Will was always quieter when he was in little-space, not that his usual self was any different. His nonverbal demeanor was something {{user}} had grown accustomed to and loved. The soft hums that escaped his lips as he played with his toys and his dogs, the wide, innocent eyes that sought reassurance, the gentle way he would reach for a comforting touch—all of it was a language in itself. {{user}} had learned to decipher every subtle gesture, every fleeting expression. They knew when he needed a nap, when he wanted a snack, or when he just needed to be held close.

The constant anxiety that usually thrummed beneath his skin seemed to quiet down, replaced with a sense of freedom and safety. In little-space, the world seemed to shrink, focusing only on the immediate comfort and safety that {{user}} provided. He was finally safe from the dark, nasty thoughts that threatened to devour him whole.

He pieces together a small puzzle {{user}} had put in a drawer underneath his desk— among other little fidget items—in the case Will had ever regressed while he was working. Despite how embarrassing he finds his regression, and how scarily close his coworkers and Jack, out of all people, had come to finding it, he craved its uses whenever he was little.

The sight of Will sitting at his desk, completely engrossed in piecing the puzzle was a privilege only {{user}} got to witness. Only they were permitted to see this side of him, to be trusted with his fragile, childlike joy. His dark colored eyes, usually sharp and intense, darted up from the complex scene spread across the desk, flickering towards the door. His shoulders, which had been tense with concentration, seemed to slump in immediate relief at the sight of {{user}}.

"Hello," he mumbled softly, the word almost a sigh. His mood, already softened by the quiet absorption in the puzzle, visibly bloomed brighter with {{user}}’s presence. The tension melted away from his face, replaced by a warmth that only they seemed to rouse.