Chapter 25 Callahan
“But every man is tempted, when he is drawn away of his own lust, and enticed.”
— James 1:14 KJV
The bishop’s visit had stretched into a second week, delayed by some crisis in another diocese, and Callahan felt every hour of it. Schedules to rearrange, agendas to type, phone calls to field, visits to Saint Jude’s to coordinate—on top of the usual round of Masses, confessions, and the endless paperwork Rier kept sliding across his desk with a thin smile. The days blurred into one long act of service, and Callahan told himself he was grateful for the distraction. Work left no room for wandering thoughts. At least, that was the theory.
At night, alone in the rectory, the theory collapsed. Sleep slipped further and further out of reach. When he closed his eyes he saw Dorian’s damp curls after the shower, the faint bruise blooming on his hip the morning after, the way he had leaned into Callahan’s palm like a man starved for touch. The memories were no longer merely carnal. They had softened into something quieter, more dangerous: the wish to sit across a kitchen table from him at dawn, to hear the small stories behind every line of ink on his skin, to know him wholly, without the barrier of collar or secrecy.
Callahan turned onto his side, rosary beads pressing into his ribs beneath the thin sheet. He had wanted that once before—with Zoe—and his greed had burned it to the ground. He had sworn never again. Yet here he was, fifty years old, aching for a twenty-five-year-old who probably saw him as nothing more than a thrilling transgression. Still, the longing persisted, gentle and relentless, filling the hollow spaces Zoe had left behind.
Speak of the devil.
“Father Callahan.”
The voice floated across the parking lot, warm and teasing. Callahan straightened from sweeping the front steps and shaded his eyes against the afternoon glare. Dorian strolled toward him, long-sleeved shirt clinging to his back with sweat, hair pulled into a low tail. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, but the half-smile looked genuine.
“Enjoying the sunshine?” Dorian asked.
Callahan returned the smile before he could stop himself. “Lovely day, isn’t it?” Heat pooled under his black clerics; sweat traced the line of his spine. “How are you?”
“Hot,” Dorian said, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Seriously considering ripping these sleeves off.”
“I don’t blame you.” Callahan shifted the broom to his other hand. “Though I imagine the bishop might have opinions.”
Dorian’s grin sharpened. “I can make it even hotter.”
“Watch your tongue,” Callahan murmured, but the warning lacked force. His pulse had already quickened.
Dorian laughed softly, rolling first one sleeve, then the other, revealing the ink Callahan had traced with his mouth only days ago. He unbuttoned the top of his shirt, exposing the hollow of his throat. Callahan’s gaze followed helplessly.
“I just came from a fancy company lunch,” Dorian said, as if the heat hadn’t addled them both. “Arthur’s twenty-third anniversary with the firm. Thought I’d swing by afterward.”
Callahan chose his words carefully. “How did it go?”
Dorian shrugged. “We didn’t fight. That’s a win. Felt awkward as hell, but Mom was happy.” He met Callahan’s eyes. “That’s what matters.”
“I’m glad,” Callahan said. The sincerity surprised him; he was glad, fiercely, that Dorian had something good to hold onto.
They stood in silence a moment, cicadas droning in the trees. Then Dorian asked, casual, “You heading to Nirvana’s tonight?”
Callahan shook his head. “Bishop’s still in town. I’m afraid I have to stay on best behavior.”
Dorian’s laugh rang out again, bright and unguarded. Callahan wanted to bottle it, to keep it for the long nights ahead.
“If you change your mind,” Dorian said, drumming fingers against the pocket where his phone lived, “you know where to find me.” He offered a lazy two-finger salute. “See you Sunday, Father.”
“Sunday,” Callahan echoed, watching the little coupe pull away until the taillights vanished around the corner. Only then did he return to sweeping the already-clean steps, heart hammering against his ribs like a penitent at the grate.
Sunday came.
Dorian did not.
Callahan scanned the pews twice during the entrance procession, then forced himself to focus. He preached on the Prodigal Son—ironic, he thought, as he watched empty space where Dorian usually sat, arms crossed, eyes fixed on him with unreadable intensity. After Mass he heard confessions, led a prayer circle, tidied the sacristy, organized the supply closet upstairs. The routine carried him through the day, but the pit in his stomach widened with every hour Dorian remained absent.
