The Unholy Oath

The storm had been howling for hours. I hated it so much. If I were God, I wouldn't even let it ever rain again.. We'd have just 3 seasons instead of 4.

It rained heavily against the windows of The Salty Anchor, the only bar in town still open at this hour. Not that anyone was drinking. The whole place was tense. Half the fishermen were crammed inside to escape the wind, the other half praying their boats would survive.

I wiped down the counter for the third time in ten minutes, the rough cotton rag a familiar anchor. My nerves were too heightened to stand still because storms always did this to me. It wasn't the thunder or the lightning. It was the noise, the constant, unpredictable violence of it.

It reminded me of another life.

Of a cramped Portland apartment where the shouting was just as loud as the weather, and a lot more personal. Jared used to hate the rain. He said it made people stupid and melancholy. He blamed it for his bad moods, which usually meant I spent the night trying to be invisible. Polishing glasses. Keeping quiet. Pretending not to exist.

I shook the memory away. Wrong place. Wrong time.

The Salty Anchor smelled of wet wool and cigarette smoke. Boots thumped against the wooden floors. No one spoke above a murmur. Outside, the wind screamed like it wanted to rip the town apart.

BANG.

The door slammed open, nearly ripped off its hinges. A blast of cold air shoved into the room, spraying rain across the floor. I clenched my jaw. If someone broke that door again, I was going to kill them.

But then he walked in.

Father Daniel.

Dripping wet, black shirt plastered to his chest. Dark hair slicked to his neck. The usual hum of conversation died in a heartbeat.

He never came in. Not once in the five years since he'd arrived, taken his vows, and buried himself in that church like a ghost no one could touch.

What the hell was he doing here?

I gripped the rag harder, forced a smirk. My voice came out sharper than I meant.

"Well, hell froze over. What brings you in, Father? Finally here to preach about my sinful margaritas?"

His eyes flicked to me. Dark as the storm outside. He didn't linger, only looked for a second before moving on.

"The church roof collapsed."

Silence spread like spilled beer.

I blinked. "...Shit."

"The rectory is flooded. Uninhabitable." His voice was flat, like he was reading a grocery list.

"So, you need a place to stay?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Three seconds passed. The longest three seconds of my life.

"If it's not an inconvenience."

Inconvenience? I almost laughed. Try torture.

Because Father Daniel standing in my bar was one thing.

Father Daniel sleeping under my roof?

That was a whole different kind of sin.

The rain slowed to a miserable drizzle by the time we stepped outside. He walked a steady three feet behind me the entire way, like I carried the plague.

"You don't have to act like I'm contagious," I muttered.

"Habit."

"What, staying five miles away from women?"

"Yes."

I snorted. "Wow. Really selling the whole holy man thing."

He didn't answer. His footsteps stayed steady, too controlled, like he was marching toward something he hated.

My house sat on the edge of town, half-hidden behind crab traps and a rusted truck that hadn't run in years. I fumbled with the keys at the porch, aware of him behind me, tall and silent as a shadow.

"You can take the guest room," I said once the door opened. "Bathroom's down the hall. Towels under the sink. Don't... pray at me or whatever."

A pause stretched between us. Then, low and even: "I won't."

I turned. For the first time, his gaze met mine. Not long. Not intense. Just long enough to make my stomach flip.

Then he looked away, brushing past me with that calm detachment, vanishing down the hall.

Oh, this was going to be hell.

I busied myself in the kitchen, pretending I wasn't counting every sound he made upstairs. The creak of floorboards. The soft click of the bathroom door. The rush of water through the pipes. Each sound made him more real. Not the ghost in the church. Not the untouchable Father Daniel. Just a man in my house.

My phone buzzed.

Maggie: Wait. HE'S STAYING WITH YOU?!

Of course, she already knew. News in this town traveled faster than lightning.

Me: Church got wrecked. No choice.

Maggie: Bullshit. You've been eye-fucking him for years.

Me: I HAVE NOT.

Maggie: Liar. You get twitchy when he walks by.

I didn't answer. Because she wasn't wrong.

The floor creaked again. I turned sharply, pressing the phone against my chest.

Father Daniel stood there. Dry black sweater. Damp hair curling at his temple. Out of the collar, he looked different. Human. Dangerous.

"You hungry?" I asked too quickly.

"No."

"Right. Forgot you live on communion wafers and guilt."

His jaw tightened. "I should retire for the night."

"Yeah. Sure. Good talk."

He turned. Stopped. Looked back.

"Thank you. For your hospitality." The words sounded forced, like he had to drag them out.

