Chapter 14 Dorian
“By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not.”
— Song of Solomon 3:1 KJV
Edging was hell. Plain and simple. Dorian could survive flat-out denial—he’d done it before, gritted his teeth and powered through—but this? Being told he could touch all he wanted yet forbidden to finish? Callahan had invented a new circle of torment just for him.
He woke facedown on the couch sometime after two, mouth dry, cock already half-hard and aching against the seam of his sweatpants. The room smelled faintly of yesterday’s takeout and the ghost of incense that still clung to his skin from the church. He groaned into the cushion, hips shifting without permission, grinding slow and useless against the fabric. The friction felt good for exactly three seconds before it turned cruel, reminding him how empty the relief would be.
Fuck the penance.
His hand slid under the waistband, fingers curling around himself. The first stroke dragged a shudder out of him. He shut his eyes and let the memory hit: Callahan’s mouth on his throat in the bar bathroom, teeth sinking in hard enough to bruise, the low growl against his skin when Maverick’s knock shattered the moment. What if no one had interrupted? What if Callahan had shoved him against the sink and kissed him like a man breaking a fast?
Another stroke. Faster. He was already leaking, slicking his palm. Just a little more and—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Dorian swore, loud and creative, yanking his hand free. He rolled off the couch, dragged the blanket around his shoulders like a wounded soldier, and stomped to the door. Sunlight stabbed through the gap when he opened it, blinding him.
“Jesus fuck—”
“Language, Eli.”
Elara stood on the step, sunglasses pushed up into her dark hair, holding a folded square of paper like evidence. She didn’t wait for an invitation—just pushed past him into the house.
“Oh hey yourself,” she said, kicking the door shut behind her. “That’s the greeting I get after you ghost me all morning?”
Dorian rubbed his eyes. “What happened to ‘Hey, Eli, you okay? How’d you sleep?’”
“I’ve got bigger problems.” She shook the paper. “Like why our priest is passing you love notes.”
The air left his lungs. He reached for it; she held it higher.
“Truth, Eli. Now.”
“I don’t know until I read it.” His voice cracked on the last word. Pathetic.
Elara studied him a second longer, then handed it over. He snatched it before she could change her mind.
Heavy cream stock. Precise, slanted handwriting.
Dorian,
I pray you are well and whatever has prevented you from attending today does not deter your future attendance. If you find that you are unable to attend service, the rite of confession is always available. On Tuesdays, I am in the booth all day. Father Rier is available on Fridays if you would feel more comfortable with him.
— Father Callahan
His pulse thudded in his ears. Polite. Concerned. Pointed.
Elara dropped onto the couch beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched. “So. One missed Mass and Father Callahan writes you a personal invitation to confession. Care to explain?”
Dorian folded the note small and smaller, until it was a hard square against his palm. “Not really.”
She was quiet long enough that he risked a glance. Her face had gone soft, worry pulling at the corners of her mouth.
“You’ve been weird at church. Weirder than usual. And you look like hell.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m serious, Eli.” Her voice dropped. “I talked to your mom. She says you’ve been short with her too. I just…” She picked at a loose thread on the blanket. “I don’t want to lose you again.”
The words landed heavy. He remembered the years after he’d come out—radio silence from half his family, Elara the only one who kept showing up. He nudged her with his elbow.
“You’re not gonna lose me. Promise.”
She leaned into him until her head rested on his shoulder. He let his own head settle on top of hers. The weight on his chest eased a fraction. Exhaustion rushed in to fill the space.
“I’m here when you’re ready to talk,” she murmured.
He didn’t answer. Just breathed in the familiar scent of her coconut shampoo and let his eyes close.
He woke to bacon.
The smell dragged him upright, blinking crust from his lashes. Kitchen light spilled into the living room; Elara stood at the ancient coffee pot, back to him, humming off-key. His phone showed he still had an hour before his shift. Miracle.
He shuffled in, blanket abandoned. She glanced over her shoulder, expression unreadable.
“You talk in your sleep. A lot.”
He snorted, reaching for the World’s Best Son mug. “Yeah?”
“I’ve never been more uncomfortable in my life.”
He poured coffee, added creamer she’d already set out. “Not uncomfortable enough to leave.”
“One of us has to adult.” She slid a plate across the small table: fried eggs shaped into eyes, bacon curved into a goofy smile. Just like his mom used to make when they were kids.
He sat. They ate in quiet for a minute, forks scraping ceramic. Elara kept fidgeting—tapping her foot, twisting her napkin.
Finally she set her fork down. “Are you going to be honest with me?”
“As honest as I can be.”
“Are you okay?”
He stared at the half-eaten smiley face. The question was too big. Too simple. He shrugged.
“I don’t know.”
She nodded like that was answer enough. “You should talk to Father Callahan.”
He looked up sharply.
She met his eyes, calm. “You said his name. A lot. In very creative contexts.” A tiny, motherly smile. “Just… be careful, okay? He is kinda a priest.”
Dorian’s face burned. He pushed a piece of bacon around his plate.
Elara pointed her fork at him, egg wobbling on the tines. “And if you do anything stupid, you tell me first. Got it?”
He raised his brows. “You sure you want that job?”
She shoved the egg in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. The look she gave him said no, he was not off the hook.
But she didn’t push further. And for now, that was enough.