Chapter 6 Cillian
CILLIAN
Iwake up changed.
The morning light filters through unfamiliar curtains, and for a moment I don't know where I am. Then I feel her warmth against my side, her soft breath against my chest, and everything comes flooding back. Her apartment. Her bed. Her body wrapped around mine like she's afraid I'll disappear.
I've never woken up next to anyone before.
Not like this. The seminary was a place of solitude, and in the years before that, my encounters were brief and meaningless.
This is different. This is Waverly's hair spread across my shoulder, her hand resting over my heart, her leg tangled with mine beneath sheets that smell like us.
I should feel guilty. I keep waiting for the shame to hit, for the weight of what I've done to crush me. But when I look down at her sleeping face, all I feel is a peace so profound it almost frightens me.
She stirs, mumbling something unintelligible, and I press a kiss to her forehead. "Sleep," I whisper. "I'll be back."
I slip out of bed as quietly as I can, pulling on my clothes from yesterday. The sweater, the jeans. Civilian clothes that feel foreign after eight years of nothing but black. I find paper and a pen on her desk and write a note, then set it on my pillow where she'll see it when she wakes.
The walk back to the rectory is surreal.
The streets are the same ones I've walked a thousand times, but I'm not the same man who walked them yesterday.
Everything looks brighter, sharper, more real.
I pass Mrs. Delgado walking her dog and nod politely, and she gives me a strange look that makes me realize I'm smiling.
I can't remember the last time I smiled without trying.
Father Daugherty is in the kitchen when I enter the rectory, nursing a cup of coffee and reading the morning paper. He looks up when I walk in, and his eyebrows rise at my civilian clothes.
"Late night, Cillian?"
"Something like that." I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit across from him, trying to figure out how to have this conversation. "I need to talk to you about something."
"That sounds ominous." He sets down his paper and gives me his full attention. James Daugherty has been at St. Augustin's almost as long as I have. He's kind and uncomplicated in a way I've never managed to be, and right now his steady gaze feels like an anchor.
"I'm leaving the priesthood."
The words hang in the air between us. James doesn't react immediately, just studies my face with that quiet, assessing look he's perfected over decades of hearing confessions.
"I see," he says finally. "Is this about the Sinclair girl?"
I should be surprised that he knows, but I'm not. James notices everything, even the things he pretends not to see. "Partly. But it's also about me. About the fact that I've been hiding behind this collar for eight years instead of actually living."
"That's a significant realization to come to overnight."
"It's been building for longer than that. She just... she made me brave enough to face it."
James nods slowly, and I see something in his eyes that might be understanding. "I won't pretend I didn't notice the way you looked at her during mass. I've been waiting for you to say something." He takes a sip of his coffee. "What's your plan?"
"Laicization. I've already started researching the process. I know it takes time, months probably, but I'm committed."
"And in the meantime?"
"In the meantime, I'll fulfill my duties here. I won't abandon the parish. But I need to start the paperwork, and I wanted you to hear it from me first."
James is quiet for a long moment. Then he reaches across the table and clasps my shoulder. "For what it's worth, I think you're making the right choice. I've known for a long time that your heart wasn't fully in this, Cillian. A man can't serve God when he's running from himself."
The words hit harder than I expected. I've spent so long convincing myself that my dedication was real, that my vocation was genuine. Hearing someone else acknowledge the truth I've been hiding from feels like being seen for the first time.
"Thank you," I manage.
"Don't thank me yet. The diocese won't make this easy on you. And the parish gossip will be brutal." He gives me a pointed look. "Especially if they find out about your young lady."
"I'll protect her from that."
"Can you?"
It's a fair question, and I don't have a good answer. So I just nod, finish my coffee, and head to my study to begin the process of dismantling the life I've built.
The paperwork is complicated. I spend the morning on the phone with the diocese, explaining my situation in careful, vague terms. I draft a letter to the bishop, choosing each word with the precision of a man who knows his future depends on getting this right.
I don't mention Waverly. I frame my decision as a crisis of faith, a realization that my vocation was never genuine. It's close enough to the truth.
By afternoon, I've submitted the initial petition. The response will take weeks, and the full process could take six months or more. But the wheels are in motion, and for the first time in years, I feel like I'm moving toward something instead of running away.
I find myself at her door before I consciously decide to go. She answers on the second knock, her hair still damp from the shower, wearing a sundress that makes my mouth go dry.
"You came back," she says, and there's a delicate vulnerability threading through her voice that makes something deep in my chest ache and tighten.
"I told you I would." I step inside and close the door behind me, immediately pulling her into my arms, breathing in the clean, familiar scent of her shampoo—something floral and fresh that I've come to associate with her.
"I'm sorry I left so early this morning. I had some important things to handle."
"What kind of things?" she asks, her voice muffled against my shirt.
I lead her to the couch and sit down, pulling her onto my lap so I can look at her face while I explain. "I've started the laicization process. I spoke with Father Daugherty this morning. He knows I'm leaving."
Her eyes go wide, filling with a mixture of disbelief and dawning hope. "Cillian, that's... that's huge. Are you absolutely sure about this?"
"I've never been more sure of anything in my entire life." I reach up and tuck a strand of wet hair behind her ear, my fingers lingering against the soft skin of her neck. "I told you last night—I meant every word. I'm choosing you, choosing us. That wasn't just pillow talk or post-sex sentiment."
She catches her lower lip between her teeth, worrying at it, and I can see the concern shadowing her eyes, the fear she's trying to hide. "What if the church won't let you go? What if they make it difficult, put up obstacles, drag their feet?"
