Chapter 14
SAMUEL
Iwoke to grey light filtering through the shutters and the immediate, crushing weight of knowledge.
My body knew before my mind caught up. The dull ache in my lower back. The unfamiliar soreness. The warmth of another body pressed against mine, Eli's arm draped across my waist, his breath soft against my shoulder blade.
I had crossed the line. Not just crossed it—obliterated it. Burned it to ash and scattered the remains.
I didn't move. If I moved, it would become real. If I stayed perfectly still, maybe I could exist in this suspended moment forever, neither damned nor saved, just here, in the warmth of his arms.
But then Eli's alarm went off.
He stirred behind me, his arm tightening briefly before he reached over to silence the alarm clock. I felt him freeze, the same recognition washing over him. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.
"Samuel," he whispered.
I closed my eyes. My name in his mouth was a prayer and a curse.
"We have to get up."
I nodded against the pillow but still didn't move. His hand slid down my arm, his fingers finding mine, squeezing once before he pulled away and sat up. The loss of his warmth was immediate and terrible.
I forced myself to roll over. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, his back to me, his shoulders tense. When he turned his head, his expression was unreadable in the dim light.
"Are you—" he started.
"Don't."
He flinched but nodded. He stood and grabbed his towel from the hook on the door, disappearing into the washroom without another word. I heard the shower start, and I finally sat up, my body protesting the movement.
I looked down at myself. My garments were on the floor.
I'd removed them. Deliberately. Consciously.
I reached down and picked them up, the white fabric feeling obscene in my hands.
These were supposed to protect me. They were a reminder of covenants made in the temple, of promises to God and family.
I'd discarded them like they meant nothing.
I pulled them on anyway, the fabric settling against my skin like accusation.
By the time Eli emerged from the washroom, I was dressed in my white shirt and tie, sitting on my own bed, my scripture case open on my lap. I wasn't reading. I was staring at the page, the words swimming.
He stopped in the doorway, a towel wrapped around his waist, water still dripping from his hair.
"Samuel."
"We're going to be late for morning study."
His jaw tightened. "We need to talk about—"
"There's nothing to talk about."
"The hell there isn't."
I looked up sharply. His eyes were fierce, his face flushed. Beautiful. The thought came unbidden, and I hated myself for it.
"It was a mistake," I said, my voice flat. "It won't happen again."
Something flickered across his face—hurt, anger, maybe both. "A mistake."
"Yes."
"You didn't seem to think it was a mistake last night when you were begging me to—"
"Stop." The word came out strangled. My hands were shaking. "Just stop."
He stared at me for a long moment, and I watched the fight drain out of him. His shoulders sagged. "Fine," he said quietly. "Get dressed. We'll go do the Lord's work."
The sarcasm was a blade, sharp and precise.
At the chapel, I tried to pray. I knelt in the empty sacrament meeting room, my forehead pressed against the back of the pew in front of me, and I tried to feel anything other than numb.
Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.
But the words felt hollow. I didn't feel forgiven. I didn't even feel guilty, not really. I felt... empty. Scraped clean. Like everything I'd been taught, everything I'd believed, had been a story I told myself to survive, and now I couldn't remember the plot.
Behind me, I heard Eli enter. He didn't approach. He just sat in a pew near the back, waiting.
I stayed on my knees for another five minutes, trying to summon the right feelings. Remorse. Shame. Fear of eternal damnation. But all I could summon was the phantom sensation of his hands on my body, his mouth on my skin, the way he'd whispered my name like it was sacred.
I stood. Eli's eyes tracked me as I walked past him toward the door.
"We have district meeting in an hour," I said. "We should go back and get our materials."
He didn't argue.
The district meeting was torture.
Elder Kempton stood at the front of the room, his laser focus sweeping over each of us in turn. When his gaze landed on me, I felt it like a physical weight.
"Elder Price," he said, his voice carrying that tone of manufactured concern. "You look tired."
"I'm fine."
"Are you?" He tilted his head. "Because President Dalton mentioned he's concerned about your recent reports. Your numbers have dropped significantly in the past two weeks."
I felt Eli tense beside me.
"We've been focusing on quality over quantity," I said, the words automatic. "Building relationships with our investigators."
