Heatwave

Scratch that—it was the hottest day since the invention of heat. Somewhere between Dante's Inferno and a microwave burrito sat a tiny motel on the edge of nowhere, where two rival journalists were about to commit the gravest of sins: sharing a room.

Nina Blake, senior columnist for *The Daily Flame*, marched up to the front desk, shirt clinging to her chest and mascara melting into raccoon chaos.

"Reservation for Blake. Nina. With air conditioning."

The motel clerk—a man who clearly hadn’t moved since the '80s—blinked slowly. "AC’s out. Whole town’s fried the grid."

Behind her, a familiar voice groaned. “Of course you’d pick this rat hole.”

Nina turned.

There he was. Damian Cole. *That* Damian. The smug, infuriating, sex-on-legs columnist from *The Rival Post* who’d stolen her interview, her headlines, and once, in a weak moment, her damn breath.

"You!" they both shouted.

The clerk just handed over one key. “Only one room left. Queen bed. Take it or leave it.”

They looked at each other. Then the key.

They both lunged.

Chapter Two: One Fan. One Bed. One War.

The motel room looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since floppy disks were cool.

One rickety ceiling fan wheezed overhead, spinning like it might give up and fall any second. The bed was large, the sheets slightly scratchy, and the mini-fridge hummed like it had secrets.

Damian tossed his duffel bag on the dresser. “I’m taking the left side.”

Nina crossed her arms. “That’s hilarious. I was born on the left side of beds. It’s mine by blood right.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re dramatic.”

They glared.

The heat pressed in from all sides. Nina peeled off her jacket with a huff, revealing a sweat-damp tank top. Damian’s eyes flickered—just for a second—but she noticed.

“You staring, Cole?” she teased.

“Just wondering if your ego generates more heat than this room.”

Nina smirked. “It does.”

He pulled off his button-down, leaving just a thin white undershirt that clung to his chest. Nina turned to the mini-fridge, pretending to look for water while secretly trying not to drool.

She found nothing but a single warm soda.

They were doomed.

Chapter Three: The Ice Cube Truce

By hour two, their sweat had sweat.

Damian lay on his side of the bed—shirtless now, arm slung across his forehead like a Victorian lady in distress. Nina was no better, sprawled like a fried egg with her hair in a messy top knot, glaring at the ceiling fan like it had betrayed her personally.

“I’d give a kidney for an ice cube,” she muttered.

Damian didn’t move. “I’d give both if it meant shutting your mouth for ten minutes.”

“Try me, Cole. My mouth has more stamina than your whole body.”

He laughed, a deep chuckle that rolled through the room. “Is that a challenge, Blake?”

“Only if you can take the heat.”

The moment simmered—hotter than the air around them.

Then she rolled off the bed, stomped to the mini-fridge, and yanked open the tiny freezer.

“Oh my God,” she gasped.

Damian bolted upright. “What? What is it?”

She turned slowly, grinning.

A single ice tray. Half full.

She plucked out an ice cube and held it up like a trophy. “Victory is mine.”

“Share, and I won’t throw your suitcase into the parking lot.”

She tossed him one.

What followed was an awkward, hilarious, semi-erotic session of rubbing melting ice cubes on forearms, necks, and even behind knees.

“You’re sweating like a guilty man,” she said, trailing her cube down her collarbone.

He watched her closely. “And you’re melting like you’ve got secrets.”

Their eyes met.

Something shifted.

The humor paused.

And suddenly, the heat wasn’t just from the temperature.

Chapter Four: Forbidden Territory

They both shifted on the bed, barely a breath apart now.

Nina swallowed hard. “This is a bad idea.”

Damian didn’t look away. “Then why does it feel like the best one I’ve had in years?”

She should have backed away. She didn’t.

Instead, she reached up and pressed an ice cube to his neck.

He flinched, then smirked. “That how you play?”

“Let’s find out.”

His hand slipped behind her neck and pulled her in—slow, steady, giving her time to stop him.

She didn’t.

The kiss was hot, electric. A clash of pride, passion, and pent-up rivalry.

His lips moved over hers with practiced hunger, but she matched him beat for beat, tangling her fingers in his damp hair, their breath mingling as her back hit the bed.

“I still hate you,” she gasped between kisses.

“Mutual,” he murmured against her throat.

“Perfect.”

The rest was a blur of sheets, whispered taunts, moaned names, and limbs tangled like they were fighting and making love at once.

Chapter Five: Morning Regrets or Round Two?

Nina woke up tangled in a sheet and an arm that definitely wasn’t hers.

Her body ached in all the best ways. The room still smelled like heat, cheap soap, and something else — something messy and satisfying. The fan was still squeaking overhead like it had witnessed a crime.

Damian stirred beside her.

“Are you watching me sleep?” he mumbled without opening his eyes.

She smirked. “I was debating whether to smother you with a pillow or make breakfast.”

“Which one wins?”

“Jury’s still out.”

His arm tightened slightly around her waist. “Then I better work on convincing the jury.”

Nina rolled over to face him. “So… that happened.”

“That did,” he said. “Multiple times. In a heatwave. Without AC. We deserve awards.”

“Or therapy.”

They both laughed.

Then, silence.

But it wasn’t awkward.

It was... easy.

Comfortable.

Like they’d been waiting to get here, arguing and jabbing until something finally broke loose.

“I’m still going to destroy you in next week’s feature column,” she said sweetly.

“You can try,” he murmured, brushing hair from her face. “But now I know your weakness.”

“What? My neck?”

“No,” he whispered, kissing the corner of her mouth. “Your sarcasm. It’s deadly. I’m obsessed.”

Her heart fluttered.

Damn him.

Chapter Six: A Very Filmy Exit

They left the motel two hours later—barely dressed, slightly sunburned, and both pretending the world hadn’t just changed.

As Nina shut the car trunk, she caught Damian staring at her.

“What?” she asked.

He leaned against the door like he was posing for a cologne ad.

“I don’t know what to do with this.”

“This?”

“This. Us. That night. That... whatever this was.”

Nina shrugged, trying to act casual. “We chalk it up to heatstroke and rivalry-fueled lust. Never speak of it again.”

He nodded. “Totally.”

Pause.

“Unless we want to do it again,” he added.

She raised an eyebrow. “You asking for a sequel?”

“I’m saying... we make a pretty good story, Blake. And I wouldn’t mind writing a few more chapters.”

A car honked behind them. Nina turned, then looked back at him.

"You're ridiculous," she said, grinning.

He stepped closer. "You're radiant."

She rolled her eyes.

But when he kissed her again—under a blistering sun, their luggage forgotten—she let him.

Because sometimes, the best stories aren’t the ones you plan.

They’re the ones you sweat through.

Epilogue: Headline News

One week later, both of their columns dropped on the same day.

Nina’s read:

“Why Summer Heatwaves Might Be the Best Kind of Trouble.”

Damian’s was shorter. Simpler.

“She Burned Me Alive. And I’d Let Her Do It Again.”