Chapter 27 Callahan
“And above all things have fervent charity among yourselves: for charity shall cover the multitude of sins.”
— 1 Peter 4:8 KJV
The last of the evening light had thinned to a bruised gold when Callahan stepped out of the rectory and drove the short distance to Saint Jude’s. He told himself it was only to check on the garden beds—nothing more. A simple pastoral duty. Yet the thought of Dorian out there, sleeves rolled high, dirt under his nails, had lodged itself behind Callahan’s ribs like a splinter he couldn’t pray away.
Inside the shelter the air was thick with the usual smells: bleach, canned soup, the faint sourness of too many bodies in too small a space. Residents called out to him—Father, Father—and he moved among them, touching shoulders, murmuring blessings, hearing fragments of stories he already knew by heart. All the while his gaze kept drifting toward the back door.
He found Elara in the common room, crouched beside a small girl who was sounding out words from a dog-eared workbook. Elara glanced up, offered a quick smile, then returned to the child. Callahan waited until the lesson ended before he drew her into the narrow hallway by the supply closet.
“How’s the garden coming along?” he asked.
Elara’s hand flew to her mouth. “Dorian. Oh, Lord, I haven’t even looked outside once today. I got pulled into tutoring and then meals and—” She winced. “He’s going to kill me.”
“I’ll check on him,” Callahan said. “I’m sure he understands.”
He fetched a bottle of water from the kitchen fridge—cold enough to leave a ring of condensation on his palm—and pushed through the back door.
The heat hit him first, humid and close even at dusk. Then the sight of Dorian stopped him dead.
Dorian stood with his back to the shelter, shirtless, skin gleaming like polished bronze under the last slant of sun. Sweat tracked down the groove of his spine. His arms moved in steady, powerful strokes as he worked the handsaw through a length of pine. Each push and pull flexed the long muscles along his back and shoulders. Callahan’s mouth went dry. An image flashed unbidden—Dorian bound, wrists overhead, that same body arched and helpless. The thought was so sharp it felt like a lash across his own skin. He swallowed, ashamed, and forced his gaze to the half-finished raised beds instead. Four thick legs, waist-high, sturdy enough to keep curious toddlers out. Practical. Thoughtful. Exactly like Dorian.
Callahan waited until the saw stilled.
“Your craftsmanship is remarkable.”
Dorian spun around. “Jesus Christ, warn a guy.”
Callahan allowed himself one slow, deliberate look—chest rising and falling, collarbones slick, the faint shadow of hair beneath his navel—before meeting Dorian’s eyes again. “Maybe stop being so easy to sneak up on.”
Dorian snorted, peeled off heavy work gloves, and nodded at the water bottle. “That for me, or are you just teasing?”
Callahan tilted it in offering. Dorian stepped close to take it, and Callahan caught his wrist—firm, deliberate. “Mind your mouth.”
Dorian’s grin flashed white. “Make me.”
He twisted free, unscrewed the cap, and drank half the bottle in greedy gulps. Then, without ceremony, he upended the rest over his head. Water sheeted down his face, neck, chest. He shook his hair like a dog, droplets flicking across Callahan’s shirt and face. Callahan tasted one on his lower lip—cool, faintly metallic.
“Sorry,” Dorian said, not sounding sorry at all.
Callahan only shook his head, smiling despite himself.
Dorian jerked his chin toward the picnic table under the single scraggly maple. “Sit with me a minute?”
They settled opposite each other on the weathered benches. Callahan set his elbows on the tabletop, fingers laced.
“I talked to Elara earlier,” Dorian said, scrubbing a hand through wet hair. “About how this place stays open.” He hesitated. “I still can’t wrap my head around the church funding it the way they do.”
Callahan’s shoulders tightened. “We manage.”
“With donations and whatever scraps you feed it from your own paycheck, right?” Dorian’s voice was gentle, but the words landed like stones. “You shouldn’t have to.”
Callahan looked away toward the fence line. “I took a vow of poverty. Luxuries aren’t—”
“I’m not talking about luxuries. I’m talking about a roof that doesn’t leak and a stove that works.” Dorian leaned forward. “Look, I know I don’t look the part, but my family has money. Real money. Let me help. Tell me the worst of it—boiler, wiring, whatever—and I’ll get it fixed.”
Callahan’s throat closed. Pride, gratitude, fear all tangled together. “There’s too much.”
“Then we’ll start with the worst.” Dorian reached across the table and took Callahan’s hand. The touch was warm, steady. “Let me do something that matters.”
Callahan stared at their joined hands. The calluses on Dorian’s palm pressed against his own smoother skin. A simple touch, and yet it felt like absolution and condemnation at once.
“Come over tonight,” Dorian said quietly. “I’ll cook. We’ll make a list. And if you want… stay a while after. Watch a movie. Just—be off the clock for once.”
Callahan’s heart thudded against his ribs. He managed a nod.
Dorian’s smile was small, almost shy. “Text me when you’re on the way.” He stood, snatched his discarded shirt from the fence, and paused at the door. “And leave the collar at home.”
