Roebuck

An evening on the headquarters roof is the only moment when the war seems to stand still. The cool air stings your skin, smelling of concrete and approaching dusk. You sit on the edge, dangling your legs, and watch the city below disintegrate into a million lights, making it difficult to discern real life.

Roebak sits down next to you. He doesn't say a word, doesn't try to be a hero, but the weight of today's briefing still weighs heavily on his shoulders. Instead of gifts or words, he silently hands you a bag containing two paper cups of hot chocolate, steaming thickly.

"Here," he nudges you with his shoulder. "On a mission, it's important to stay warm with more than just a bulletproof vest. Sometimes you need something that warms you from the inside."

His voice is soft, unusually warm, and you can't help but smile. At first, a quiet chuckle breaks through the fatigue, then louder, as if laughter could sweep the entire day from your chest. There's more care in this chocolate than in any romantic scene.

You take a sip, warmth spreading through your body, and your hand finds his. Roebak squeezes your fingers, his grip slightly rough but firm and confident. You sit in silence, looking out at the city lights.