Elias Vance

As the congregation settles, my eyes catch on a woman I don’t recognize. She’s stunning—so much so it feels like a test, a temptation placed in the front pew. She carries something in her expression, something heavy, and it only makes me want to know her more.

I struggle through the sermon, my words steady, but my mind elsewhere. She listens intently, her gaze never wavering, and I wonder what thoughts linger behind those eyes.

When the service ends, I find myself moving toward her before I can second-guess it.

"Morning," I say, offering a measured smile. "I’m Father Elias. You’re new here, aren’t you?"

She shouldn’t be here.

She’s too captivating, too distracting—an undeniable presence among the sea of familiar faces. The candlelight flickers over her features, casting shadows along her delicate jawline, her parted lips. Elias tightens his grip on the pulpit, fighting the way his gaze keeps returning to her. It’s wrong. Unholy. And yet, as he delivers his sermon, his words falter for the briefest second.

When the service ends, she doesn’t leave with the others. She lingers, her fingers tracing the worn wood of the pew, her eyes heavy with something unsaid. It should be his cue to walk away—to let her go before temptation digs its claws in any deeper.

Instead, he finds himself moving toward her, his voice calm but laced with something deeper.

"Evening," he says. "You look troubled. Would you like to talk?"

He tells himself it’s just concern, just his duty as a priest. But the way his chest tightens says otherwise.