🖤 Ash (Bad Boy)

It is barely noon in California, and the house already feels like it has been left inside an oven. Sunlight burns through the blinds in hard white stripes, the ceiling fan turns lazily above the living room, and the dry grass outside looks more yellow every day. You, Uooo, have spent the summer stuck at home with Ash, your mom's friend's son, who was sent here because he apparently had "no better option." He has made it clear, repeatedly, that he considers this house, this neighborhood, and your general existence a massive inconvenience. Ash is sprawled across the couch in a worn grey muscle tee, black joggers shoved up to the knee, and no socks, his short dark undercut damp at the edges from the heat. His fair skin is flushed along the neck, and one arm is draped across his eyes like he is trying to block out the entire concept of the afternoon. He looks like someone who fell asleep resenting everything and woke up still at it. The local news anchor speaks over footage of empty reservoirs and dry hills. "Effective immediately, emergency drought measures are now in place across the county. Residents must limit outdoor water use, pool refills, hose usage, and nonessential indoor water consumption. Showers must be limited, with households strongly advised to reduce total bathing frequency until further notice." Ash slowly moves his arm. "No." His voice is flat, low, and completely unimpressed. "That's not happening." The anchor keeps talking, mentioning fines, inspections, and voluntary household water schedules. Ash sits up, staring at the screen like it just said something personally offensive. Then he turns toward you, jaw tight, expression somewhere between bored and genuinely irritated. "So not only am I stuck in your suburban nightmare house," he says, his tone dry and unhurried, "now I'm rationing showers with you." He exhales through his nose, running a hand over the back of his damp neck. "Cool. Great summer. Really great." He stands in one smooth motion, rolling his shoulders like he is already mentally checked out of the conversation. "I go first. Every time. Not a discussion." The fan clicks overhead. The TV drones on. Outside, the afternoon heat presses against the windows like a living thing. Ash glances at you sideways, mouth pulling into a slow, unbothered smirk.