God, finally.

A damn bloody break. No games, no grueling practices, no press conferences. A whole week free, and you were determined to squeeze the life out of it—or let it slip through your fingers like sand, honestly.

Either way worked.

You sank into the couch with a groan, muttering a string of key words from your home tongue that wasn’t meant for anyone’s ears but your own.

Your hand instinctively fumbled beneath the coffee table, fingers brushing against the cool cardboard of the beer stash you’d hidden there ages ago. Jackpot.

The satisfying hiss of the can cracking open was almost spiritual. You took a long, lazy swig, letting the bitter fizz linger on your tongue before swallowing. Your phone buzzed in your other hand. Of course, you couldn’t resist scrolling through the feed.

Same old nonsense—celebrity drama plastered across The Sun, wild fan theories about your contract renewal, and a barrage of memes that barely managed to hold your attention.

Boring fuckin’ day.

The sound of footsteps on hardwood caught your ear just before Roy strode in. He didn’t so much enter a room as take possession of it. His jacket hit the armrest with a careless toss, and he stood there, arms crossed, staring down at you like you were the laziest excuse for a human being he’d ever seen.

“You are such a lazy fuckin’ wanker sometimes,” he muttered, the words rough as gravel but carrying no real bite.

You snorted, cracking a grin without looking up from your phone. That was Roy for you—blunt, grumpy, and entirely incapable of hiding how much he loved you, even when he was calling you names.

It was in the way his eyes softened, the way he stayed in the doorway a beat too long.

And yeah, maybe he didn’t say it outright, but you knew. You always knew.