Cantrell straightened his back, a surge of protectiveness for the shelter that helped him in his time of need coming over him.“Of course, as a priest I don’t need luxuries. My purpose is to serve the people of Dunwich.”
“Right, yeah, but my point is the church should be focusing their finances on this place. It’s practically falling apart.”
“I’m aware that we are lacking in many areas, but it is better than these people being on the streets at night,” Cantrell snapped.
Illias sat back and crossed his arms. “I don’t disagree with that. What I'm trying to get at is that I can see what this place needs, but I want to know what the most pressing matters are so I can help. I know I don’t look or act like it, but my family has money. I have the ability to do something.” He uncrossed his arms then reached across the table. He took Cantrell’s hand, making his heart flutter. “Let me help, Cantrell.”
Cantrell sighed and averted his eyes. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped like that—”
“Hey,” Illias squeezed Cantrell’s hand. “It’s okay. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate. We both do. Let me help, tell me what needs to be done.”
“There’s so much to be done,” Cantrell muttered, shaking his head.
“Come over tonight. I’ll cook dinner, we can figure it out together, and, if you want, you can stay for a movie to take your mind off everything.”
Cantrell glanced up at Illias. His expression was gentle but sincere as he looked at Cantrell. He couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at him and saw past the uniform. Saw past the white collar and the rosary and offered him simple domesticity. He swallowed and gave a small nod.
“Let me know when you’re on your way.”
Illias stood up and Cantrell found that he missed the feeling of their hands interlocked. Illias grabbed his shirt off the fence andheaded towards the door. He paused before going in and looked at Cantrell one last time.
“And no priest clothes.”
With his hair wet and slicked back—the gray streaks in his hair a little more evident than normal—and his face freshly shaven, Cantrell couldn’t shake the feeling that he still looked like a priest. He wore a soft green button down tucked into a pair of loose jeans and his gold cross necklace. Debating with himself whether it was a good idea or not to tuck it beneath his shirt, Cantrell smoothed his hands across his jeans for what felt like the fifth time since he stepped in front of Illias’ door. The fear of knocking boiled in his gut. He knew he couldn’t stand outside the door any longer without potentially drawing suspicion, but he worried what Illias would think seeing him dressed like they were on a date, because it wasn’t a date. Cantrell was here to discuss the issues with Saint Anthony’s and to talk about funding. This was business, not pleasure. Though the thought did little to settle his nerves as the door opened to reveal Illias.
“Hey,” Illias greeted, an easygoing smile on his face.
“Hey,” Cantrell breathed, unable to get over how beautiful Illias was, even in regular clothing.
“Come in, come in,” Illias said after a few seconds of both of them standing there, staring at each other in awe.
He moved aside and Cantrell stepped in, heeled off his shoes, then placed them next to Illias’. Cantrell briefly thought how natural it looked to see their shoes next to each other. It reminded him of Zoe’s kitten heels next to his old work boots. Only this time, it was as though his brown loafers next to Illias’ scuffed up sneakers had found their way home.
“It smells lovely,” Cantrell complimented, distracting himself from the memory.
Illias’ home was filled with a pleasant smell of spice, chicken, and an underlying floral scent from the candle burning in the living room.
“You didn’t have to do all this just for me.”
“Who said it was just for you?” Illias’ hand grazed Cantrell’s lower back as he walked by. “Go sit down, I’ll make our plates.”
Cantrell went over to the table and took a seat, then thanked Illias when he sat a plate filled with chicken Alfredo and an empty glass on the table. It wasn’t an extravagant dinner by any means but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Illias made a home cooked meal. Put time and effort into dinner when he could have just ordered pizza or take out.
Illias set his own spot on the table and grabbed a bottle of Pinot Grigio from the counter. “I don’t drink,” Cantrell blurted out. “I’m sorry. I should have said—”
“No, it’s okay, I should have known. I mean, you only drink tea at the bar.” Illias waved Cantrell off, placing the bottle down and moving to the fridge to grab a pitcher of water. “I should probably drink more water anyways,” he joked, pouring water into their glasses.
Illias put the pitcher back then sat down. Cantrell mumbled a small prayer, crossed his chest, and offered a small smile before he started eating. “This is phenomenal.”
“Thank you. I actually tweaked one of my mom’s old recipes, I do a wine reduction for the sauce and season the chicken separately so it has a wider flavor profile.”
“You might just have to cook every time I’m over,” Cantrell half-joked, praying that there would be more nights like this.
Illias grinned. “Okay, what do you like? I’m pretty well-versed in the kitchen.” He dropped his chin and angled his head. “As well as other things.”
Cantrell’s cheeks warmed but his stomach knotted at the implication. He wanted to believe that what he had with Illias was something more than what it truly was. Yet the small tease showed that it wasn’t. Their relationship was nothing more than a complicated version of friends with benefits.
“What are we doing here?” Cantrell asked, barely loud enough to be heard. Still, the question hung heavy in the space between.
