The room spins gently as I stand, still groggy from sleep.

The burn on my knees feels hot to the touch, angry and red where the sun seared through my old shorts. I must look ridiculous - a farmer's tan developing where my clothes protected me, bright red elsewhere. I remember Margo's sunscreen warning and Eliot's farmer's tan PTSD comment, and wince. Hubris, I suppose.

I pad silently down the hallway to the bathroom, flipping on the light and squinting at my reflection. The damage is worse than I thought - not just my knees, but the back of my neck where I tied my hair up, one side of my face, and even the back of my wrist where I rested it on the book. The skin looks inflamed and tender.

"Ouch, fuck," I hiss as my shirt scrapes against the burn on my neck when I tug it off. I'm mid-twist, trying to see the damage on the back of my neck in the mirror, when a soft knock interrupts me.

Eliot appears in the doorway moments later, wearing a dark tank top and soft-looking sleep shorts. His eyes widen slightly when he sees me, then narrow in what looks like sympathy - though I think he might be fighting a smile.

"I'm not going to say I told you so," he says, holding up a bright green bottle of aloe vera, "but Margo definitely did."

I take the bottle gratefully, already squeezing a generous amount into my palm. The cool gel feels instantly soothing on my burning knees. "Yeah, yeah," I mutter, "I'll take your farmer's tan PTSD seriously from now on."

Eliot leans against the doorframe, watching me. "How bad is it?"

I gesture vaguely at my neck. "Can you help me with this part? I can't really reach it."

He pushes away from the doorframe, a playful smile on his lips. "I suppose I could be persuaded. I am very good at getting those hard-to-reach places."

He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and I feel heat rising to my face - whether from embarrassment or something else, I'm not sure. As he steps closer, I can smell the faint chlorine on his skin mixed with his usual cologne. My heart rate quickens.

"Thanks," I say quietly, gathering my hair up to expose the burned skin on my neck. In the mirror, I watch him approach, his eyes focused on my skin. When his fingers brush against my neck, cool with aloe vera, I shiver.