She catches her lower lip between her teeth, worrying at it, and I can see the concern shadowing her eyes, the fear she's trying to hide. "What if the church won't let you go? What if they make it difficult, put up obstacles, drag their feet?"
"Then I'll fight them. For as long as it takes, however long that might be." I cup her face in both my hands, making sure she's looking directly at me, seeing the certainty in my expression. "I'm not going back to who I was before you walked into my life, Waverly. I can't. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. You've completely ruined me for that life, for that version of myself."
"Ruined you?" She lets out a soft laugh, but it's shaky, uncertain. "That doesn't exactly sound like a good thing when you put it that way."
"It's the best thing that's ever happened to me," I say firmly.
I kiss her, soft at first, then deeper when she opens for me. Her hands slide into my hair, and she shifts on my lap, pressing herself against me in a way that makes my whole body tighten.
"We should talk about this more," she mumbles against my mouth, her breath warm and unsteady. "Make actual plans. Figure out the details. Be responsible adults for once."
"We absolutely should," I agree, even as my hands slide deliberately up her thighs, palms spreading warmth across her skin, pushing her dress higher inch by inch. "Later. We'll do all of that later."
"Much later," she gasps as my fingers find the delicate edge of her underwear, tracing along the lace barrier.
This time is different from last night. Last night was reverent, careful, two people learning each other for the first time. This time is faster, needier. She's already wet when I slip my fingers inside her, and the sound she makes goes straight to my cock.
"I've been thinking about this all morning," I confess against her throat. "Sitting in meetings, drafting letters, and all I could think about was being inside you again."
"Then stop thinking," she breathes, "and do something about it."
I lift her easily, carrying her to the bedroom we barely made it to last night. I lay her down on the rumpled sheets and strip off her dress, revealing skin I've already memorized but can't stop wanting to explore. She reaches for my clothes, fumbling withbuttons, and I help her, shedding everything until we're skin to skin.
"I need you," she says, and the raw honesty in her voice undoes me.
I sink into her in one smooth stroke, and we both groan at the sensation. She's still tight, still new to this, and I force myself to go slow even though every instinct is screaming at me to take her hard and fast.
"Okay?" I ask through gritted teeth.
"More than okay." She wraps her legs around my waist and pulls me deeper. "Don't hold back. I want all of you."
I give her what she asks for. My control cracks, and I thrust into her with an urgency that borders on desperation. Her nails rake down my back, and she cries out with every stroke, and when she clenches around me and comes with my name on her lips, I follow her over the edge.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, catching our breath. The afternoon light has shifted to evening gold, and I realize we've spent the entire day in this bed, this apartment, this bubble of just the two of us.
"Stay tonight," she whispers. "Please."
"I'll stay every night, if you'll let me."
She smiles, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. "I'll let you."
We fall into a pattern over the following days. I spend my mornings at the church, fulfilling my duties, tying up loose ends. The afternoons and evenings belong to her. To us. I learn therhythm of her life: the way she hums while she makes coffee, the books she reads before bed, the spot behind her ear that makes her shiver when I kiss it.
I don't tell her about the timeline. The laicization process is complicated, and I don't want to burden her with the details. She knows I'm leaving, and that's enough for now. Once I have a clear path forward, once I can offer her a real future instead of vague promises, I'll explain everything.
It's not a lie, exactly. It's protection. She's been through so much already, losing her grandmother, starting over in a new city. She doesn't need to carry the weight of church bureaucracy on top of everything else.
At least, that's what I tell myself.
On Sunday, I preach what might be my last sermon at St. Augustin's. The words come easier than they have in years, because for once I'm not hiding behind them. I speak about transformation, about the courage it takes to become who you're meant to be. My eyes find Waverly in her usual spot in the front pew, and I see her smile.
After mass, I'm shaking hands with parishioners when I notice two women whispering near the holy water font. Mrs. Callahan and Mrs. Patterson, the church's most dedicated gossips. They're looking at Waverly, then at me, then at each other with expressions that make my stomach drop.
I catch fragments of their conversation as I move through the crowd. "...submitted something to the diocese..." "...resignation, Margaret says..." "...such a shame, he was a good priest..."
When I look for Waverly, she's gone.
I find her outside, leaning against the iron fence that surrounds the churchyard. Her face is pale, and she's gripping her locket so hard her knuckles are white.
