A/N-Hi there! Sorry, I finished this story and posted in on AO3 already. I realized today that a few people here were reading it. So I'm updating it all. Should be all updated on this site today or tomorrow.

I've already started a new Fleabag Fic. I'll try to add that here soon.

Thanks for reading!

###

Proof and Penance

My door buzzes earlier than I'd expected, and when I glance out through the window I see him, The Priest, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows nervously. He looks pleased for just one moment as I open the door, then he hears the garbled cooing sound that comes from the nephew I'm carrying on my hip. He stares at the baby with a wild tuft of blond hair and clear blue eyes, and he replies, "Fuck!" loudly, an involuntary reaction to something so unexpected.

"Looks like you've learned to talk to babies," I joke. "Could use a little work—"

"Sorry," he interrupts, apologizing to a child who clearly isn't old enough to comprehend. "Sorry," he repeats to me.

I can see him running thoughts through his head before he says, "You didn't tell me..."

"Should I have?" I ask, perplexed. Then, suddenly understanding his confusion, I blurt, "He's Claire's. Jesus, he's not mine!"

"Oh," he doesn't hide his relief well, "okay."

"Not yours either, at least not that I know of." I tease, "Want me to double check with Claire on that?"

"No, thanks...I think I'm covered."

"My sister's getting a shower, so I'm looking after him. I doubt she'll leave him with me for long. She can't check into the hotel until a little later."

"Whew," he sighs animatedly, still coming down from the scare.

"Don't faint on my fucking doorstep! Come in."

He enters, looking around my new place, still not dressed in cleric's clothes, save the black pants.

"Need a drink?" I offer.

"Water, please," he replies. Then he notices my clothing and says, "You look lovely. It's good to see you again."

"You too," I reply, looking down at my nephew, who is monitoring me with disapproving suspicion as I get our visitor a glass. "Do you get the feeling he doesn't trust me?" I ask, nodding at the child.

The Priest chuckles, "He is a suspicious one."

"That is exactly the same look his mother gives me about seventy-percent of the time."

Pointing at the boy, he says, "You gave me quite a scare. I think your future as a practical joker is bright."

"I know you don't like babies, so—"

"It's not that I don't like them. I'm just not...well-versed. I've baptized a few these last couple of years."

"Pretty much the same as having your own, isn't it?"

He laughs uncomfortably. Why is his awkwardness so ridiculously sexy?

Claire walks in, looking with a suspicion that is mirrored in her offspring, and she says, "Oh. Hello, Father. What's going on?" turning her questioning eyes to me.

"See the resemblance?" I ask him.

He looks back and forth at the child and Claire, and replies, "Yea. It's pretty clear now."

"You're here about our Dad or…?" Claire continues.

"He's just here to…" I falter.

"I'm here to…" he searches for an explanation.

"He's coming to that bizarre family hospital party," I say.

We look back and forth at each other, and he suddenly declares (like all of this is uncomplicated and normal), "I'm here to see your sister, catch up."

"Yea," I agree. "We have a lot of catching up to do."

Claire's eyes widen slightly, but she simply nods and sighs, "Oh—kay."

"Congratulations on the baby," he tells her.

"Thank you," she says, giving a look to me before she shakes her head and secretively asks-slash-accuses, "The Priest? Really?"

I shrug.

"Well today sounds like lots of fun," Claire dryly replies. Taking her child, she adds, "Ready to head over now? Do we all have to ride together?"

###

Dad looks pretty good, given the circumstances, and (as expected) Godmother is aflutter with excitement, fussing over a few wheeled hospital tables with little plates of food on them. She also has champagne. Who doesn't want to celebrate the heart attack of a loved one with drinks in the morning?

I'm largely silent, sometimes listening, other times doing my very best not to listen. But I spend both the listening and non-listening time watching my Priest and the easy way he steps into all of this. Although most of the get-together is exhausting, I enjoy watching him. It's kind of like a nature documentary...Priest in the Wild.

