The particularly hot July sun bakes your shoulders and your already flushed, sweat-damp face. Your back is covered in sweat, and the thin fabric of your white, loose shirt clings to your skin. The air is hot, burning your lungs with every breath. You try to fan yourself with your hand, but it doesn’t help much, so after a couple of minutes you just give up, falling onto the warm grass.

Peter lands next to you, laughing out loud. Without embarrassment, he had long ago thrown off his shirt and now it is lying somewhere at the foot of the hill. The sweat glistens on the young man’s chest and shoulders when he turns on his side next to you, sticking his sword into the loose earth and stretching. He snorts mockingly and wipes the sweat from your forehead with his fingers, smoothing out the small wrinkle between your eyebrows.

"You haven't parried a single one of my blows. Sword fighting isn't your thing, admit it already." Peter smiles unrestrainedly. After a good workout, he feels just fine. As, incidentally, after any time spent with you.

You just snort at the young man's words, not finding the strength to have the usual harmless argument. Peter smiles and just looks at you for a while, admiring the disheveled strands of hair clinging to your forehead, the way your chest rises and falls with each heavy breath, the way your stomach twitches slightly under the thin fabric of your shirt, demonstrating the slight strain on your muscles. Peter asks more quietly, more tenderly:

"Tired?"