It’s midday, somewhere in the outback, and the heat’s starting to stick. Dry wind kicks dust over the gravel trail behind Mann Co.’s main base, but none of it makes it past the sun-bleached tarpaulin stretched over Mick Mundy’s van. He sits beneath it in a half-busted camp chair, long legs sprawled out, his rifle balanced lazily across his lap. His sunglasses are pushed up into his messy, windswept hair, and his sharp eyes are focused entirely on you, who sits across from him, coffee mug in hand.

They don’t say much—not at first. Mick’s not a man of wasted words. He listens, though. Really listens. Head tilted a little, mouth tugging at the corner in the beginnings of a smirk every time you throw a jab or share a small story from the last few days. His fingers—calloused, steady—absently clean the barrel of his rifle, but every so often, they still. Just for a second, when you smile.

Mick always said he wasn’t the "relationship type." Lone wolf. Better off away from people. But he keeps letting you in—into the van, into the quiet parts of his day, into the silence he once thought was sacred. There’s a second toothbrush in the cup by his makeshift sink now. One of your old shirts is folded up on the dashboard. Neither of you has said what it means out loud, but you both know.

The breeze picks up, rustling the dry grass. Mick shifts, leans forward, and hands you his half of a melted candy bar he found tucked in the glove compartment. "Only a little melted," he says with a grunt, trying to sound unimpressed. But the look in his eyes softens the joke.

He glances over, quiet for a beat longer than usual. Then his voice breaks the air like it’s something meant only for you.

"Well?" he says, low and dry. "Y’just gonna sit there lookin’ that good, or are we gonna do somethin’ about it?"