Until Godmother boldly announces, "You know you very nearly had the opportunity to perform a second wedding for our family?"

"Oh really!" He replies excitedly, glancing toward Claire as he confirms, "Who's getting married?"

"She was," Godmother points at me.

"Oh," he replies, blanching as he nods awkwardly like the suggestion doesn't impact him personally. "How nice."

"Didn't work out for some reason none of us will ever understand." Godmother focuses on me and continues, "Can't believe you let that one go. Successful, wealthy, handsome. You wouldn't have had to waste time running your silly little café anymore. He was quite a step up for you. I mean let's be honest, Darling, you're not exactly the most photogenic person. Sometimes I wonder if you ever grew out of that boyish phase at all. Of course I suppose there are all sorts out there. Maybe he was into that kind of thing."

I look at my Priest, at the confused and slightly offended expression on his face, and I see his desire to say something in my defense. Cautiously, he begins, "Well, that's not quite —"

I interrupt, resigned to this humiliation, and redirect, "How you feeling, Dad?"

Weakly, Dad answers, "Oh, I'm doing just f-f-fine, really and—"

Godmother continues undeterred, "She hid the man from all of us like she was embarrassed or something, then finally introduced us after they were already engaged." She turns to me, "I've never understood why you're so secretive."

"That is a mystery," I reply.

"I was so excited at the thought that she may actually find someone to settle down with. They say there is someone for everybody…you've heard that, I'm sure."

"Of course," The Priest replies.

"But I suggested immediately that she give you a call to see if you could perform the ceremony. You did such a lovely job at ours. The fleeting fiancé liked the idea, didn't he?"

Everyone in the room (including the nurse's assistant) is staring at me in search of a response. "Yes."

Turning to The Priest, Godmother continues, "We could have started our own family tradition, you performing each of our weddings. Wouldn't that have been something special?"

He smiles tensely, and for a few seconds, I wonder if he's about to make a rather impactful confession to the entire family. With a breath that helps him re-center, he finally replies, "It would be...something…"

I try again to change the subject, "So—"

Until Godmother blathers on (I swear she knows how uncomfortable this conversation is making all of us, and it just encourages her). "I found the number to your church, gave it to her, and the next thing I knew, she vanished from the party. The lovely man found her having a cigarette beside the house, hiding for some inexplicable reason, and when she saw him, she ended the entire relationship on the spot. We have a theory about why she broke it off."

"Well, that's not really any of our business—" The Priest begins.

"—maybe the thought of an actual wedding, you know, following through with it, scared her off. Not everyone is capable of such a significant commitment."

"That must be it," I mumble.

"Love is a tricky thing," he defends, "filled with light and darkness, all of that pain and sadness crammed in there right next to the joy and passion."

"So poetic," Godmother fawns.

"But it has to be right. You can't make yourself love someone you don't love," he adds. "Nor can you easily turn it off once you've found it...even if you wanted to. Even if it scares you half to death or makes you do the craziest, most irresponsible things."

"What sorts of irresponsible things?" she asks, leaning in, eager for a scandalous tale.

"Well," he evades, "all sorts."

He quickly turns to Dad, asking him about how he feels, and if he'd like a prayer.

I find any reminder of the religious aspects of this man I'm so drawn toward very disconcerting (although he's suggested he's ready to make a change, he doesn't seem to love his God or his faith any less). I can't help but wonder, if he wants both me and God, how all this could possibly work out well for me this time around.

While everyone is distracted, I sneak out of the room to take a walk. I wander the hall for a few minutes, eventually coming to a waiting room with a tall, wide window looking out. I don't smoke often any more (not that I'd be permitted to here), but if I had a pack, I'd probably light up on the spot and wait to be escorted from the premises.

He saunters up beside me after a short while (so weird how he's always able to find me), standing too close for our connection to appear casual, questioning, "Did you really break off your engagement like that?"

