Chapter 22 Dorian
“For ye are yet carnal: for whereas there is among you envying, and strife, and divisions, are ye not carnal, and walk as men?”
— 1 Corinthians 3:3 KJV
The sun beat down on the yard behind Saint Jude’s, turning the gravel dusty and hot under Dorian’s sneakers. He’d been out here for hours with his volunteer group, sorting donated clothes into bins, the air thick with the smell of old fabric and cheap detergent. Sweat trickled down his back, sticking the cropped tank to his skin. The shirt barely covered anything—some faded band logo he didn’t even like—and his low-rise jeans hung loose, ripped enough that the star tattoos on his hips peeked out every time he bent over. He was mid-sentence, explaining how to fold the shirts properly, when the shelter door slammed open.
“Dorian Raymond Koller!”
Elara’s voice cracked across the yard like a whip. Dorian froze, a half-folded T-shirt dangling from his hand. She stormed toward him in her work scrubs, hair scraped back, face thunderous. The group stopped dead—some wide-eyed, some smirking behind their hands, a couple looking genuinely concerned for his safety. Dorian forced a grin, waved them off.
“Take a break, guys. I’ll catch up later.”
Elara didn’t wait. She grabbed his wrist and hauled him toward the building, her grip tight enough to bruise. Dorian let her drag him; his legs were longer anyway, so he kept pace without trying. Inside, the cool air hit his damp skin like a slap. She yanked him down the hall and into the supplies closet, shoving him toward the far shelves before slamming the door shut.
The space was cramped—shelves stuffed with canned goods, paper towels, cleaning bottles that smelled sharp and lemony. A single bulb overhead buzzed faintly. Dorian leaned back against a metal rack, arms crossed, waiting. Elara stood opposite him, practically vibrating, her chest rising and falling too fast.
“Okay,” she whispered, voice low so it wouldn’t carry. “So I tell you to talk to Father Callahan, what, a week ago?” She held up a hand before he could answer. “And then you go ghost again?” Her eyes narrowed, head tilting. “Care to explain?”
Dorian stared at his sneakers. Dust from the yard still clung to the toes. “You want the real answer or the one that won’t make you freak out?”
She sputtered, then smacked his shoulder—hard. “The real one, idiot.”
He rubbed the spot. “Fine. I talked to him after that note. Things are…” He searched for the word. Complicated didn’t cover it. Thrilling and stupid and terrifying all at once. “Okay, I guess.”
“And?” She stretched the word, expectant.
Dorian exhaled through his nose. “I think we’re kind of in a fuckbuddies situation.”
Elara’s mouth dropped open. “Oh my God. What the actual fuck—you cannot be serious. I told you to be—”
“Careful, yeah, I know.” He dragged a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. “I am being careful—”
“Careful is not secretly screwing the priest!” she hissed.
“You think I don’t know that?” His voice cracked louder than he meant. He lowered it again. “I’m not screwing him, okay? We’re just… messing around. It’s not serious. It keeps my head from—” He stopped short. From spinning out about how shitty a friend I’ve been, how shitty a son. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
Elara pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes squeezed shut. “So I shouldn’t worry that my best friend is messing around with our priest?”
“Keep your voice down.” Footsteps passed in the hall outside—slow, deliberate. Dorian’s pulse spiked until they faded again.
She crossed her arms. “Remember when we were twelve and made that pact—one super truth a year, pullable anytime?”
“You can’t—”
“I’m cashing mine in.”
“Here? Now?” He glanced at the door like it might burst open any second.
“Dorian. Super truth.”
He groaned, head thumping back against the shelf. A box of bandages rattled. “Fine. Fuck.” He stared at the ceiling—water-stained tiles, one flickering light. “I’ve been using confession to tell Callahan my fantasies. And now there’s this… pseudo-dynamic thing. Every time he’s around I turn into a complete idiot and flirt like I’ve never spoken to a man before. So really, the only thing you should worry about is that you’re stuck with a colossal dumbass who apparently has the worst possible taste in men.”
He dropped his gaze. Elara stared at him, mouth parted.
“Jesus, Eli.” She rubbed both hands over her face. “Are you insane? I get that you’re into him, but he’s a priest. You could destroy everything for him if anyone finds out.”
“I don’t have a thing for him.” The words came out too fast. She raised an eyebrow. “I mean—why would I even—that doesn’t make sense, I—” He clamped his mouth shut, heat crawling up his neck. “This is stupid. I don’t have feelings for our fu—”
The door swung open.
They both jumped like kids caught smoking. Dorian’s heart slammed against his ribs. He whipped around—and there was Callahan, framed in the doorway, expression unreadable. Elara muttered something about needing to check the front desk and slipped past him, fleeing down the hall.
Dorian stayed put, face burning. Callahan’s gaze traveled down—slow, deliberate—taking in the cropped tank clinging to sweat-damp skin, the shredded jeans, the flash of inked stars above the waistband. When their eyes met again, the air felt suddenly too thin.
Callahan stepped inside and closed the door with a soft click.
“Care to explain why you and Elara were in here with the door shut?”
Dorian shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. The denim shifted lower on his hips. “Care to explain why you’re jealous?”
“I asked first.”
“Private matter,” Dorian said, aiming for cool and mostly hitting it.
Callahan took another step. The closet shrank. “Is it something you ought to confess?”
Dorian’s pulse thundered in his ears. He reached out, hooked two fingers under the rosary hanging at Callahan’s throat, and tugged. The priest came willingly—close enough that their shoes touched, noses brushing. Callahan smelled like dark chocolate and Earl Grey tea, warm and familiar and maddening.
“Maybe,” Dorian murmured, breath ghosting over Callahan’s lips, “we skip confession and go straight to me on my knees begging forgiveness.” He tilted his head, lips near the priest’s ear. “Should I get down and beg right here, Father?”
His other hand slid behind Callahan’s hip, fingers slipping into the back pocket. He pulled the phone free, then leaned back just enough to press it against Callahan’s chest. “Or should I wait till you come over?”
Callahan’s hand closed over his, taking the phone back. His voice came low, rough. “Wicked little minx, aren’t you?”
Dorian’s grin felt sharp. “You like it.”
His own phone buzzed in his back pocket. He fished it out—Bianca, begging him to cover the evening shift. He sighed, long and dramatic, and stepped around Callahan, careful not to brush too much skin. At the door he paused, glanced back.
The priest stood motionless among the shelves, rosary still twisted from Dorian’s grip, eyes dark.
“I’ll see you Tuesday, Father.”
Dorian slipped out, pulling the door shut behind him. The hallway felt colder than it should. His heart hadn’t slowed yet, and the taste of chocolate and tea lingered on every breath.