I’ve been watching her for two weeks now, and it’s destroying me.
Charlie moves through St. Michael’s like she’s always belonged here, her vintage sundresses swirling around her thighs as she arranges flowers in the sanctuary, her auburn hair catching the light through the stained glass windows.
She hums that hymn her grandmother taught her while she works, the melody drifting through the empty church, and I find myself stopping whatever I’m doing just to listen.
I shouldn’t be watching. I definitely shouldn’t be noticing the way her dress clings to the curve of her hips when she reaches for the high shelves, or how her lips part slightly when she’s concentrating on some task Adrian has assigned her.
I shouldn’t be cataloging the freckles that dust her shoulders, visible when her cardigan slips, or imagining what it would feel like to trace them with my fingers.
But I am. God help me, I am.
I recognize the look in Adrian’s eyes because I’ve felt it myself. That dangerous pull toward someone you shouldn’t want, that gravitational force that makes every rational thought evaporate.
Three years ago, I left the priesthood for a woman named Isabella.
I never acted on it, never crossed that final line, but I came close enough that the guilt drove me out. I became a deacon instead, a compromise that’s felt like purgatory ever since.
Now I’m watching Adrian make the same mistake, except he’s actually crossing the line I never dared to.
I saw them that night. Heard them, really, the sounds echoing from his office after midnight.
I’d been in the sacristy organizing vestments when Charlie’s voice carried through the walls, breathless and desperate, followed by Adrian’s rough murmur of scripture twisted into something profane. I should have walked away.
Instead, I stood frozen in the darkness, my hands gripping the edge of the counter until my knuckles went white, listening to them claim each other while my body burned with jealousy and want.
I know I should report this.
Should protect Adrian from himself, protect the parish from scandal, protect Charlie from becoming collateral damage in a priest’s crisis of faith.
But every time I open my mouth to say something, the words die in my throat.
Because I’m falling for her too.
It’s in the small things.
The way she brings cookies and breads to share after her midnight stress-baking sessions, still warm and perfect, her hazel eyes lighting up when we tell her they’re extraordinary.
The way she listens when I talk about the parish’s outreach programs, actually listens, asking intelligent questions that show she cares about more than just working off her debt.
The way she laughs at Elijah’s terrible jokes, her whole face transforming with genuine joy.
The way she looks at me sometimes, when she thinks I’m not paying attention.
Like she’s trying to figure me out.
Like she sees past the deacon’s collar to the man underneath who’s barely holding himself together.
I find myself in the choir loft before dawn, ostensibly to discuss music selections for Sunday Mass with Elijah.
He’s already at the piano, his fingers dancing across the keys in something melancholic and beautiful.
The morning light filters through the stained glass, painting him in jewel tones, and I remember why people call him angelic.
That face, those crystalline blue eyes, the golden hair that curls at his nape. He looks like he belongs in a Renaissance painting, not a small parish church.
“You’re here early,” he says without looking up, his accent thickening slightly the way it does when he’s tired or emotional.
“Couldn’t sleep.” I lean against the railing, watching his hands move. “Thought we could go over the hymns for Sunday.”