I swallowed. "Don't mention it. Literally. Ever."

Something flickered across his face. Almost a smile. Then gone. He walked upstairs, leaving me alone with the hum of the fridge and the quiet drip of water from my coat.

Three weeks. That's how long it would take to fix the church roof, according to old Pete from the hardware store.

Three weeks of this.

Whatever this was.

I was so screwed.

The night dragged on. I cleaned bottles that weren't dirty. Rearranged napkins that didn't need rearranging. My nerves buzzed too hard to sleep.

Every storm set me on edge, but this one was worse. Because every creak above my head wasn't just the house settling. It was him.

I made tea, the cheap kind Maggie swore tasted like boiled socks. Sat at the table. Forced myself to breathe.

The rain tapped softer against the windows. The storm was easing. I should have felt calmer. Instead, my chest felt tight.

I thought about Jared again. His anger. His fists. The way storms had always meant a long night of keeping quiet.

I glanced up at the ceiling. Father Daniel's shadow moved across the crack of light under the guest room door.

Different man. Different storm.

But the tension in my gut felt the same.

Morning came gray and heavy. I hadn't slept more than an hour.

The smell of coffee reached me before I even made it downstairs. I froze.

Father Daniel was in my kitchen.

He stood at the counter, pouring coffee into one of my chipped mugs like he belonged there. His sleeves were pushed up, forearms bare. Strong. Steady. He didn't look at me when he spoke.

"I hope you don't mind. I found the coffee."

My voice came out rough. "If I'd known priests made themselves at home, I'd have locked the cabinets."

He set the pot down. Turned. His face was unreadable.

"You have work today?"

"Yeah." I moved to the fridge, grabbed milk I didn't need, and anything to avoid his eyes. "Storm didn't wreck the bar, so someone's gotta keep the town drowning in whiskey."

A silence stretched, thick as smoke.

Then, softer: "Thank you. Again."

I almost laughed. "Don't make a habit of it, Father."

He didn't answer. Just lifted the mug, took a slow sip, and returned to staring out the window.

I hated how much space he took up without even trying.

Three weeks.

I could survive three weeks.

Couldn't I?

The scream tore through the house at 3:17 AM. Raw. Desperate. A sound no one should make.

I shot upright my heart racing from the shout, and sheets tangled around my legs which caused me to fall. For a second, I thought I had imagined it. Then it came again.

"No!" followed by the sound of a body hitting the floor.

Oh my God. It was Daniel.

I was out of bed before my brain caught up. I didn't even see myself running down the hallway, as it seemed like the electricity had powered down. When I reached his door I didn't know if I should just stay outside or open it up.

Do not go in!! I tried telling myself but nothing changed. Another choked gasp pulled me forward.

Fuck.

I pushed the door open and strained my eyes to look for Daniel around the room as it was dark and the only light seemed to be coming from the candle lit by the bedside table. Daniel knelt beside the bed, one hand braced against the mattress and the other tangled in his hair. His black t-shirt clung to his shoulders and his back rose and fell so quickly like he just ran 4 miles.

"Daniel?"

No response.

I stepped closer. "Hey, you okay?"

His head snapped up. For a terrifying heartbeat, his eyes were wild, unfocused, dangerous, like he was hiding something and had just been caught. Then they went blank. Controlled. Calm.

"Elena."

"You were screaming," I said.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. "My apologies for disturbing you."

I stared at him, like really stared. That was it?? No explanation, no vulnerability. The same wall I had been hitting since he arrived.

I crossed my arms. "You good?"

"Fine."

"Because if we are doing nightly horror movie reenactments, I would like a schedule."

"Go back to bed."

The dismissal stung. I opened my mouth to argue, then stopped. Something caught my eye. His fingers trembled against the mattress. I almost didn't see it because of how scared he looked earlier. For the first time since he walked into my bar, Daniel looked....human.

I sighed. "You want some water or..."

"No."

The word cut through the silence. I held my hands up. "Right. Well, try not to die before morning then. I have tried my best."

I did not wait for a response. I could not sleep anyway. After an hour of staring at the ceiling, I gave up and padded to the kitchen. The house was silent except for the soft creak of his floorboards above me. He was awake too so it seems. After THAT kind of nightmare, I don't think I would sleep if I were in his place.

Daniel then came downstairs after a while and went to the sink, filling a glass of water. He did not turn. Just acted like I wasn't in the same room as him.

"Can't sleep either, huh?" I said.

Silence.

I grabbed the whiskey bottle above the fridge and poured a finger into my coffee. "Sure you do not want any? Liquid courage and all that."

