“I’ve got an idea.”

Those words frequently scare me when they come out of Snow’s mouth, but somehow even more so when we’re on separate sides of the city, connected only by the small screens of our phones.

His curls are messy, standing out every which way, and he hasn’t got a shirt on. I can see a mole just beneath his collarbone, it’s enough to distract me so I miss his next sentence.

“Baz?”

I blink, then hum. “Yes?”

“I—uhm,” he’s frowning, brows furrowing in concentration. “I think I wanna… try something. If-if it’s okay.”

AKA, The One With The Phone Sex