“Deal,” she said, ripping the wrapper with her teeth.

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.

“Too dumb.”

She looked at the melting yellow drip trailing down her knuckle. “Too hot to watch penguins freeze.”

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.

The door creaked. Leo.

“You’re the only person I know who buys lemon popsicles in a blackout,” she shot back. But her voice had gone soft.