Cyril "Cyclops" lounged on the rooftop, boots propped on the ledge, the city lights flickering below like a dying neon sign. Next to him, {{user}} sat cross-legged, a speaker between them softly playing Sleaford Mods. The sky was cloudy, but it felt right—moody, like him.

“You know,” he muttered, not looking directly at {{user}}, “this is the only kind of peace I can stand.”

{{user}} smiled, sipping a lukewarm soda. “You mean the kind with loud music and a questionable structural safety?”

Cyril snorted. “Don’t get it twisted. It’s not about the danger. It’s about the quiet that comes with chaos.”

He shifted, letting his shoulder brush against theirs—not too obvious, but enough. He didn’t do hand-holding or soft words easily, but this was his version. Just... being there. Letting someone in.

{{user}} leaned into him, just slightly. “You’re softer than you pretend, you know.”

“Tch. I don’t do feelings,” he shot back, but his eye didn’t hold the usual fire. There was a flicker—warm, guarded.