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Hot weather / golden skin

For Wells Gold 58, Golden Army spring break always hit a little differently. Maybe it was the Canadian in him. After months of gray skies, frozen sidewalks, and enough layers to hide even a body like his, getting somewhere hot felt less like a vacation and more like a reward. Sun on his skin, air that didn’t bite back, water bright enough to hurt your eyes, Wells never really tried to hide how much he loved the heat.

By mid-afternoon, the whole resort had gone glossy with it. White tile, bright water, palm shadows, music drifting across the pool, the smell of sunscreen and chlorine and warm skin. Wells stretched out on a lounger like he’d been waiting all winter to do exactly that. Bronzed, lightly slick with sweat and sunscreen, dark sunglasses low on his face, he looked almost offensively comfortable. Every slow stretch of his arms, every shift of his thighs, every lazy adjustment to get even more sunlight across his body seemed to pull another pair of eyes in his direction.

One of those pairs belonged to PDU-767.

The drone had been moving across the pool deck on some errand or another, polished and precise even in the heat, when it slowed just slightly at the sight of Wells stretched out under the sun. For a brief second, 767 seemed to process two separate but equally important facts at once: the afternoon temperature was brutal, and Wells Gold 58 somehow looked even hotter. The sunlight turned the gold in Wells’ skin richer, deeper, almost glowing, and the lazy way he occupied the lounger made it worse. Less like he was simply sunbathing, more like he was putting on a show without having to lift a finger.

Wells noticed, of course.

He tilted his sunglasses down just enough to glance over, one corner of his mouth lifting when he caught 767 looking. That small reaction alone was enough to make the moment linger. Wells had that particular spring break confidence on him, the kind that came from knowing he looked good, knowing the heat loved him, and knowing he didn’t need to be subtle about any of it.

A few minutes later, PDU-767 returned.

This time the drone was carrying a cold cocktail in a tall glass, beaded with condensation, bright and expensive looking against the white glare of the pool deck. 767 stopped beside Wells’ lounger and held it out with calm efficiency.

“Hydration support recommended,” the drone said evenly. Then, after the smallest pause: “External temperature remains elevated. So does Designate Wells.”

That got a laugh out of Wells, low and warm and a little more pleased than he probably meant to sound. He pushed himself up onto one elbow, chest catching the sun, and took the drink from 767’s hand with a grin that made the whole exchange feel a little less innocent than either of them was pretending.

“Good catch, drone,” Wells said, lifting the glass slightly before taking a sip. “Wouldn’t want me overheating.”

767 stayed there for just a second longer than necessary, posture still perfect, gaze just controlled enough to pass inspection. Then the drone gave a small nod and continued on its way, leaving Wells with his cocktail, his sunglasses, and the unmistakable feeling that spring break had only gotten hotter.

Around him, the Golden Army kept the day moving — splashes, laughter, drinks, bodies stretched out in the sun — but Wells remained the real center of it. A Canadian boy far from winter, bronzed to perfection, drink in hand, and glowing like he’d been built specifically for hot weather and an audience.