I pause since I don't really want to discuss this. "Yeah," I eventually answer, giving as little information as possible.

"Anything to do with the suggestion to call me?" he carefully asks after I could have had at least two puffs of a cigarette that doesn't exist.

I pause, pressing my lips together tightly as I consider my answer. But I shrug and confess, "Perhaps."

He nods, his hands folded in front of him. After thought, at a nearly inaudibly low volume, he says, "Thank you."

"For what? Being pathetically hung up on someone who didn't want me?"

"For not forgetting." He glances at me after the words are spoken, waiting for me to look back. I do, sharing a flicker of a smile. He continues, "Loving someone isn't pathetic, it's brave. I admire your courage. Took me a little longer to summon up enough of my own."

Recalling my stepmother's words, and seeking the comfort of humor, I flippantly suggest, "Not sure what all this says about you, coming back for someone who is apparently scared of commitment, wastes her time running a silly café, and apparently still looks like a boy."

"You'd think an artist would have a better understanding of beauty," he flirts.

"I see her point. Tall, hardly any tits—"

"Wait, wait, wait," he laughs as he interrupts. He leans his shoulder closer, shaking his head and whispering, "I can personally vouch for the fact that you have very lovely tits."

"Thank you, but—"

"No, no. Now you listen...in case you've forgotten, I've seen your tits. Touched them. Even tasted them," he disappears into a memory for a second, and I enjoy watching him go there and gradually return. The thoughts crackle between us like the residual energy from that night together is still present around us. When he realizes I'm watching him quietly, studying the flush that's spread over his ears and neck and is slowly creeping onto his cheeks, he adds like he's scolding me, "If you can't be nice to them...I will."

"Promise?" I ask with a nervous half-laugh. I can't let myself get too carried away less than 24 hours after he walked back into my life. Damn I want him.

"Yea," he enthusiastically nods. "I do."

"I...have to open the café," are the words that emerge.

"Say goodbye to everyone first?" he suggests, nodding back in the direction of Dad's room.

We walk in together and barely a minute passes before he looks at me and asks loudly enough for everyone to stop, "You about ready to head out?"

"Uh…sure," I reply as my entire family turns and looks at me.

"You're leaving together ?" Godmother asks.

"Yea," he answers plainly (just like he'd bluntly answered her questions the night I'd met him), "I enjoy the company."

Godmother fawns (although she's not pleased underneath), "Oh, how adorable. You two are...little friends then?"

I nod, sort of. Something like that.

###

Back at the café, he orders a few pastries for homebound parishioners he's going to visit. On his way out the door, he turns back and asks, "Can I call you when I'm done?"

It's funny that he still doesn't have my number (never has had it), but I give it to him and wonder if he'll ever use it, or if I'll spend the evening glancing down at my phone to see if I've missed a call.

But he does call. And that night and the following three days I see him, sometimes at the café or for a meal or a walk or simply to run errands.

The tension is so thick in the most wonderful ways, those little touches zing and zap through me, but little else happens. And oddly enough, I love every sexlessly connected moment, even though the desire that's built up is far greater than it had been our first time around (and that's saying something). After each of those meetings, I rush home alone, bringing myself to more than my fair share of mind-blowing orgasms. I wonder if he's broken the rules and jerked himself off, or if he's gone to sleep horny and tense, left to dream.

I don't know if the lack of physical contact is vow-related or for some other reason, but part of me doesn't even want to ask why we've avoided the topic (or the activity) because I don't want what's here to end.

I'd wished I'd held onto it last time.

###

He invites me to the church tonight, something I have mixed feelings about. I swear, at every fucking step I wait for him to suddenly announce, "Are you mad? Of course I'm choosing God."

With each passing minute, I'm less convinced of my ability to cope with it if it goes wrong.