Late evening found him alone in the office, door closed against the quiet rectory. He retrieved his phone from the locked drawer. No new messages. He opened their thread anyway.
Callahan: You were missed at service today. I hope you’re well.
The reply came within minutes.
Dorian: Slept in, super late night Saturday.
Callahan exhaled, relief and worry mingling.
Callahan: I’m sorry to hear.
Dorian: Come by when I get off to give me the cliffnotes?
His thumbs hovered. Every prudent voice in his head shouted to refuse. The bishop was still in residence. Someone might see the car. Someone might talk.
Callahan: Let me know when you get home.
Sunset bled across the sky by the time he parked in the small lot outside Dorian’s townhouse. The air had cooled, but his skin still felt too tight. He walked the short path and knocked.
The door opened almost immediately. Dorian stood there in grey sweatpants and a thin white tank that clung to his chest, the outline of nipple piercings unmistakable. Callahan’s mouth went dry.
“Appreciate you coming on short notice,” Dorian said, stepping aside. “Want anything? Water? Beer?”
Callahan cleared his throat. “I’m fine, thank you.” He chose the recliner, needing distance. The scent of chocolate and caramel drifted from the kitchen, rich and warm.
Dorian noticed his glance. “Cookies. Special recipe. Five more minutes.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“I like keeping busy when I’m ner—” Dorian stopped, eyes widening as if he’d let something slip.
Callahan tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Do I make you nervous?”
Dorian rolled his eyes, but color rose in his cheeks. “I get nervous around all hot men.”
“Come here.”
Dorian crossed the room slowly. Callahan drank him in—bare feet, loose sweatpants riding low, the faint tremor in his fingers. When he stopped between Callahan’s knees, Callahan reached out, fingertips grazing the sharp jut of hipbones above the waistband. Skin warm, alive. Gooseflesh rose under his touch.
Callahan slid his palms around to the small of Dorian’s back, urging him closer. Dorian climbed into his lap without hesitation, knees bracketing Callahan’s thighs against the armrests. One hand braced on the chair back, the other settled on Callahan’s shoulder. Their faces were inches apart.
“I can’t decide what I like you in more,” Callahan said quietly, eyes tracing the curve of Dorian’s mouth. “Sunday best… or this.”
Dorian’s voice dropped to a murmur. “I know what I’d prefer you in.”
“Tell me.”
“Nothing.”
Callahan’s grip tightened. “Is that so?” His thumbs stroked the soft skin just above the waistband. “Because I think you like the uniform more than you admit.”
Dorian leaned in, lips brushing Callahan’s jaw. “Can’t deny it gets me hot under the collar.” He nipped lightly, and Callahan’s hips jerked upward involuntarily.
Dorian hummed approval, rocking down to meet him. Callahan pulled him closer, guiding the slow roll of hips, friction building in exquisite degrees. A low groan escaped Dorian’s throat, vibrating against Callahan’s neck. Heat coiled low in Callahan’s belly, spreading outward like spilled incense.
He forgot the collar. Forgot the vows. Forgot everything except the weight in his lap, the soft curls under his fingers, the shared breath between them. Dorian’s mouth trailed fire along his throat; Callahan tilted his head to offer more. For a moment he was simply a man, alive and wanting, not a ghost in black and white.
Dorian lifted his head. Their foreheads touched. Eyes locked. Lips hovered, barely apart. Callahan leaned in the fraction needed. Their mouths brushed—soft, tentative, electric.
The oven timer shrieked.
Dorian jolted upright, chest heaving. Callahan’s head spun. They had almost kissed. Almost crossed the final line. He dragged a hand through his hair, pulse thundering in his ears. The room smelled of warm chocolate and caramel and something far more dangerous.
Dorian laughed, shaky. “Cookies.”
Callahan managed a nod. Dorian slid off his lap and disappeared into the kitchen. Callahan stayed in the recliner, staring at nothing, feeling the ghost of that almost-kiss on his lips.
Dorian returned with a plate of cookies still steaming, set it on the coffee table, then hesitated. Callahan reached out, cupped his cheek. Dorian leaned into the touch immediately, eyes fluttering shut. Callahan stroked his thumb across the sharp cheekbone, marveling at the trust in that small surrender.
This is real, he thought. Not a dream. Not a fantasy he would wake from ashamed.
Dorian turned his head, pressed a soft kiss to the center of Callahan’s palm.
And it’s going to destroy everything.