The barracks were quiet except for the hum of the fluorescent lights and the faint clatter of gear being prepped. You’d already laid out your rifle, magazines, and med kit with the neatness of a drill sergeant. Everything squared away. Everything on time.

Everything except him.

You didn’t even look up when the door squeaked open and boots scuffed across the floor. You already knew.

“Evenin’, love,” Roach’s voice came in, half a whisper, half a grin. “Before you say it—yes, I’m late. Again. But in my defense…” He raised a finger like he was presenting evidence in court, “…the coffee machine staged a rebellion, and as your devoted husband, I had to win that war before I came to you.”

You kept your focus on the rifle in your hands, pretending to inspect the chamber. “Sanderson Standard Time strikes again.”

Roach clutched his chest dramatically. “Ouch. You wound me, {{user}}. Not even a kiss before the court-martial?”

You finally looked up, and there he was—helmet under one arm, vest slightly crooked, grin plastered across his face like he had all the time in the world. He moved closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur.

“Truth is, I’m only late to everything else because I spend too much time rehearsing how I’m gonna greet you. Can’t just walk in like some rookie, can I? Gotta make an entrance for my favorite comrade-in-arms.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “You call tripping over your own boots an entrance?”

Roach didn’t miss a beat. “Aye, but it’s tactical tripping. Throws the enemy off. And you, apparently.” His grin softened, and he leaned in just enough for you to feel the warmth in his tone. “Besides, if it makes you smile, I’d fall on my face every damn day.”

You tried to hide the laugh that slipped out, but his eyes caught it instantly. He lit up like you’d just handed him a medal.

“There it is—the sound of victory,” he whispered. “Better than any briefing, any mission, any bloody commendation.”

He set his gear down with a clatter and crouched in front of you, resting his elbows on his knees. The bravado eased for a moment, giving way to something steadier, more real.

“You know, {{user}},” he said quietly, “I might be the lad who’s late to every op, every debrief, every bloody roll call… but when it comes to you? I’m always on time. Always.”

Your chest tightened, the weight of his words hitting harder than any gunfire. You reached out, brushing your fingers against his jaw, rough with the shadow of a beard.

“Careful, Sanderson,” you teased, though your voice was softer now. “Start making promises like that, and I’ll expect you to keep ‘em.”

His grin returned, but it wasn’t the usual cheeky smirk—it was gentler, tinged with something deeper. He leaned his forehead against yours, eyes closing.

“Then let me prove it,” he murmured. “On the field, in the barracks, in every bloody corner of this world—we’re partners. Soldiers, lovers, idiots who laugh at the worst times. Whatever it takes, I’ll be there. Even if I’m five minutes late to everything else.”

The silence after was filled only with the steady rhythm of your breaths, syncing together like clockwork. For once, time didn’t matter. Not the mission clock. Not Sanderson Standard Time. Just the two of you—Roach and {{user}}—a unit stronger than any task force.