His shoulders stiffened. "I don't drink."

"Right. Vows." I took a sip, watching him. "You're always this chatty after nightmares, or am I special?"

Finally, he turned. Eyes shadowed. Jaw set. "What do you want, Elena?"

I really want to know what your dream was about. I couldn't obviously say that anyway.

I rolled my eyes. "Just making sure you are not going to stab me in my sleep."

A beat. Then he muttered low enough that I almost did not catch it.

"I do not stab civilians."

First honest words. First crack in the wall.

I arched a brow. "Civilians?"

He drained the water and set the glass down carefully. "Goodnight."

The night stretched on. I sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around the mug, listening to the storm outside soften into a drizzle. My mind replayed his tremor, the tight line of his jaw, the way his body had looked human in its exhaustion. It made me restless.

By the time morning arrived, gray and heavy, I had not slept.

I woke to the smell of coffee, with Daniel at the stove, flipping pancakes with care. Sleeves rolled up, revealing tattoos, dark ink curling across his forearms in patterns I could not decipher. A priest with tattoos? Is God fucking kidding me? If he has this many tattoos on his hand then imagine what's underneath the collar. I'd like to...

"Elena, are you getting what I'm saying to you?" I blinked.

"Uh, yeah sorry my mind was somewhere else. You cook?"

"Occasionally."

I slumped into a chair. "What's the occasion? Guilt over scaring me shitless last night?"

"A repayment for your hospitality."

I smirked. "Wow. A whole pancake. How generous."

He plated two stacks and slid one toward me. "Eat."

I stared at the perfect golden circles. "These look suspiciously good."

"I spent time in a monastery. They taught us to cook."

First personal detail he had ever volunteered. I chewed a bite slowly, still a little skeptical about it. "So, you woke up one day and decided to be a priest?"

His eyes flicked toward mine. "Something like that."

Silence stretched across the room. I chewed another piece again. These are the best pancakes I've had in a while. "These are actually amazing."

He smiled faintly before returning to his unreadable expression. I cleaned up and grabbed my bag.

The streets shone with leftover rain as Daniel and I walked in silence. Three feet of space between us.

Mrs. Henderson intercepted us outside the post office. With her eyes wide and lips pressed tight, I already braced myself for what was coming. "Father Daniel! I heard about the church. Such a shame." Her gaze shifted to me with disgust. "And you're staying with... Elena?"

Daniel's voice was cold. "Temporarily."

She leaned closer. "You know, the rectory at St. Mary's is vacant..."

"I'm fine where I am."

Her lips pressed tighter. "Well. If you need anything appropriate..."

I smirked. "Do not worry, Margaret. He sleeps with a Bible between us."

Her gasp followed us down the street.

Daniel exhaled sharply. "That was not necessary."

"Neither was her face, yet here we are."

He said nothing. Just a quiet, "Thank you."

"For what?" I asked.

"Not asking about last night."

I blinked. Morning softened his edges. Flecks of gold caught in his dark eyes. I shrugged. "Not my business."

Long silence.

Then he said quietly, almost missed it. "It is not you. The distance. It is..."

"Vows," I finished.

His jaw tightened. "Yes."

I nodded, needing space. "Well. See you at home, Father."

I did not look back.

The bar had been packed all day. Storm repairs kept the fishermen at the shore the entire day. My feet ached so badly and my lower back screamed from doing the repairs around the bar. All I wanted was a hot shower and twelve hours of peace.

I shoved open the front door to my house, kicking off my shoes with a groan. I'll definitely have to call Mags to send me some ointments as mine got finished and I haven't even restocked yet. The living room was dark except for the blue glow of the TV. Some old black-and-white movie played silently. Who the hell watches black and white in this century?

Daniel sat on the couch. A book rested in his hands. Reading glasses perched on his nose. Typical priest.

Father Daniel wears glasses. Something about that small detail felt strangely intimate. I wonder who else has seen him in one.

"You're still up," I said.

He did not look up. "You are late."

"Yeah, genius. I had a long shift." I dropped my bag on the table. "Were you waiting up to tuck me in?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. Just once. "The door was unlocked."

"Ah. So you are my security system now?"

He finally looked up. "Someone needs to be."

The words should have annoyed me. Instead, they sent an unwelcome warmth through my chest. I moved toward the kitchen. I deliberately stepped between him and the TV. "Hungry? I could..."

My foot caught the edge of the coffee table. I pitched forward with a yelp. My hands slammed into Daniel's chest.

Time stopped.

