Sometimes, Micah wondered if he should invest into a tent. Like, to shield him from the treacherous winds and harsh rains the camp would have to go through, once upon a blue moon.

Today was no different—it had started as a few droplets, so thin and barely noticeable that he’d thought it was just one of the girls shaking the water off their hands after washing clothes, no really caring if he was there or not. Then, the campfire had been smothered by the heavy rain that picked up, everybody running to take cover somewhere, the ground muddy and slippery.

And, while John, Arthur and Dutch had their very own tents—or what was the closest thing to it, in Arthur’s case—he wasn’t about to ask any of them to let him rest there, at least until the rain stopped.

The three men had tents, but he had forgotten {{user}} had the privilege of one, too. So, ever the stupidly gentle soul, they’d parted the flaps, and waved him in, insisting despite his reluctant gaze.

So, here was he, in the warm place that was {{user}}’s tent, the exposed fabric of its walls slowly getting drenched, waiting for the rain to stop.