-
Callahan stood outside Dorian’s townhouse longer than he should have. He’d changed twice—first a sweater that felt too casual, then the green button-down that now felt too deliberate. The gold cross lay against his chest, warm from his skin. He almost tucked it beneath the fabric, then left it visible. A reminder. A warning.
He knocked.
Dorian opened the door wearing a faded gray T-shirt and soft sweatpants that hung low on his hips. Bare feet. Hair still damp from a shower. He looked younger like this, unguarded.
“Hey,” Dorian said, smile easy.
“Hey,” Callahan echoed, breathless.
They stared a moment too long. Then Dorian stepped aside. “Come in.”
Callahan toed off his loafers and set them beside Dorian’s battered sneakers. The sight struck him oddly domestic—brown leather next to scuffed canvas, side by side like they belonged.
The house smelled of garlic and cream and something faintly floral from a candle flickering on the coffee table. Simple, warm. Human.
“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” Callahan said.
Dorian’s hand brushed the small of his back as he passed. “Wasn’t trouble.”
Callahan sat at the small dining table. Dorian set a plate in front of him—heaped with chicken Alfredo, sauce glossy and fragrant—then poured water into both their glasses.
“I almost opened wine,” Dorian admitted, sliding into the opposite chair. “Remembered you don’t drink.”
Callahan gave a grateful half-smile and murmured a quiet blessing over the food. The first bite was perfect—rich, bright with lemon, the chicken tender. He closed his eyes a second longer than necessary.
“This is incredible.”
“Mom’s recipe, tweaked.” Dorian twirled pasta around his fork. “I reduce the sauce with white wine, season the chicken separate. Gives it layers.”
Callahan laughed softly. “You’ll have to cook every time I come over.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them. Dorian’s eyes flicked up, something hopeful flaring there.
They ate in companionable quiet for a while. Then Callahan set his fork down.
“What are we doing here, Dorian?”
Dorian pushed a noodle around his plate. “Eating dinner.”
“No. I mean—” Callahan’s voice cracked. He stared at the window, at the dark beyond the glass. “I shouldn’t be here. If anyone saw—”
“I want you here.” Dorian’s tone was fierce and small at once.
“Why?” The question came out raw. “You could have anyone. Someone who isn’t—” He gestured vaguely at his own throat, the invisible collar. “This will destroy everything I’ve built.”
Dorian’s chair scraped back. In two strides he was around the table, hands cupping Callahan’s face. Their mouths crashed together—no hesitation, no gentleness. Just need. Callahan rose to meet him, knocking his own chair over. He gripped Dorian’s jaw, angled deeper, tasting water and faint salt and the ghost of garlic. Dorian made a low sound in his throat that went straight to Callahan’s blood.
They stumbled backward until Dorian’s hips hit the kitchen island. Callahan pressed him there, bodies flush. Dorian’s hands slid down Callahan’s chest, around his waist. Callahan caught them, guided them to his belt loops instead.
“Here,” he rasped against Dorian’s mouth. “Not lower.”
Dorian hooked his fingers in and yanked their hips together. “Like this?”
Callahan groaned. “Brat.”
The kiss turned messy—teeth, tongues, breath shared in desperate pulls. Callahan tasted the faint sweat at Dorian’s neck, bit down on his pulse and felt it thunder beneath his tongue. Dorian’s head fell back, a broken sound escaping him.
“God, I want you,” Callahan whispered against damp skin.
“You have me,” Dorian said, voice ragged. “Already yours.”
The words cracked something open inside Callahan’s chest. He tugged Dorian’s hair, exposed more throat, sucked a mark just below the jaw that would hide beneath a collar tomorrow. Dorian’s hips rolled helplessly.
“Please,” Dorian breathed. “Anything.”
Callahan pulled back just enough to look at him—lips swollen, eyes blown wide, chest heaving. Beautiful. Terrifying.
“Not tonight,” Callahan said. The words scraped his throat raw.
Dorian’s expression flickered—disappointment, then careful hope. “You’ll come back?”
Callahan brushed a damp strand of hair from Dorian’s forehead. “As long as you’ll let me.”
“Stay tonight?” The plea was barely audible.
Callahan rested their foreheads together. “Not yet. One day.” He swallowed. “Soon.”
Dorian nodded, chewing his lip. Silence settled, heavy with everything unsaid.
Callahan stepped back, adjusted his shirt, his breathing. Dorian packed the leftovers into a plastic container without being asked.
“Skillet’s better for reheating,” he said, handing it over.
“Thank you.” Callahan took the box, then—foolishly, greedily—leaned in for one last soft kiss. “For all of it.”
“Anytime,” Dorian said. He meant it.
Callahan slipped on his shoes, stepped into the night, and shut the door quietly behind him.
The drive home was short. The rectory dark. Rier’s window unlit, thank God.
Inside his room Callahan set the container on the desk, fell to his knees beside the narrow bed, and pressed his face into the blanket.
Lord, have mercy. Do not let me ruin him.
Or myself.