Page 9 of Priest

I walk through the rooms, touching things that have nothing to do with him. This space was never his. That was the rule. One of many. He always brought me to him, to the bar or his place, to hours that didn’t belong to either of us. I used to tell myself it made sense. Safer that way. Cleaner. No expectations sneaking in through familiarity. Now it just feels like distance disguised as control.

The first night I met him, I hadn’t even wanted to go out. I’d lost a patient, a little girl who’d been struck by a car while riding her bike, and God, it hurts when I can’t save someone. But one that small? Soul crushing. I’d been sitting at the bar with my friends because they insisted I needed it, drink untouched, smiling because it was easier than explaining the pain I was feeling.

Then his eyes found mine. There wasn’t hunger. There wasn’t entitlement. Just intent, like he saw me.

The second time was worse. Better. The dance floor. His hands at my hips, steady and sure. The way my body fit against his like it had been waiting. The way he made me feel like I was on fire.

Six months of rules I agreed to because they made wanting him feel manageable. Six months of staying the night when I wasn’t supposed to, of texts that came earlier and lasted longer than they should have. Six months of believing him when he said he didn’t want more.

I sit on the edge of the bed, and the tears come then, hot and silent. Stupid, because I hate that they’re still there. I wipe at them, annoyed with myself. “Get it together,” I mutter.

This isn’t a tragedy. This is a consequence.

I place a hand over my stomach. Barely there. Barely real. “You’re not a mistake,” I whisper. “And neither am I.”

I stand and look around the room. New job. New town. New rules, ones I make. I’m not running. I’m choosing.

Outside, a car passes. Tomorrow, I’ll pack the rest. Tonight, I let myself feel it. Then I let it go.

4

Priest

The shop smells like antiseptic, ink, and old wood that’s been scrubbed too many times to ever forget what it’s soaked up. It is a mix of a smoky and clean smell that makes me feel both comforted and creative. The steady hum of the overhead lights vibrates faintly in my skull, a subtle buzz that makes me restless. The sound, settling after a brief, initial flicker, makes me yearn to hold the buzzing gun of my instrument, which often feels less like a tool and more like an extension of my arm.

Last Rites isn’t open yet.

The sign in the front window still reads CLOSED, flipped neat and deliberate, but I’ve been here since dawn. Not because I needed the time. Because the walls feel closer everywhere else.

Suffocatingly close.

My station is already set. Needles laid out in perfect rows. Ink caps filled—black first, then gray wash—each one placed exactly where it belongs. I wipe down the chair again even though I did it ten minutes ago. Then again, because my hands need something to do.

They always know what to do.

My head doesn’t.

It’s been a month.

Thirty-one days since Blue sent the text and erased me from her life with the same quiet efficiency she brought to everything else.

I didn’t even hear the door slam. Just the soft finality of silence.

I pace because standing still feels like surrender. Because if I stop moving, the thoughts line up, and I don’t trust myself to hold them back once they do.

“You’re gonna wear a damn groove in the floor if you keep that up.”

Ghost’s voice cuts through the hum of the lights. He’s leaning against the counter near the front, coffee in hand, watching me like I’m a puzzle missing too many pieces to solve cleanly.

I stop mid-stride and turn on him. “You got anything?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Takes a slow sip. Sets the cup down carefully, like he’s bracing for impact.

“No.”

The word lands wrong. Too empty. Too final.

“What do you mean, no?” I snap. “You’ve had weeks.”