"Then I'll fight them. For as long as it takes, however long that might be.
" I cup her face in both my hands, making sure she's looking directly at me, seeing the certainty in my expression.
"I'm not going back to who I was before you walked into my life, Waverly.
I can't. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. You've completely ruined me for that life, for that version of myself. "
"Ruined you?" She lets out a soft laugh, but it's shaky, uncertain. "That doesn't exactly sound like a good thing when you put it that way."
"It's the best thing that's ever happened to me," I say firmly.
I kiss her, soft at first, then deeper when she opens for me. Her hands slide into my hair, and she shifts on my lap, pressing herself against me in a way that makes my whole body tighten.
"We should talk about this more," she mumbles against my mouth, her breath warm and unsteady. "Make actual plans. Figure out the details. Be responsible adults for once."
"We absolutely should," I agree, even as my hands slide deliberately up her thighs, palms spreading warmth across her skin, pushing her dress higher inch by inch. "Later. We'll do all of that later."
"Much later," she gasps as my fingers find the delicate edge of her underwear, tracing along the lace barrier.
This time is different from last night. Last night was reverent, careful, two people learning each other for the first time. This time is faster, needier. She's already wet when I slip my fingers inside her, and the sound she makes goes straight to my cock.
"I've been thinking about this all morning," I confess against her throat. "Sitting in meetings, drafting letters, and all I could think about was being inside you again."
"Then stop thinking," she breathes, "and do something about it."
I lift her easily, carrying her to the bedroom we barely made it to last night.
I lay her down on the rumpled sheets and strip off her dress, revealing skin I've already memorized but can't stop wanting to explore.
She reaches for my clothes, fumbling with buttons, and I help her, shedding everything until we're skin to skin.
"I need you," she says, and the raw honesty in her voice undoes me.
I sink into her in one smooth stroke, and we both groan at the sensation. She's still tight, still new to this, and I force myself to go slow even though every instinct is screaming at me to take her hard and fast.
"Okay?" I ask through gritted teeth.
"More than okay." She wraps her legs around my waist and pulls me deeper. "Don't hold back. I want all of you."
I give her what she asks for. My control cracks, and I thrust into her with an urgency that borders on desperation. Her nails rake down my back, and she cries out with every stroke, and when she clenches around me and comes with my name on her lips, I follow her over the edge.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, catching our breath. The afternoon light has shifted to evening gold, and I realize we've spent the entire day in this bed, this apartment, this bubble of just the two of us.
"Stay tonight," she whispers. "Please."
"I'll stay every night, if you'll let me."
She smiles, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. "I'll let you."
We fall into a pattern over the following days.
I spend my mornings at the church, fulfilling my duties, tying up loose ends.
The afternoons and evenings belong to her.
To us. I learn the rhythm of her life: the way she hums while she makes coffee, the books she reads before bed, the spot behind her ear that makes her shiver when I kiss it.
I don't tell her about the timeline. The laicization process is complicated, and I don't want to burden her with the details. She knows I'm leaving, and that's enough for now. Once I have a clear path forward, once I can offer her a real future instead of vague promises, I'll explain everything.
It's not a lie, exactly. It's protection. She's been through so much already, losing her grandmother, starting over in a new city. She doesn't need to carry the weight of church bureaucracy on top of everything else.
At least, that's what I tell myself.
On Sunday, I preach what might be my last sermon at St. Augustin's.
The words come easier than they have in years, because for once I'm not hiding behind them.
I speak about transformation, about the courage it takes to become who you're meant to be.
My eyes find Waverly in her usual spot in the front pew, and I see her smile.
After mass, I'm shaking hands with parishioners when I notice two women whispering near the holy water font. Mrs. Callahan and Mrs. Patterson, the church's most dedicated gossips. They're looking at Waverly, then at me, then at each other with expressions that make my stomach drop.
I catch fragments of their conversation as I move through the crowd. "...submitted something to the diocese..." "...resignation, Margaret says..." "...such a shame, he was a good priest..."
When I look for Waverly, she's gone.
I find her outside, leaning against the iron fence that surrounds the churchyard. Her face is pale, and she's gripping her locket so hard her knuckles are white.
"Waverly." I reach for her arm, my fingers brushing the sleeve of her cardigan, but she takes a deliberate step backward, putting distance between us. "What's wrong? What happened?"
"They're talking about you." Her voice is flat, devoid of its usual warmth and melody. "Inside the church. Mrs. Callahan and Mrs. Patterson—they're saying you submitted an official resignation to the diocese."
"I told you I was starting the process of petitioning Rome..."
"You told me you were starting it. You didn't tell me you'd actually submitted paperwork. You didn't tell me people were already talking about it." She looks at me with an expression that makes my chest ache. "What else haven't you told me?"
"Nothing. I swear, nothing important. I just didn't want to burden you with the details."
"The details?" She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "People are whispering about the priest who's leaving the church, Cillian. How long before they figure out why? How long before they're whispering about me?"
"I'll protect you from that."
"How? You can't control what people say. You can't stop them from looking at me and seeing..." She trails off, pressing her hand to her mouth.
"Seeing what?"
"The woman who corrupted you." Her voice breaks on the word. "That's what they'll say, isn't it? That's what they'll think. And maybe they'll be right."
"That's not true." I step closer, and this time she doesn't retreat. "You didn't corrupt me, Waverly. You saved me."
"Did I? Or did I just give you an excuse to throw away your life?"
The question hits like a blow. I want to argue, to convince her that she's wrong, but she's already walking away, and I'm standing in the shadow of the church I'm about to leave, wondering if I've just ruined everything.