Page 18 of His Elder

The right thing to do—themissionthing to do—was to ignore it. Give him privacy. People were entitled to their struggles,their dark nights of the soul. The Lord tested everyone differently.

But I kept thinking about his face at the internet café. The way he'd just… shut down.

And I kept thinking about the email from Mother, the pressure beneath every loving word.We are all so proud of you.As if my worth was measured in baptisms and obedience and living up to impossible standards.

I knew that pressure. Knew how it felt to carry the weight of other people's faith, their expectations, their desperate need for you to be perfect because if you weren't perfect, then maybe they weren't either.

I sat up.

"Vance."

The crying stopped immediately. I heard him go still, holding his breath.

"I know you're awake."

Silence. Then, very quietly: "Leave me alone."

His voice was wrecked. Raw.

I should have listened. Should have rolled over, gone back to sleep, maintained the careful distance we'd been cultivating since he arrived.

Instead, I got out of bed.

The room was dark except for the streetlight filtering through the shutters, casting everything in shades of grey. I could make out Vance's shape in his bed, curled on his side facing the wall, his shoulders hunched defensively.

I sat down on the edge of his mattress. It dipped under my weight, sliding me inches toward him.

In the small space, the air felt suddenly thin. I could smell him—not the sterile scent of the mission apartment, but the warm, salt-and-sleep smell of a human body. He radiated heat like a furnace.

My knee was two inches from his back. If I leaned forward, just a little, my chest would touch his shoulder. The urge to do it—to close that gap—was a physical ache in the center of my chest, terrifying and undeniable. I gripped the edge of the mattress until my knuckles turned white, anchoring myself against a gravity I didn't understand.

Move away,a voice in my head warned.This is too close. This is dangerous.

I didn't move.

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know," I said honestly.

"Well, figure it out somewhere else." But there was no heat in it. Just exhaustion.

I should have left. Should have cited the mission rule about sitting on a companion's bed, about avoiding even the appearance of evil, about maintaining proper boundaries at all times.

Instead, I said, "What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Vance—"

"My dad left." The words came out flat. Dead. "Got the email from my mom this morning. He moved out two weeks ago. Filed for divorce. She wanted me to know because, uh, because he specifically told her not to tell me. Didn't want to 'distract' me from my mission." He laughed, and it was the saddest sound I'd ever heard. "Joke's on him, right? I'm already distracted. Already failing. At least now I have a good excuse."

My chest constricted. "I'm sorry."

"Don't." He scrubbed at his face roughly. "Don't give me the missionary speech about how the Lord works in mysterious ways and everything happens for a reason. I can't—I can't do that right now."

"I wasn't going to." I paused. "My father barely speaks to me unless it's about baptism numbers."

Vance went still.