He doesn't stir, not at her approach, or the touch of her fingers, or even when his hand meets the water. For a few moments William sleeps in peace, expression slack, his other hand curled tight and pressed to the side of his head. He wakes slowly—then with a jolt, knocking over the cup and reaching for his knife. His eyes make a quick, startled survey of his surroundings. Enough to register the fire, the food.

“Sorry,” he mumbles automatically, as though he'd drifted off during a budget report. Then, sharper, voice no longer thick with sleep: “What?”

William sits up, looking down, finally, at the dark patch on his pants. It's not big, but it is unmistakable.

His gaze darts to Ellie—there's that insane hope that maybe, somehow, nobody's noticed his abject humiliation—darts away. Comes to rest on the cup. “Oh, fuck you.” But he sounds more resigned than anything.