"You're not going back to the cottage."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"Your locks are inadequate. Your sight lines are exposed. No security system. No secondary exit from the bedroom. And those men know the address. You're staying here."
Not a request. Not a suggestion. A conclusion.
The audacity should infuriate me. A man telling me where I'll live. Julian did this, decided our apartment, our neighborhood, which rooms were mine. The architecture of control built one decision at a time.
I test him. "And if I say no?"
He goes suddenly still. "Then I'll spend every night in my car outside your cottage."
I almost laugh. The image: a priest sleeping in a sedan outside a flower farm cottage, standing guard against international criminals. Absurd and completely sincere.
"The cottage has one bedroom. The rectory has one bedroom."
"I'll take the couch."
"You're six-two. That couch is five-eight."
"I'll manage."
"You'll destroy your back."
"My back is not the priority."
The way he says it. You are the priority, though he doesn't say it aloud. The certainty of someone who's already done the calculation and made the choice.
I should fight harder. Should insist on independence, autonomy, my ability to handle myself. I've survived six months alone.
But the bed is new. The coffee is good. And the man in front of me is calmly informing me I'm living here because my safety isn't negotiable.
Julian said: you'll stay because I've made leaving impossible.
Gabriel says: you'll stay or I'll sleep in a car.
The difference is everything. One is a cage. One is a choice.
"Fine. But I'm buying groceries. Your kitchen is a crime scene."
The relief on his face, quickly hidden but I catch it, tells me everything about how afraid he was I'd refuse.
We go to the cottage together to gather my things. He drives. Does another security sweep when we arrive, checking windows, testing locks. His hands move with the same deliberate precision I saw in the parking lot, the same controlled efficiency that dropped a professional to his knees. The competence makes me press my thighs together.
My body's betrayal is complete. I'm wet from watching a priest check window locks. The same biology that responded to Julian's control now responds to Gabriel's protection. I'm exactly who I was afraid I was.
I pack. More clothes, laptop, toiletries. The wooden spoon from the counter, Abuela Rosa's, the one thing I took from her kitchen. I wrap it in a dishcloth, tuck it in the bag. He notices. Doesn't ask.
Back at the rectory, I unpack in the bedroom with its new bed. My things in his space. Toiletries in his bathroom, as sparse as the rest of the house, with a single towel and bar soap. I notice the wall where a mirror should be. A man who removed his own reflection. My shampoo next to his soap. My toothbrush next to his. The domesticity louder than anything physical between us.
I take over his kitchen. Not aggressively, organically. The grocery store with him pushing the cart while I select onions, the image of Father Gabriel in his collar shopping for produce something I file under "unexpectedly attractive." I buy basics: olive oil, garlic, peppers, rice, real salt. Spices. A bowl of mangoes and limes that I set on the counter. The first color the kitchen has ever seen.
I stretch up on tiptoes, sliding the box of pasta onto the top shelf. Gabriel reaches from behind me at the same moment, our intentions colliding. His chest brushes my back. The cotton of my shirt rides up, exposing a strip of skin above my jeans. His breath catches—a small sound, but in the narrow kitchen it fills the space between us. For three heartbeats, neither of us moves. The crucifix on the wall seems to tilt its head, watching. Then his warmth withdraws as he steps back, but the heat lingers on my skin like a fingerprint.
The rice simmers on the stove, releasing steam that carries the scent of garlic and cumin through the rectory. In the reflection of the microwave door, I see Gabriel at the table, hiseyes following the movement of my hands, then traveling to the exposed curve where my neck meets my shoulder. He doesn't blink. Doesn't look away.
Julian watched me cook once, stood in the doorway monitoring my movements like he was studying security footage. Gabriel watches like he's memorizing a prayer. I don't know which is more dangerous. The man who wanted to own me or the man who wants to devour me.