"Relationships." Kempton's mouth twitched. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
My stomach dropped. Eli's hand moved fractionally on the armrest, like he wanted to reach for me but stopped himself.
"I'm not sure what you mean, Elder," I said carefully.
Kempton's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I mean that your focus seems... divided. You and Elder Vance seem to have developed quite the companionship."
The room had gone silent. Elder Moss and Elder Brown exchanged glances.
"Elder Vance is my companion," I said. "We work together."
"Do you?" Kempton leaned against the desk, his arms crossed.
"Because from what I've observed, Elder Vance has been pulling you away from the spirit of the work.
Your testimony in zone conference was...
lackluster. Your teaching has lost its fire.
You used to be the standard, Elder Price.
Now you're just... going through the motions. "
Each word was a hammer blow. Because he was right.
I had been going through the motions. I couldn't summon the conviction anymore.
I couldn't look investigators in the eye and tell them that God's plan for them included eternal families when I knew—I knew—that plan had no place for people like me. Like Eli.
"I'm doing my best," I said quietly.
"Are you?" Kempton straightened. "Because your best used to mean something. Now it just looks like you've given up."
Eli shifted beside me, and I knew he was about to say something, so I spoke first.
"I haven't given up. I'm just—" I stopped. What could I say? I'm just realizing everything I believed was a lie? I'm just trying to reconcile loving God with loving another man? I'm just trying to survive?
"Tired," I finished lamely.
Kempton studied me for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly. "Well, Elder Price, I think perhaps what you need is a fresh perspective. As I said previously, I'll likely be making some companionship changes this week. I think a new companion might help reignite your fire."
The floor dropped out from under me. I couldn't look at Eli. If I looked at him, Kempton would see it. He'd see everything.
"That's not necessary," I said.
"I disagree. And as District Leader, it's my call to make." He smiled that same cold smile. "Consider it a blessing from the Lord."
We didn't speak on the walk back to the apartment. The Barcelona streets were crowded, tourists and locals flowing around us like water around stones. I walked three paces ahead, my hands shoved in my pockets, my eyes fixed on the pavement.
"Samuel," Eli said behind me.
I didn't stop.
"Samuel, please."
I kept walking.
Back at the apartment, I went straight to the bedroom and shut the door. I heard Eli in the kitchen, the sound of cabinets opening and closing, the hiss of the tap. Then silence.
I sat on my bed staring blankly at the wall, my mind turbulent with thoughts.
A soft knock on the door.
"I'm fine," I called out.
The door opened anyway. Eli stood in the doorway, two glasses of water in his hands. He set one on my nightstand without a word and sat on his own bed, across from me.
We stared at each other.
"He knows," Eli said finally.
"He suspects."
"He knows." Eli took a sip of water. "He's just looking for proof."
"Then we don't give him any."
Eli laughed, a bitter sound. "How? By pretending last night didn't happen? By going back to hating each other?"
"If that's what it takes."
"I can't do that." His voice was raw. "I can't go back to pretending you're just my companion. Not after—"
"You have to."
"Why?" He leaned forward, his eyes blazing. "Why do we have to keep destroying ourselves for people who will never accept us? Kempton doesn't care about your salvation, Samuel. He cares about control. About making sure everyone follows the same narrow path, and if they can't, they get crushed."
"You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. How could I explain the weight of generations of expectation?
The knowledge that my family name was tied to the church, that my father's authority rested on my worthiness, that every choice I made reflected on them?
How could I explain that losing the church meant losing everything—my identity, my purpose, my place in eternity?
"I can't," I whispered.
Eli's expression softened. He set down his water and crossed the small space between our beds, kneeling in front of me. His hands found mine.
"Samuel," he said quietly. "Look at me."
I did. His eyes were the colour of the Mediterranean, deep and fathomless.
"I know you're scared," he said. "I know what this costs you. But pretending won't save you. It'll just make you disappear."
"Maybe that's what I deserve."
"No." His grip tightened. "You deserve to exist. Fully. Not as some half-version of yourself that you've carved down to fit their mould."
"I don't know how to do that."
"Then let me show you."
He leaned forward, his forehead resting against mine, and for a moment, I let myself have it. This closeness. This tenderness. Then I pulled back.
"Eli, please. We can't."