Page 5 of His Elder

I grabbed my quad from the bedroom—a battered paperback I'd bought used, margins already filled with someone else's notes—and returned to find Elder Price had moved to the small table by the window. He'd set out his scriptures, his journal, hisPreach My Gospelmanual, and a colour-coded set of highlighters.

Jesus Christ.

"So," he said as I sat down. "Chapter three emphasizes the importance of teaching by the Spirit, not relying solely on memorized lessons. It says that as we study the scriptures daily, we'll be prepared to—"

"Elder Price."

He paused, highlighter hovering over the page.

"Do we actually have to do this?"

"Do what?"

"This." I gestured at his arsenal of study materials. "The manual. The highlighting. The... performance."

"It's not a performance. It's companion study."

"You study. I'll study. We'll be in the same room. That's companion enough."

Something flickered across his face—hurt, maybe, or anger. Hard to tell with the way he kept everything locked down so tight.

"Fine," he said quietly. "Study whatever you want."

He bent over his manual, shoulders rigid, and began reading.

I opened my quad to a random page—ended up in Ecclesiastes—and tried to focus. But the silence between us had weight, pressing down like humidity before a storm.

After twenty minutes, I gave up on scripture study and pulled out my sketchbook instead.

I shaded the line of his jaw, pressing the charcoal harder than necessary. That was the annoying thing about Elder Price. He should have been easy to hate—a rigid, rule-quoting automaton with a stick up his ass. But he was also infuriatingly symmetrical.

The morning light caught the sharp plane of his cheekbone and the gold in his hair, and my fingers itched to capture it. It was a waste, really. A face like that, wasted on aguy who probably thought smiling without a permit was a sin.

I watched his throat work as he swallowed a spoonful of muesli. The strong column of his neck, the way his Adam's apple moved. I looked away, irritated with myself.Great. He’s a robot, but he’s a hot robot. This is going to be a long transfer.

"What are you drawing?"

I looked up. He was watching me, manual forgotten.

"Nothing. Just... the room."

"Can I see?"

"It's not finished."

"I'd still like to see it."

Dangerous. But I turned the sketchbook around anyway.

He studied the page, his expression unreadable. "That's... you're really good."

"Thanks."

"Is that me?"

"Might be."

"You captured the light well. The shadows." He paused. "I look angry."