The children’s voices had filled the small church, clambering and loud as they worked through their lessons, chattering in a way that usually soothed him. But today, it was harder than usual to concentrate.

Mainly because of you.

Leaning there by the church door. Sweat staining your shirt, a glistening sheen across your brow, like you’d been working the fields with the sun beating down hard. He’d always thought there was something strange about the way you stood—like the world couldn’t weigh you down, even when the heat of the day tried to press down on you.

His breath caught in his throat, a small, familiar ache forming deep in his chest.

He tried to continue teaching them their prayers and letters, but his mind was already halfway to you, leaning against that door, eyes half-lidded, like you’d been waiting for him.

“Continue your work,” he said softly, the words a little too quiet, as he excused himself with a hasty smile, stepping past them.

His boots clicked quietly against the wooden floor as he walked out into the fresh air. The cool breeze barely touched his skin as he approached you.

“By the heavens you look ill,” he murmured shakily, pressing his palm to your forehead. He felt foolish for worrying over you, but he couldn’t stop himself. He was just glad to see you.