His body was warm under my palms, solid. I could feel his heartbeat, steady and slow, beneath my fingertips. The scent of soap, something clean and woodsy, filled my nose. A priest who wears glasses and woodsy perfume. Well, waddyu know.

We both froze.

Then his hands closed around my wrists, warm and pulling me upright with careful precision. "You are exhausted."

I jerked back. "I am fine." I hated when people touched me. It brought back memories I didn't want. Something I didn't ask for. Of Jared's hands pulling me towards the bed to tie me up even when I told him I didn't want to.

His glasses had slipped down his nose. Behind them, his eyes were darker than I had ever seen. "Go to bed, Elena."

He didn't have to tell me twice. I fled.

After my shower, I told myself I was not snooping. I had only gone to leave his laundry outside his door, just being polite.

The door was not fully closed. A sliver of light spilled into the hallway.

On his dresser, facing away like a secret, sat a small framed photo.

I should not have looked.

But the Elena who made good decisions had clocked out hours ago.

The photo showed a younger Daniel, maybe early twenties. He stood in front of a sprawling stone building. A church, but not like any I had seen. His hair was shorter. His face is smoother. But his eyes. His eyes were the same. That intensity. That stare.

"Find what you are looking for?"

I turned around slowly like a deer caught in headlights.

Daniel stood in the doorway. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable.

"Your door was open," I blurted.

"So you came in."

"I was bringing your laundry." I thrust the basket at him like evidence. "You left your socks in the dryer."

A beat passed. Then another.

He stepped forward and took the basket. "That is Mont-Saint-Michel."

"What?"

"The photo. It is Mont-Saint-Michel. In France."

I blinked. "You have been to France?"

"I studied there. Before I took my vows."

A hundred questions pressed my tongue. Why there? What did you study? Who took the photo? The set of his jaw warned me off.

I backed toward the door. "Right. Well. Goodnight, Father."

His voice stopped me. "Elena."

I turned.

He was not looking at me. His fingers traced the edge of the photo frame. "Thank you. For the laundry."

It was not what he wanted to say. I knew it. He knew it. But it was all we had.

The next morning, I woke to the smell of coffee again and something sweet. If I'm going to get breakfast for free every day made by someone else, I wouldn't mind that.

Daniel stood at the stove again. This time, he slid a perfect omelet onto a plate. Morning light caught the silver in his stubble and the flex of his forearm as he cooked.

I pulled the chair towards me and sat down. "You know most priests just pray for their meals, right?"

"Most priests do not live with heathens."

I choked on my coffee. Did he just? A joke. Father Daniel had made a joke.

I stared at him. "Was that humor? Did you just crack a smile?"

He did not look up. "Eat your eggs."

I took a bite. "Holy shit, these are good."

"Language."

"Make me."

The second the words left my mouth, I regretted them. The air between us went electric.

Daniel went very still. Carefully, he set down his spatula. "I will be at the church all day."

"Great." My voice came out strangled. "Me too. At the bar. Serving alcohol. And sin."

He paused at the door. "Try not to burn the house down."

Then he was gone.

Lunch at the bar was chaos. Storm damage had kept everyone ashore. Maggie cornered me. "So. How is living with the priest?"

I scrubbed a glass harder than necessary. "Like sharing a house with a brick wall."

"A hot brick wall," she corrected, grinning.

I did not argue.

She leaned closer. "Rumor is Mrs. Henderson called the diocese about you two."

I nearly dropped the glass. "What?"

"Apparently it is unseemly for a priest to live with a woman of questionable morals." She air-quoted the last part.

I snorted. "Tell Margaret if she wants my questionable morals, she is welcome to them."

"Already did." Maggie wiped down the counter. "So? Anything juicy to report?"

His hands on my wrists. The way his heartbeat felt beneath my palms.

"Not a damn thing."

I tried to focus on work. Every time the door opened, my stomach jumped. Every shadow in the corner of the bar made me think he had returned.

I could not stop remembering the way his body had felt. Warm. Solid. Controlled.

I could not stop remembering the photo. The youth he had carried before the vows. The life he had left behind.

I could not stop thinking about how close he had been, how careful, how human.

By the time the last customer left, I was exhausted, but my mind refused to rest.

Three weeks. Three weeks of this. Living under the same roof. I felt a mix of anticipation, dread, and something else. Something I could not name.

I poured myself a drink, trying to focus. Outside, the storm had passed, leaving the streets wet and shining in the late afternoon sun.

And somewhere in the house, Daniel moved quietly. The sound of his footsteps reminded me that nothing would be simple, nothing would be quiet, and nothing would be safe for my heart.