Page 97 of Priest

31

Priest

You’re not him.

The words follow me down the hallway, quiet enough that they shouldn’t matter and heavy enough that they do. They settle under my ribs, right where breathing already hurts.

But if you keep livin’ like you might be…

I don’t wait for the elevator. I take the stairs instead, letting movement burn off some of the pressure. One step. Then another. My body knows this routine too well. Walking away. Leaving rooms before they can hold me accountable. Getting distance before anybody has the chance to see too much.

This time feels different.

Cleaner would be a lie. Unavoidable comes closer.

By the time I hit the parking lot, I already know where I’m going. I made the ask earlier. She said yes. Dinner. Talking. Showing up.

So I drive straight to Blue’s.

Her apartment lights are on when I pull up, soft enough to say she’s awake without making the windows look exposed. Waiting. The thought tightens something in my chest and loosens something else at the same time.

She opens the door wearing a soft sweater slipped off one shoulder, stretched gently over her belly. Shorts underneath. Bare legs. Comfortable. At ease in her own skin. The kind of woman who doesn’t armor herself for the world.

I keep my eyes where they belong.

Mostly.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” I answer, and the word means I’m here more than it covers.

She steps aside without hesitation, letting me into her space because I’ve earned that much. No drama. No test. Just quiet consent.

That matters.

I cook while she hovers nearby, leaning against the counter with her arms loose at her sides. She watches me like she always does when she’s curious and still deciding what to do with me. We talk about nothing important at first. Work. Deacon being awake. Small things that don’t demand defenses.

The food comes together easy, my hands doing what they know while my head stays right where it needs to be. At the table, I catch myself watching her eat. The way her hand drifts to her stomach without thought. The way she takes up space in her own life without apologizing for it.

“Thank you,” I say.

She glances up. “For letting you cook?”

“For today,” I say instead. “For gettin’ the sonogram. For lettin’ me be part of that.”

Her fingers rest over her belly this time on purpose.

“Seein’ the baby,” I add quietly, “meant a lot to me. I don’t always say things like that right.”

She nods and takes it in without trying to soften it or make it smaller. “I’m glad.”

When we finish, I take her plate before she can offer and tell her to sit. She doesn’t argue. She just moves to the couch, curling into the corner like she belongs there. Like she trusts me enough to let me move around her space without disrupting the balance of it.

I clean up fast. Efficient. When I join her, I lift her legs into my lap without asking, hands still warm from the dishwater.

Her eyebrow goes up, sharp and playful, a warning wrapped in humor.

I let out a quiet laugh. “I’ll behave. Just want to rub your feet. Help you relax.” I look up at her. “And I wanna talk.”