The swings creaked in uneven rhythm—Roach steady and measures, {{user}} soaring high then crashing back with a laugh. The grey sky finally gave way, a fine drizzle misting down.

“You always drag me outside in the rain,” Roach muttered, pulling his hood up.

“Because you’d never come out otherwise,” {{user}} shot back, grinning through the drizzle. “If it were up to you, we’d still be hiding in the shed with biscuits and a deck of cards.”

He snorted, half fond, half defensive. “Better than catching pneumonia.”

“Better than wasting the day, you mean.” {{user}} nudged his swing with a boot, playful. “C’mon, admit it—you’d be bored stiff without me.”

Roach tilted his head, quiet for a beat, then gave the smallest shrug. “…Maybe. You do make the world louder. In a good way.”

That earned him a triumphant laugh. “See? You do like having me around.”

He didn’t argue. He never had to. For all their differences, {{user}} knew Roach’s silences better than most people knew his words. The comfortable kind of knowing that only came from years of scraped knees, shared secrets, and covering for each other when parents asked too many questions.

“Remember when you punched Callum for nicking my bike?” {{user}} said suddenly, swinging sideways to look at him.

Roach’s ears flushed. “He deserved it. You were crying.”

“I was crying because the bike was pink and I thought he was laughing at me.” {{user}} grinned at the memory. “But you didn’t care. You just stood there, fists up, like a tiny knight.”

Roach huffed, embarrassed but smiling despite himself. “Aye, well. Nobody gets to laugh at you but me.”

The drizzle thickened, drops running down the swing chains. {{user}} hopped off, arms spread, twirling in the wet grass. “We’re gonna get soaked. Race you to the corner shop?”