The sounds she makes when I kiss my way down her throat to the pulse point that races beneath delicate skin.
Dios mío.I force my gaze back to the chalice I’m polishing, but my body has already responded. I shift my weight, trying to find relief that doesn’t exist.
She glances up, catching me watching. Her hazel eyes, more green than gold in the morning light, hold mine for a moment too long. I see the flush creep up her neck, see the way her breathing changes. She knows what I’m thinking.
She can probably see it written across my face despite my attempts at control.
The letter in my pocket feels like it’s burning through the fabric.
I imagine accepting the priesthood.
Imagine being transferred to some parish three states away where I’d never see her again.
Never watch her arrange flowers while humming off-key.
Never taste the cinnamon rolls she stress-bakes at midnight.
Never hold her between Adrian, Elijah, and me while we claim her as ours.
The thought makes my hands shake so badly I nearly drop the chalice.
“Marcus?” Adrian’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. He’s standing in the doorway, his gray eyes sharp with concern. “You okay?”
“Fine.” The lie tastes like ash. “Just tired.”
His expression says he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t push. Not here. Not with Charlie watching from across the sanctuary, her hands stilled on the flowers.
That afternoon, I find myself in the choir loft with Elijah and Charlie, helping organize sheet music while trying to pretend my entire world isn’t tilting sideways.
The letter sits in my pocket like a stone, pulling me toward a future I no longer want.
Or do I?
Elijah sits at the piano, his fingers dancing across the keys in something soft and melancholic.
The music fills the space, beautiful and haunting, and I watch Charlie sway slightly to the rhythm as she catalogs hymn books.
Her body moves unconsciously, gracefully, and I’m transfixed by the curve of her hip, the way the afternoon light streaming through the stained glass paints her skin in jewel tones.
This is what I want.
This domestic simplicity.
This family we’ve built in shadows.
Not the priesthood.
Not the authority or the vestments or the vows.
Just this. Just them.
Charlie sets down the hymn book she’s holding and moves closer to where I’m standing. The music shifts, becomes something with more rhythm, more heat. She looks up at me, and the invitation in her hazel eyes is unmistakable.
“Dance with me,” she whispers.
I should say no, should maintain the distance we’re supposed to keep. But the letter in my pocket is a countdown to losing her, and I can’t waste whatever time we have left.
My hand finds her waist, pulling her close.
