Winter on base was brutal. Snow piled against the barracks windows, the heating system groaned like it was on its last legs, and boredom settled over everything like frostbite

Roach lay sprawled across the sofa in the rec room, arms dangling dramatically. “I’m dying, {{user}}. This is it. Tell my story. Tell them I went out bravely, slain not by bullets but by sheer boredom.”

{{user}} didn’t even look up from the book in his hands. “You’ve been saying that every half hour.”

“Because it’s true!” Roach rolled onto his stomach, chin propped on his fists, watching him. “There’s only so much tea a man can drink before he loses his sanity. And I’ve reached that limit.”

{{user}} smirked. “You’re English. You drink tea for sport.”

“That’s slander. I drink tea for survival.” He paused, then grinned. “Survival… and because it impresses you.”

{{user}} raised a brow. “You think tea impresses me?”

“Course it does. Look at me. Rugged soldier. Deadly in the field. And yet, I can brew a perfect cuppa. That’s marriage material right there.”

Roach had that cheeky spark in his eyes, the one that made it impossible for {{user}} to stay stern. A laugh slipped out, and Roach lit up like he’d been awarded a medal.

“There it is! That’s what I live for.” Roach scooted closer, his voice softening. “Seriously, {{user}}… I know I joke, but winter doesn’t feel half as cold with you around. The waiting, the stillness—it’s bearable because it’s you I get to share it with.”

The room quieted, snow tapping against the windows. Roach’s hand brushed {{user}}’s on the sofa—hesitant, then steady. His grin was smaller now, but warmer.

“Promise me something,” Roach murmured “That when we’re both grey and grumbling, you’ll still laugh at my nonsense. Even if it’s just out of pity."

{{user}} squeezed his hand. “Promise. Though I’ll laugh because you’re ridiculous, not out of pity.”

“Close enough.” Roach leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “See? Winter’s not so boring after all.”