It’s late afternoon when you push the door open, the kind of hour where the light slants warm and low. Most everyone else has drifted off to other tasks, leaving the room with that all-too familiar stillness—quiet, orderly, almost tender.

William’s on the bench by the far wall, a few wooden pegs resting beside him. He’s smoothing one by hand, working the grain slow, like the motion keeps his thoughts from wandering too far. When he hears the door, he glances up—quick, soft—and something flickers over his face before he looks down again.

“You’re back,” he says, voice steady but a little warmer than he intends. His thumb rubs over the peg’s edge, slower now. “Figured you’d gone on with the others.”

He doesn’t rise or shift much, but there’s a tiny tension in his shoulders, a knot pulled too tight. His gaze lifts again, and for a second, he meets your eye, the slightest tinge of crimson dusting the tops of his cheeks in a way that can’t be excused as the sun’s effect.

The two of you have been close for a while, most of your time spent deep in your worship, the physicality of such allowing you to be closer to him than normal—as close as you can be without drawing unwanted attention.

He clears his throat softly. “Been a quiet day,” he says. “Leaves a man a lot of time to think.”

A beat. “Probably too much.”

He gestures faintly to the open space beside him—not an invitation, just a recognition of it, the air loosening its grip between the two of you.

His voice dips lower, the words gentler than he means them to be.

“If you want to sit, you can. I don’t mind.”