I should feel relieved. Instead, I feel like someone has scooped out my chest and left a hollow space where hope used to be.
I'm about to leave, to gather what's left of my dignity and walk out of this church forever, when I hear footsteps behind me. Not inside the confessional. In the church itself. Coming closer.
I turn, pushing open the confessional door, and there he is.
Father Brennan stands in the nave, not in the confessional where he's supposed to be. He's in his full cassock, rosary in hand, and he looks terrible. Dark circles under his eyes, tension in his jaw, his usually composed features drawn tight with something that might be exhaustion or might be torment. He's watching me with those gray-green eyes that have haunted my dreams for months.
"Not here," he says quietly. His voice is rough, like he hasn't slept either. "Follow me."
I shouldn't. This is already so far past the boundaries of appropriate behavior that I can't even see them anymore. A priest and a parishioner, alone together, meeting in secret. Nothing about this is right.
I follow him anyway.
He leads me to a small alcove off the main sanctuary, a private prayer nook with a statue of Mary looking down on us with serene, unknowing eyes. The space is tiny, barely big enough for two people, and when he turns to face me, we're close enough that I could reach out and touch him if I dared.
"We need to talk about your confession." His voice is barely above a whisper, as if he's afraid someone might hear.
"I'm sorry." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "I shouldn't have said those things. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I can transfer to another parish, or I can just stop coming to mass altogether. Whatever you need. I'll do it."
"Don't." The single word cuts through my rambling like a blade. "Don't apologize for telling me the truth."
He steps closer, and suddenly I'm backed against the cold stone wall with nowhere to go. His hand comes up, almost touching my face, hovering an inch away from my skin. I can feel the heat of him, the barely contained tension in every line of his body.
"I've been thinking about you," he says, and his voice is rough and broken in a way I've never heard from him before. "For weeks. Every mass, every sermon. I preach to the whole congregation, but I'm only talking to you."
My breath catches in my throat. "Father..."
"Cillian." He says his own name like an offering, like a gift. "When we're alone, you can call me Cillian."
His thumb finally makes contact, tracing along my jaw, and the sensation is so overwhelming that I gasp. Such a simple touch, and yet it feels like being struck by lightning. Like every nerve in my body has suddenly come alive.
"This is wrong," I whisper, even as I lean into his touch. "You're a priest."
"I know what I am." His eyes are dark, searching my face like he's trying to memorize every detail. "The question is whether you know what you're asking for."
"I don't know what I'm asking for." My voice shakes, and I feel tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. Not from sadness. From the sheer overwhelming intensity of standing here, in this sacred space, with his hand on my face and his body so close I can smell the incense that clings to his cassock. "I just know I can't stop. I've tried, Cillian. God, I've tried. But every time I close my eyes, you're there."
His jaw tightens, and for a moment I think he's going to kiss me. Right here in this church, beneath the watchful eyes of the Virgin Mary, he's going to close the distance between us and put his mouth on mine and damn us both.
Instead, he pulls back. His hand drops from my face, and the loss of contact feels like a physical wound. He takes a step backward, then another, putting distance between us that feels insurmountable.
"Go home, Waverly." His voice is strained, controlled in a way that costs him something. "Lock your door. And if you have any sense, don't come back."
He turns and walks away before I can respond, his cassock swirling around his legs, leaving me pressed against the cold stone wall with my heart in my throat and his touch still burning on my skin.
I don't go home.
I go to the evening mass instead. I sit in the front pew, directly in his line of sight, and I watch him approach the altar with the weight of everything unsaid hanging between us. His eyes find mine as he turns to face the congregation, and something flickers across his face. Pain. Longing. A hunger that mirrors my own.
He begins to speak about resisting temptation, about the importance of turning away from sin, and his voice is steady and sure. But every few seconds, his gaze drifts to me. His hands grip the edges of the lectern so hard his knuckles go white. He stumbles over a word, catches himself, keeps going.
I sit through the entire service, letting his words wash over me while his eyes tell a different story. Resist temptation, he says, but he looks at me like I'm the only thing he's ever wanted. Turn away from sin, he says, but his voice breaks on the word "sin" and his gaze drops to my mouth.
When mass ends, I don't approach him. I just stand and walk toward the door, feeling his eyes on my back the whole way. At the threshold, I turn and look at him one last time. He's standing at the altar, watching me with an expression that makes my chest ache.
He told me not to come back. But he looked at me during mass like I was the only prayer worth answering.
I have a feeling I'll be back tomorrow.