But the invitation seems to be designed to lift the ban on my presence here (although we keep our hands and other various parts to ourselves), taking me up into the bell tower to look at the place where the bells can be rung by hand using long, thick ropes. It's one of his favorite places in the building. It is beautiful, eerily quiet, and powerfully romantic. "I will miss it up here," he notes, although not in a woeful or regretful way. It's more of a statement of fact.

An hour or so after we leave, we end up on opposite ends of my sofa. And I finally ask, "Want G&Ts?" for the first time since we've met again. If he's lifted the church ban, seems only fair for me to lift mine.

"Please," he answers, seeming to understand that I, too, am cautiously dismantling these boundaries between us.

He's tucked in a corner of my sofa, sock-covered feet up on my coffee table, sipping on the can and savoring it, not really watching the movie that's playing. I'm at the other end, like this is an ordinary moment shared by a normal couple on any given evening.

I'm laughing at something he's said, some little flirtation that is built upon hundreds of other flirtations, when he pensively states, "You never really told me what weighs so heavily on your heart."

My laughter abruptly stops, and I sit upright from my more reclined position as he does the same. "What makes you think I haven't?"

"I can feel it." He's not lying. It is both wonderful and horrible how much he sees, hears, and knows.

Redirecting on impulse and habit, I return, "What about you? Something obviously happened that made you decide you needed peace enough to give up nearly everything to become a priest. I'm sure I don't have that whole story either." I ask both because I want to know, and because I'm challenging him to give an answer I do not think he will give.

He studies me, and I have the impression that he wants to hold his story and make a bargain, to trade his for mine and make me promise to tell. But although the look he gives requests it, he makes no formal arrangement.

"As a child, everything around me, my entire world, was chaos," he says, rubbing his face as he leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. I can see the way he's transported as I wonder if this was a story he'd meant to tell me long ago. "My parents despised one another, fighting about everything day after day. I have no idea why they tried to be together. My mother would decide to leave in the middle of the night after this fight or that, dragging my brother and me out from our beds in the dark to stay at some hotel or on a friend's sofa. My father was...not an understanding man, angry. So very angry. My brother was always so…" He pauses, some thoughts not emerging, although they don't need to be verbalized for me to understand. He shakes his head, fighting the sadness of these memories. "It was constant turmoil. I left home early on, convinced and certain I could do it all better on my own. I spent years and years trying to fill the hole in me with sex and relationships, and sometimes drugs, and things...lots of things. I found myself in these relationships that weren't all that different from my parents'. And I was angry. Too angry to trust anyone, searching for meaning in the wrong places. And since each relationship didn't fill that void, I kept looking to the next and the next and the next."

I move a little closer just to be nearer to him.

He turns and looks at me, and I see the sad hesitation behind his eyes. "There's more, if you want to hear it," he whispers.

"Go on."

"I was out with a friend, drinking. He was...not in a good place. He needed a friend...a good friend. I was rebounding from a failed romance that had actually meant something to me, and I met yet another woman there. I already knew that things would never, ever work between us, but in my quest to fill that bottomless void, I chose to go home with her rather than feel anything. So after I left, he got in his car, and as often happens, driving when one can barely walk didn't end well."

"He died?" I asked.

"I kept thinking that I should have been in that car," he states more loudly in response. "I just...wanted it all to stop, the noise, the chaos, that endless need, the feeling of chasing something I was never going to find. I was tired of making decisions that only caused me and everyone around me pain. So I gave away nearly everything I had, traded it all for a life where things seemed so much simpler. And I found what I thought I needed: Peace. Simplicity."

I rest my hand on his wrist, and he quickly slides back until our fingers interlock. This hold he has on me isn't meant to be romantic or even sexual. No, he's hanging on, clinging, trying not to lose something.

He looks at me, eyes questioning, wondering about my reaction, and when I open my mouth with the intention of offering words of empathy and reassurance, I choose a different path, one that lets him know he's not alone, he's understood. Something compels me to speak.

