“Hey.” I tap his chest. “You wanted something that wouldn’t make you commit homicide. Don’t move the target.”
He catches my hand and kisses my knuckles once.
“I’m always homicidal where you’re concerned,” he says. “That’s permanent.”
It should terrify me.
Instead, it settles around my ribs like armor.
I smile before I can stop myself.
He sees it.
“There,” he murmurs. “That.”
“What?”
“You’re happy. And nothing exploded.”
I scoff. “Give it a minute.”
His thumb drags across the back of my hand. “Miracle.”
“Careful,” I warn. “That’s priest language.”
He shakes his head. “Never again.”
He says it without hesitation.
My chest tightens anyway.
We sit in silence for a while, the house softly creaking around us like it’s getting used to holding people instead of ghosts.
I continue talking.
Not confessional-talking. This is messier. Louder with truth.
I tell him about the first day I realized my mother wouldn’t save me. About the boy in the alley when I was fifteen and the glass bottle I broke over his head. About standing outsidechurches, wondering what would happen if I walked inside and said something real.
He listens.
No judgment.
No righteousness.
Just a man collecting all the damage I offer him and putting it somewhere safe.
Eventually, he talks too.
Not about crowns or graves or men named Giovanni.
He tells me about stealing books from the rectory. Reading under a blanket with a flashlight. About Miguel catching him swearing at God and handing him a cigarette instead of a sermon. About hating the taste of communion wine but choking it down so people could feel forgiven for five minutes at a time.
“You were a terrible priest,” I tell him.
“I know.” His thumb circles the back of my neck. “Quitting saved my soul.”
“For me,” I say.
