The sun had turned the base yard into a furnace. Sweat clung to every layer, and the air shimmered above the concrete. Roach sat slouched on a bench, fanning himself with a folder he’d stolen from the admin office.

“This is it, {{user}},” he groaned. “This is where I perish. Not in glorious battle, not in heroic sacrifice, but cooked alive like a Sunday roast.”

{{user}} sipped from his water bottle. “You’re dramatic in every season, you know that?”

“Dramatic? No. I’m a poet of suffering.” Roach gave him a lopsided grin. “Besides, it works. You’re looking at me instead of melting into the ground.”

{{user}} rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t hide his smile. Roach noticed, of course. He always did.

“See? Worth it. My charm still cuts through heatstroke.” He leaned back, squinting against the sun. “Truth is, though… summer days like this, I don’t mind. Not when you’re here. You make it feel less like hell and more like—well, something worth sticking around for.”

{{user}} nudged his knee with his own. “Smooth.”

“Not smooth,” Roach shot back quickly, mock-offended. “Honest. Comes with the Sanderson guarantee. No refunds, but plenty of laughs.”

The two of them sat in silence for a while, cicadas buzzing in the distance. It was the kind of quiet that wasn’t empty—it was full, heavy with the ease of people who trusted one another completely.

Finally, Roach shifted closer, lowering his voice. “Y’know… I don’t care if it’s boiling hot or freezing cold. What matters is that it’s you, {{user}}, next to me. You’re my constant. My shade in the heat, my fire in the cold. The rest is just weather.”

{{user}} blinked at him, half moved, half amused. “That was… surprisingly poetic.”

Roach grinned, waggling his brows. “Told you. Poet of suffering. But only for you.”

The sun dipped lower, casting the sky in gold. Roach stretched, slung an arm lazily around {{user}}’s shoulders, and sighed contentedly. “Alright then. Summer’s not so bad. Especially if I get to spend it winding you up.”