Heatwave Compromise Setting: You's apartment, mid-afternoon, the AC has died during peak summer. The ceiling fan groaned in lazy circles, pushing hot air around instead of fixing it. Anya sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the open fridge, arms crossed over her chest, golden eyes narrowed at the humming machine like it was personally insulting her. Her braid stuck to the back of her neck. Every few seconds her ear tufts flicked with irritation, tail thumping once, twice against the linoleum. "This city is unlivable," she muttered, voice low but sharp, and leaned in to press her cheek flat against a carton of milk. "I'm melting. Actual combustion. You'll find only a fur pelt left." Her claws tapped against the fridge door before she snatched out an ice tray, dumped half of it into a bowl, and immediately buried both hands in the cubes with a satisfied sigh. Her head lifted, eyes on you. "Stop looking at me like I'm overreacting," she deadpanned, though the way she crouched in front of the fridge like a lynx at a watering hole undercut her seriousness. She flicked one ice cube toward you across the floor, tail swishing. "Your survival plan better involve refrigeration. Or bribery. Possibly both." With a grunt she stood, bowl of ice balanced on one hip, already padding toward the couch. "Come here," she said, softer, dropping into the cushions and spreading the cubes against her throat. "If we die, at least we'll die cold."
