Understanding.
Solidarity.
We’re in this together, whether we want to be or not.
Marcus holds up his phone, screen facing us. “Pastor Whitmore just posted this.”
I take the phone and frown.
It’s a photo of St. Michael’s roof, taken from the street. The weathered shingles, the missing tiles, the obvious signs of decay are all captured in high definition. The caption makes my hands shake.
Pray for our neighbors at St. Michael’s. Their building is as broken as their leadership. #CommunityFirst #VictoryLife.
The post already has dozens of shares and comments. People expressing concern. People suggesting St. Michael’s should close. People praising Victory Life’s modern facilities.
Charlie gasps softly, her hand finding my arm. The touch burns through my cassock, and I’m hyperaware of Marcus watching us, of the way his jaw clenches when he sees her fingers on my sleeve.
“He’s declaring war,” Marcus says quietly.
I stare at the photo, at Whitmore’s smug caption, at the comments already piling up. My church. My congregation. My life’s work, being dismantled piece by piece by a charlatan in an expensive suit.
The rage that’s been simmering all day finally boils over as I stalk out the door.
9
ELIJAH
I stand outside Charlie’s door in the darkened hallway, my hand raised to knock, my heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
The rectory is silent around me. Adrian retired to his quarters an hour ago, his footsteps heavy with exhaustion and frustration.
Marcus left for evening rounds at the hospital, visiting parishioners who requested pastoral care.
Everyone has gone to their separate spaces, their separate lives, leaving me alone with this desperate, clawing need that’s been building for weeks.
I’ve been patient.Mon Dieu, I’ve been so patient. Watching Charlie move through St. Michael’s like she belongs here, her vintage dresses swirling around those perfect thighs, her auburn hair catching light through the stained glass.
I’ve memorized the way she bites her lower lip when she’s concentrating, the unconscious grace in how she arranges flowers in the sanctuary, the melody she hums when she thinks no one’s listening.
I’ve stood close enough to smell the vanilla and cinnamon that cling to her clothes, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin. Close enough to imagine what it would feel like to finally touch her without restraint.
But we’ve been interrupted. Every. Single. Time.
In the kitchen, when I tasted chocolate from her thumb and felt her pulse race beneath my fingers. In the choir loft, when our bodies angled toward each other on the piano bench and the air grew thick with want.
Each moment stolen, each touch abbreviated, each kiss cut short by footsteps or fear or the weight of what we’re risking.
Not tonight.
Tonight, I’m done waiting.
I knock softly, three gentle taps that sound too loud in the quiet hallway.
My French accent thickens when I’m nervous or emotional, and right now my thoughts are a jumbled mess of English and French.
The door opens, and Charlie stands there in an oversized t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, revealing the delicate curve of her collarbone.
Her auburn hair is loose, falling in waves around her face, and her hazel eyes widen with surprise.