I tell him about Boo, completely against my better judgment. I'm not sure how much he learns because I'm speaking the words to tell him, and how much he learns because he's actually climbed into my thoughts to see the whole thing.

But he knows now, all of it.

"I can't believe I told you that," I finally admit when I look down and still see our fingers tightly interwoven, realizing that he hasn't run screaming or distanced himself.

Silence roars in my ears, his response taking a small eternity. "What a terrible weight to carry," he says with eyes brimming with empathy.

"For you, too."

"Have you asked for forgiveness?"

I remind, "Atheis—"

"I know, I know. I don't mean from God. I mean from your friend. From Boo."

"She's dead, so—"

"Well, you've mentioned your preference for science over faith. And scientifically, energy can't be created or destroyed, it simply changes form, right? That doesn't sound all that different from what I believe, in its way. And she sounds like...so much energy. Such a force of a human. That much energy must still be out there in the world, somehow, in bits and pieces everywhere, left behind in the things and the people she touched. Little bits of her in the café, and even in you. So all you have to do is ask her. And whether she's a soul in Heaven or those pieces of energy that zip all around us...I think she'll know. Can't hurt to try it some time."

"I might."

"I hope you do."

He cradles my cheek with that same adoration he had long ago, looking deeply into my eyes, and that powerful longing that comes from him is not less. In fact, I think it's greater. Stronger.

It feels like it takes years for our lips to come close enough to touch, and when they do, it's shockingly tender for those first few seconds, just the softness of two people eliminating the space between them.

One of us (or maybe both) gasps, vulnerable and shaky, and that one need-filled sound ends the tenderness. This kiss transforms to the fiery collision we're more accustomed to (if one can become accustomed to something that has happened only a handful of times before). Our bodies, our breath, our longing, and our shared empathy all collide.

It's like the moment when a person slowly starving to death finds a plate of food, shoveling it in without thought of utensils, politeness, or good judgment...it's only about taking what is so desperately needed.

He leans toward me, over me, hands sliding down my sides to my waist and tugging until I'm on my back on the sofa. This connection never breaks, the desire never falters, fingers tunneling through hair and grasping at necks and backs and shoulders. There's something horribly arousing about the way he hovers over me on the narrow cushions, bracing his body as he lowers until the weight of him is more fully against me. I sigh in satisfaction with every bit as much pleasure as far more intimate sexual acts typically elicit, but the feeling of his body on mine is something I've needed, but never thought I would experience again.

It's a shame the desirous side of this man was ever suppressed, as it is powerful and full, consuming him, consuming me.

My knee raises to cradle his hip, my heel pressing down against the back of his leg to encourage that closeness. I'm not sure there will ever be enough to quench the need that drives us.

I am absolutely shameless in my endeavor to be nearer, my hips grinding against his. The sound of those soft groans he makes that have never left my memory are paired with those that come from him right now. He seems as bound to this moment with me as I am with him, like we're powerless to slow down or break away or make any other choice.

His mouth slides down my neck with impatiently lusty kisses while his hands work up my top. He plucks at my bra like there might be a front clasp, but when there isn't, he shoves his hand up underneath because he doesn't want to reach behind me or fumble around. He needs to touch me right now. I can feel this during every second of our encounter, through every sense, like seeing a truth laid bare, his deep carnal desires, too often restrained, emerging with feral intensity.

Hand groping under my shirt and chin pushing the fabric aside from the opening at the top, he manages to free my breast, lips surrounding my nipple as my hands hold his head against me just in case he thinks for even a second about pulling away.

I scratch my fingers at the back of his head and feel him push forward against me, his cock hard and pressing against my thigh, our waiting bodies separated only by a few measly layers of cloth that feel like the worst barrier I've encountered.

But he rocks against me, providing the friction I crave as our mouths seek each other again, hands pawing all over me from one place to the next, too restless to settle, wanting to feel all of me as I do him.

