"Waverly, don't."
I stand up, my bag forgotten, my ticket slipping from my fingers. He closes the distance between us, and I see the fear on his face, the raw terror of a man who thinks he's about to lose everything.
"How did you find me?"
"Your landlord said you'd cleared out. The only train station in the city is this one." He stops in front of me, breathing hard. "You were going to leave. Without saying goodbye. Without giving me a chance to fight for you."
"There's nothing to fight for." My voice breaks despite my best efforts. "I'm doing this for you, Cillian. So you can have your life back."
"I don't want my life back." He reaches for my hands, and I'm too tired to pull away. "I want the life I'm building with you. The one I chose. The one that actually means something."
"It won't mean anything when everyone looks at you and sees a failed priest, a man who couldn't keep his vows. When they look at me and see the reason you failed, the woman who led you astray, who ruined everything you worked for."
"Let them look. Let them whisper behind their hands in church pews and at dinner tables. Let them think whatever they want, make up whatever stories they need to make sense of this." He squeezes my hands so tight it almost hurts, his grip fierce andunrelenting. "I don't care about any of it, Waverly. I don't care about their judgment or their condemnation or their pity. I only care about you."
"You'll regret this. One day, you'll wake up and realize what you gave up for me, and you'll resent me. You'll hate me for it, for being the reason you lost everything you believed in."
"I could never hate you. Not in this lifetime or any other." He drops to his knees.
Right there on the train platform, surrounded by strangers, he sinks to the ground and looks up at me with those gray-green eyes that have haunted me since the moment I first saw them.
"I spent my whole life on my knees for a God who demanded I be empty," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "I'll spend the rest of it on my knees for you."
People are staring. I can feel their eyes on us, can hear the murmurs of curiosity and confusion. But I can't look away from him. Can't think about anything except the man kneeling before me, offering me everything I was too afraid to accept.
"Cillian, get up. People are watching."
"Let them watch." He doesn't move. "I want them all to see. I want the whole world to know that I chose you. That I'll keep choosing you, every day, for the rest of my life."
The tears I've been holding back finally spill over. "You're insane."
"Probably." He smiles, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. "But I'm yours. If you'll have me."
I sink down to my knees in front of him, not caring about the dirty platform or the staring strangers or any of it. I take his face in my hands and look into his eyes, searching for any trace of doubt or regret. There is none. Just love, steady and certain and completely overwhelming.
"I love you," I whisper. "I've loved you since the first time you looked at me during mass. I've loved you through every sermon and every confession and every sleepless night. I love you, and I'm terrified that I'm not enough for you."
"You're everything," he says. "You're my faith now. My reason. My whole world."
I kiss him. Right there on the platform, with my train pulling into the station behind us, I kiss him like my life depends on it. He wraps his arms around me and holds on like he's never letting go, and I realize that I don't want him to. I don't ever want him to let go.
When we finally break apart, the train doors are opening and closing, passengers flooding on and off. I look at the departure board, at the destination I'll never reach, and then I look back at him.
"Take me home," I say.
He stands and pulls me up with him, wrapping his arm around my waist. "Which home? Your apartment or the rectory?"
I think about it for a moment. About all the places I've lived and left, all the rooms that never felt like they belonged to me. Then I look at his face, at the love shining in his eyes, and I know.
"Wherever you are," I tell him. "That's home."
8
CILLIAN
She's in my arms. She's here, she's real, and she's not getting on that train.
I hold her against me as we walk through the station, past the curious stares of commuters who just watched a man drop to his knees and declare his love on a public platform. I don't care what they saw. I don't care what they think. The only thing that matters is the woman pressed against my side, her fingers interlaced with mine, her heartbeat so close I can almost feel it.
