He walks past me toward the door, and I force myself not to grab him, not to slam him against the wall and make him understand that Charlie is off-limits, that even mentioning her name is crossing a line that will get him hurt.
“Two weeks, Adrian,” Tommy calls over his shoulder. “Clock’s ticking.”
The door closes behind him, and I’m alone in the abandoned gym with my racing heart and the ghost of who I used to be.
I return to St. Michael’s near midnight, parking in the shadows and entering through the side door.
The church is dark and quiet, everyone asleep in their separate quarters, maintaining the careful distance we’ve been forced to adopt since news of the Bishop’s imminent arrival to investigate.
Except the parish hall kitchen glows with soft light.
I find Charlie standing at the counter in one of Marcus’s shirts, the fabric hanging to mid-thigh, her auburn hair loose around her shoulders.
She’s making tea, her movements slow and tired, and the domesticity of the scene makes my chest tight with want and fear in equal measure.
She looks up when I enter, and those hazel eyes that shift between green and gold in different light find mine with immediate concern. “Adrian. Where have you been?”
“Praying.” The lie tastes like ash.
Her expression says she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t push. Just turns back to the kettle, and I watch the way Marcus’s shirt shiftsacross her body, revealing the curve of her hip, the length of her bare legs.
I imagine crossing the kitchen, pressing her against the counter, burying my face in her neck and breathing her in until the stench of cigarette smoke and violence is replaced by vanilla and cinnamon.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask, my voice rough.
“Too much on my mind.” She pours hot water over a tea bag, the steam rising between us. “The Bishop’s investigation. Victory Life’s threats. Everything feels like it’s closing in.”
I move closer despite knowing I shouldn’t, drawn to her like gravity. “We’ll get through this.”
“Will we?” She turns to face me. The vulnerability in her expression makes me want to promise her things I have no right to promise. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m the problem. If you’d all be better off if I just left.”
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharp, commanding, and I watch her eyes widen slightly. “Don’t ever think that. You’re not the problem, Charlie. You’re—” I stop myself before I can finish.You’re everything. You’re the reason I get up in the morning. You’re salvation and damnation wrapped in vintage dresses and freckles.
The air between us crackles with everything we can’t say, can’t do, not here, not now, not with threats closing in from every direction.
I’m hyperaware of how close I’m standing, how the kitchen suddenly feels too small, too warm.
How her lips part slightly as she looks up at me, how the pulse in her throat hammers visibly beneath delicate skin.
I want to kiss her.
Want to lift her onto this counter and make her forget everything except my name.
Want to claim her so completely that no one, not Tommy or the Bishop or Victory Life, could ever question who she belongs to.
Footsteps echo in the hallway, breaking the moment.
We step apart just as Elijah appears in the doorway, his golden hair mussed from sleep, wearing pajama pants and a thin t-shirt.
His blue eyes move between Charlie and me, reading the charged atmosphere with unnerving accuracy.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” His voice is soft, but I hear the question underneath.What’s wrong? What happened?
“Just making tea,” Charlie says, her voice steadier than mine would be. “Want some?”
Elijah nods, moving into the kitchen, and suddenly the three of us are standing in this small space, the weight of our shared secrets pressing down like a physical thing. I watch Charlie pour tea with shaking hands, see Elijah’s fingers brush hers as he takes the mug, notice how his body angles protectively toward her even in this innocent moment.
We stand in weighted silence, each of us carrying burdens we can’t share.
