He smiled, and this time it lingered.
The door creaked. Leo.
On screen, Netflix asked: Who’s watching?
“If it’s not a new AC unit, I don’t want it,” Mia mumbled.
“Deal,” she said, ripping the wrapper with her teeth.
“Same time,” she said. “Same flavor.”
“Too dumb.”
Tonight, though, he didn’t argue. He just let the remote fall between them and leaned his head back. The popsicle stick clicked against his teeth.
“Yeah.”
They never did pick a show. But somewhere between the melting ice and the summer dark, they started watching each other instead.
She turned her head on the cushion. His face was half-lit by the blue glow of the TV menu. For the first time all day, she didn’t feel the heat.
“You’re the only person I know who buys lemon popsicles in a blackout,” she shot back. But her voice had gone soft.
“Remember last July? When you cried during that documentary about the lemon orchard?”
“I brought reinforcements,” he announced, holding up a plastic bag. Sweat glued his dark curls to his forehead.
He laughed—a quiet, familiar sound. They’d been doing this for three summers now. Same couch. Same lemon popsicles from the bodega on Grand Street. Same ritual of choosing nothing for an hour until the sun went down.