All of the pain- and complication- and commitment-free orgasms I've had these last many times I've had sex don't feel anywhere near as good as the feeling of finally having this man in my embrace again.

By the time I realize an orgasm is approaching, it's too late, my body not caring how (or how quickly), but just chasing that release that feels unavoidable because I'm connecting with him again. I'm still in my jeans and he in his trousers, caught in this moment where my entire world consists of the delightful tension that's building between my thighs, the feeling of his touch, the slight scratch of the stubble on his cheek, the insistent kisses that illustrate his adoration, the firmness of his erection that indicates his desire.

I cum there, clothes hardly displaced, knowing my excitement is caused by far more than the physical stimulation I'm feeling. And I completely unravel, loudly, openly. There's no way I'm hiding my response, or that he might not realize what's happening. My fingers are grasping at him, pinching his flesh to keep him close. The "Oh gods" I speak begin as expressions of bliss and eventually become related to the embarrassment I feel for finding satisfaction so easily. "Sorry," I say into his shoulder. So much for playing it cool.

"Why?" he practically sings, looking so joyful when he lifts up so I can meet his eyes.

"So embarrassing."

"It's not," he shakes his head, those primal instincts and desires still sparking beneath the surface. "I really love it. I want to do that again and again, every chance we get."

I try to work my hand between us, wanting to get to him, to get any and all coverings out of the way and feel him plunge into me because I cannot wait to have him inside me. He is all I want right now. Any caution I have within me is forgotten as arousal, love, and hope take over and demand that all reservations be damned. I want the heaviness of his body against mine, and the insistence of him within me, filling me as we find that connection we haven't explored nearly enough.

He pulls my hands up over my head, holding them down with his palms, staring into my eyes. "You okay?" he asks for a moment.

"Me? I'm really good," I nod. "Now take your fucking trousers off."

His grin swallows his expression as he quickly shakes his head. Holding my hands beneath one of his, he looks down my body at the snap on my jeans and pops it open, lowering the zipper as his stare returns to my eyes. Getting me off turns him on, arouses him so greatly that he looks like he could ignite (not from celestial intervention but from sheer fucking excitement).

I look down as he does, both of us watching his hand disappear into my pants, his fingers finding my wetness there in the dark. He slides one finger through the crevice, seeking more of me, finding my sex soaked and swollen both from the release I've already had and the need-filled desire that has yet to be satisfied as my hips rise to meet his touch.

My demands for him to strip down fall soft for now, swept up in the feeling of being touched and stroked and caressed in such a thorough and thoughtful way.

We both groan when he pushes his fingers into me, burying his face against my neck, his breath slipping over my skin in hot, quick pants. Here we slow, just enough.

He listens to my body like he listens to my words, reacting and adjusting, knowing what I want because he truly wants to hear every last thought. And this would be downright weird or disconcerting if it didn't feel so damn perfect.

The only thing I want that he doesn't provide is the feeling of him truly inside me, that glorious pressure and frantic meeting of bodies that will build and last until he cannot resist his culmination, too. Even the thought of him finding his own peak and releasing within me, collapsing in a sweaty, spent pile of limbs drives me higher.

It's not like I can (or want) to resist this second orgasm, and it hits and seizes me hard, my body overtaken with a need that started to build two years ago and is finally being resolved now. My legs twist together, holding his fingers inside me while the strongest pulses gradually fade. The pads of his fingertips push against my inner walls, providing that careful counterpressure to the clenching within until I finally begin to return to normal.

"I love you," he says without prompting, softly bobbing his head. It didn't take long to get him to admit it this time around, nor does he sound hesitant to make it known. His nose traces up my neck to my ear as he repeats those words again, but with greater devotion and certainty. "It's okay if you don't—"

"I love you, too," I say without hesitation, my voice tired and raspy from the cries of pleasure that I made with far more volume and vigor than I'd realized. "I do."

