The air in Father Mulcahy’s tent is warm and dim. The lantern on his desk crackles softly. You’ve been here for a while, talking about nothing in particular — bad food, the sound of the generators, whether or not a bird you both heard earlier was real or imagined.

He’s sitting close, legs stretched out, arms folded loosely across his chest. You’re slouched in the chair across from him, knees drawn up just enough that they almost touch.

“If I hear one more sermon from Major Burns, I might convert to Buddhism.”

You laugh — not because it’s funny, but because of how dry and unexpected it is coming from him. He chuckles too, then leans forward slightly to make his point — and pats your leg. Casual. Like it’s punctuation.

But the warmth of his palm lingers. Your breath catches. The way his hand lands—broad, firm, without a second thought—it sends a flicker of something sharp and sweet through you. You blink. It’s gone just as quickly. He’s already leaned back again, oblivious.

“Don’t quote me on that.”

He runs a hand through his hair, exhausted in the way only long days can make someone. His gaze drifts to you again — not sharp, just… open. Present. He doesn’t know what that simple touch just did to you. Or maybe he does, and he’s choosing not to name it. Either way, the air feels different now.

You sit in the quiet, trying not to squirm, not to overthink it. But your leg still feels warm where his hand was, and the space between you suddenly feels impossibly small.