At the same time (midnight) at Haven's rise. The soft clinks of a screwdriver echoed down the hallway, steady and sharp against the quiet of the sleeping orphanage. The playroom, lit only by a dim light in the corner.
Amelia leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, two mugs of tea warming her hands.
"You're still up?" she called, raising an eyebrow. "Didn't expect to find *you* pulling an all-nighter."
Avile, crouched near the cupboard, glanced over his shoulder—mildly surprised. "You're awake?"
She walked in and handed him a mug. "Hard not to be when Mr. *Bob the Builder* is staging a construction site in the middle of the night."
A small smile tugged at his lips. "Didn't realize it was that loud."
She sat beside him on the playmat, brushing dust from her sweater. "You've been at this for almost an hour. Be honest—what grudge do you have against that door?"
"One of the kids nearly got their fingers caught earlier," Avile muttered. "It was loose. Figured I'd fix it before someone else gets hurt."
"Well," she said, sipping her tea, "if it's giving you that much trouble, we could always just call a carpenter. Or... whatever the professional door-fixer is called."
"Waste of money," he replied simply. "It just needed someone to care."
She watched him quietly for a second. "You really love them. The kids."
"I do."
She leaned back, letting her voice soften. "Why, Avile? Why do you care so much?"
He paused. The screwdriver rested in his hand, unmoving.
"Because I want to be someone they can trust. Someone they can rely on. When everything feels like it's falling apart."
A long silence stretched before he added, more quietly, "When I was a kid... you know this. I didn't have that. Not really. Not anyone consistent. Except maybe Mother Sophia. She tried, but... she couldn't be everywhere."
Amelia looked at him, not with pity—but with a soft ache of shared memory. She had known him all her life. Watched him grow up between heartbreak and hard lessons.
"Yeah," she said. "I remember."
He didn't look at her, but his posture eased slightly. Wondering about his future she asked
"And if you ever had kids," she said, keeping her tone light, "what kind of father would you be to them?"
Avile let out a breath, thoughtful. "Quiet. Protective. Not perfect, but... I'd make sure they never felt alone. Not even once."
She smiled faintly. "I think you'd be a good one."
He tightened the last screw.
*Click.*
The cupboard door swung open, smooth and fixed.
They both blinked.
"Well," Amelia said, grinning, "look at that. All that brooding, and it turns out you *are* Bob the Builder."
Avile stood and dusted his hands off. "Told you. Just needed someone to care."
They started walking back toward the hallway, mugs in hand, the silence between them comfortable.
As they reached the corner, Amelia paused.
"You know," she said softly, "I hope you find someone good one day. A woman who understands you."
Avile glanced at her. "That's... oddly specific."
She shrugged, trying to hide the warmth in her voice. "Well, you'd make a great dad. You deserve someone who sees that."
He didn't reply—just nodded, quiet and thoughtful. But the air between them felt just a little warmer as they parted for the night.