Thorpe Abbotts Airbase – Medical Quonset hut

The late afternoon sun filtered through the canvas of the hut, casting soft golden light across the room. You were halfway through your routine checks and crouched down to retrieve a medical journal that had fallen from the makeshift shelf, your fingers brushing against the worn leather cover as you straightened up. Just as you reached for it, you felt a presence behind you.

Major John Egan.

He was standing close, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body before his touch came. "Looking for this?" His voice came low, smooth, and far too casual for the tension it sent spiraling through you.

As you straightened up, he leaned forward, reaching over your shoulder to point at something on the nearby table, his chest nearly brushing against your back. But it wasn’t that closeness that undid you.

It was his hand.

It rested lightly—almost carelessly—on the small of your back, just above the curve of your hips. His fingers pressed lightly against the fabric of your habit, just firm enough for you to feel the weight of him through the layers of cloth. It seemed so nonchalant, like it was nothing to him, but the effect it had on you was anything but casual.

A warmth, foreign and uninvited, spread from where his hand touched, curling through your stomach, tightening like a knot that refused to loosen. Your entire body stiffened instinctively, but you couldn't bring yourself to move away. You knew this was wrong, improper—he was a man of the world, and you, a nun who had never known a man’s touch.

But his hand lingered.

You could feel the press of each finger, the casual way his thumb brushed against the fabric as though he wasn’t even aware of what he was doing. But you were. Every inch of your skin beneath his touch was suddenly alive, aware of him in a way that left you breathless.

He made some quip about the men being difficult patients, his tone light and teasing, but you could barely focus on the words.