I nearly knock over my orange juice reaching across the table to grab his hands. "Cillian, that's amazing! Why didn't you tell me last night?"
"You were asleep when I got home. And I wanted to see your face when I told you." He's grinning now, that rare, full smile that transforms his usually serious features. "It's not much money, but it's real work. Helping people who actually need it."
"I'm so proud of you." I squeeze his fingers. "You're going to be incredible."
"I had a good teacher." His eyes hold mine, warm and steady. "You taught me what it means to actually live, instead of just going through the motions."
We eat breakfast together, talking about nothing in particular, and I marvel at how natural this feels. Six months ago, I was a grieving girl in a confessional, admitting sins I was certain would damn me. Now I'm sitting across from the man I love, planning our future, and I've never felt more at peace.
After breakfast, we get ready for Sunday mass. St. Catherine's has become our parish now, a comfortable walk from our apartment. Father Michael is young and kind, with a wicked sense of humor that Cillian appreciates, and the congregation has welcomed us without question or judgment.
We walk to church hand in hand, umbrellas raised against the gentle rain. Cillian is in civilian clothes now, always, but there's still something about him that draws the eye. The way he carries himself. The quiet intensity in his gaze. I catch an older woman watching us as we enter the church, and I wait for the judgment, the whispered speculation.
Instead, she smiles and nods, and I realize that here, we're just another couple. Just two people in love, attending mass on a rainy Sunday morning. The relief that washes over me is profound.
We find our usual pew, near the middle, and I settle against Cillian's side as the service begins. He holds my hand during the hymns, his thumb tracing absent patterns on my skin, and I close my eyes and let the music wash over me.
I used to come to church seeking peace. Seeking comfort after Nana's death, seeking connection in a city that felt impossibly large and lonely. I never expected to find love. I never expected to find him.
The homily today is about grace. About receiving gifts we don't deserve and learning to accept them anyway. Father Michael's voice is gentle and sincere, and I think about all the grace I've been given. Nana's love. Cillian's devotion. The chance to build a life with someone who sees me, really sees me, in a way no one ever has before.
After mass, we light a candle for my grandmother at the shrine. It's become our ritual, our way of keeping her memory alive. Cillian stands beside me, his hand on my back, and I whisper a silent prayer of gratitude.
"She would have loved this," I say softly as the flame flickers and dances in the dim alcove. "Seeing me happy like this. Seeing us together, building something real."
"I wish I could have met her." He pulls me close, his arm wrapping around my waist. "I wish I could have thanked her properly for raising the woman who walked into my life and saved it."
"You didn't need saving," I murmur, though even as I say it, I know it isn't quite true.
"Yes, I did." He tips my chin up gently, forcing me to meet the earnest intensity in his eyes. "I was drowning, Waverly. Going through the motions, letting everything that mattered slip away. I just didn't know it until you came along. You threw me a lifeline when I needed it most, and you didn't let go even when I tried to push you away."
My throat tightens at the raw honesty in his voice. "You were worth holding onto. You've always been worth it."
He kisses me, soft and reverent, right there in the church. When we pull apart, I see Father Michael watching us from the altar, a knowing smile on his face. He gives us a small wave before disappearing into the vestry.
We walk home through streets slick with rain, sharing an umbrella, our shoulders pressed together. The apartment is warm and quiet when we return, and Cillian makes tea while I curl up on the couch with a book I've been meaning to finish.
But I can't concentrate on the words. My mind keeps drifting to him, to the life we've built, to the future stretching out before us. I watch him move through our kitchen, so comfortable in this space that was once mine and is now ours, and I feel something swell in my chest that might be contentment or might be joy. Maybe both.
"What are you smiling about?" he asks, settling beside me on the couch, the cushions dipping under his weight.
"Nothing. Everything." I set my book aside, marking the page I haven't actually read, and tuck myself against his side, fitting into the space that feels made for me. "I'm just happy."
"Good." He presses a lingering kiss to my hair, his breath warm against my scalp. "That's all I ever wanted. To make you happy."
"You do. Every single day." I thread my fingers through his, holding tight.
We sit in comfortable silence, listening to the steady rhythm of rain drumming against the windows, creating a cocoon of warmth and safety around us. His hand finds mine, and I tracethe lines of his palm with gentle fingers, thinking about all the ways those hands have touched me. In passion, urgent and desperate. In comfort, soft and steadying. In prayer, reverent and devoted.
"Cillian?"
"Mm?" The sound rumbles through his chest against my cheek.
"Are you ever sorry? About leaving the church, I mean. About giving up your vocation for this—for us?"
He's quiet for a moment, considering. "Sometimes I miss the ritual," he admits. "The structure. There was comfort in knowing exactly what was expected of me every day." He turns to look at me, and his eyes are clear and certain. "But I was never sorry. Not for a single moment. How could I be, when leaving led me to you?"
"Even when it was hard? When the diocese made things difficult, when people talked?"