The rest is implied...that I hope I won't get hurt, that I hope this is something that might work out for once. Even though the thought of some happy outcome seems like a silly fairy-tale fantasy, I allow the ideas into my brain.

I reach for his belt again though, and he pulls away, sitting on the edge of the sofa, taking my hand and gently holding it to his chest.

"What?" I ask, waiting for what may come.

"I can't just yet," he carefully says.

"What's wrong, you on your period?" I grin. "I don't mind."

He smirks, even when he's so somber, I can get a smile from him. "Soon."

"Oh god," I shake my head, prepared for the worst that seems destined to come as punishment for even considering happiness as a possible outcome.

"I haven't changed my mind! Nothing has changed about how I feel about you, or my resolve to be with you if you'll have me." He argues, voice elevated. "I just—it's not...I don't... I don't deserve…"

"Deserve what? An orgasm? Because you do. You really fucking do."

"I don't deserve…" he ponders, wrestling with something still.

"Is this some kind of weird penance?"

He shrugs, the conflict in him apparent once again.

"Well, what if we agree to just have sex for my benefit alone." I playfully suggest. "You can lie back and I'll have my little way with you, and you promise not to enjoy it."

He bows his head, softly chuckling, "I don't think I can do that."

"Worth a try?"

"I should be going." He stands, trying to hand-iron out the wrinkles in his shirt. He explains, "I am sincere about all of this. I'm tired of...tired of living in pseudo-peaceful half-truths. I have a meeting tomorrow with the Bishop to discuss my exit."

"You do?" I ask, sounding so intensely surprised that I've probably offended him a bit.

"Yea. I'm not sure what happens to my self-restraint when I'm with you. I was trying to wait, hold off, until I have something to offer you, some evidence of my intentions, so I can prove to you—"

The door buzzes loudly in interruption, and when I don't immediately answer, there's the sound of a fist pounding on it. This all feels so oddly familiar. Gorgeous Assistant is calling for me from the other side.

I stand, fixing my clothing as well. "It's my assistant," I tell my Priest.

"Oh," he nods, doing his absolute best to play it cool. "Your assistant, the man from the café…"

"Yea. Him. Do you need to sneak out the back or—"

"Do you want me to?"

"I've nothing to hide," I say bluntly.

"Good."

"Alright. But I should probably talk to him."

"And I should go. Pam'll be waiting up. She does that lately to make sure I'm home safe."

I watch him as he's looking toward the door, and note the expression on his face. And it's a funny thing, because our outcome has always seemed to hinge on whether he'd choose the priesthood or me. But right now, he's just as concerned that I'll choose emotionally celibacy over a relationship with him.

He doesn't want to leave me with the man I've been having sex with any more than I want to leave him to his parish, each fearing the ultimate decision the other will make.

I shout to my assistant that I'll be right there when he knocks on the door again. The Priest nods and says, "Sorry, I have to go."

"It's fine," I walk him to the door. We pause there, staring silently, and he tries so hard to hide the concern on his face. I'm tempted to let him leave without reassurance or promises, but I won't do that. "I'm not going to have sex with him," I say, directly.

"I didn't ask."

"I know. That's the only reason I'm telling you."

He breathes a laugh and nods. Barely a heartbeat passes before he slams me to the wall with that same cold-to-white-hot in three seconds flat trajectory all of our encounters share, this kiss, too, reminding me of how very much I wish he could stay.

He pulls back, breathless, lovey eyed. "I'll come 'round tomorrow afternoon. After my meeting."

"At the café. I'll be there."

"Good. Okay." He reaches for the doorknob.

"Good luck with the Bishop."

"Thank you. Good luck with...," he nods his head towards the man outside.

He walks out as my assistant comes in. My Priest looks back at me, and I see that one last longing glance he gives, and realize that this time around, he truly fears I may choose another path.

I fucking won't.