CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 3

EZRA

I was watching a math tutorial for the third time and still not understanding a damn thing.

"If we differentiate the equation and isolate x—"

I paused the video.

"God, please just let me graduate," I muttered.

I slumped back against the headboard, laptop balanced on my thighs, notes spread across the bed like a battlefield. My phone buzzed beside me. I didn’t check it. I knew it wasn’t him.

Not that I wanted it to be.

Okay. I did.

I shouldn’t.

But I did.

I replayed his voice in my head. Calm. Deep. Controlled. That kind of voice wasn’t supposed to affect me. But it did. The way he looked at me after Mass like he was trying not to.

Or maybe I imagined that.

I dragged a hand through my curls and sat up straighter. I was 22, not 15. I needed to stop acting like a kid who’d never seen a man before.

Still…

His eyes were sharp. Cold. He didn’t smile like the other priests. He barely blinked. Like he was always calculating something. Like he didn’t have time for anything soft. Or maybe he didn’t want to.

My stomach fluttered.

Ugh. No. Absolutely not.

My phone buzzed again.

This time, it was the house line.

I winced.

“Ezra,” Genevieve’s voice floated through the intercom. “Come downstairs, please.”

I closed the laptop and shoved everything off the bed. “Coming!”

I moved fast. She hated waiting.

When I got to the dining room, she was already seated. Her posture was perfect, hands folded over a linen napkin, a single cup of tea untouched in front of her.

“You took your time,” she said without looking at me.

“Sorry,” I said quickly. “I was finishing a lecture.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Your final year should not be the year you slip, Ezra.”

“I’m not slipping.”

“You’ve always done well. Keep it that way. No excuses.”

I nodded. I didn’t sit until she gestured to the chair.

She looked me over. “How’s your coursework?”

“Okay. Some of the math is a lot but I’m catching up.”

“‘Okay’ doesn’t get you scholarships or recommendations.”

“I know.”

“You’re better than ‘okay.’ I’ve seen your GPA. Keep it where it belongs.”

“I will.”

She took a sip of her tea and set it down precisely. “And the choir?”

“What about it?”

“You sounded strained this morning.”

My eyes flicked up. “I wasn’t.”

“Ezra.”

I swallowed. “I was nervous. That’s all.”

She tilted her head. “We don’t train for nerves. We train for excellence.”

“I said I was fine.”

“You should consider taking private vocal lessons again. I’ll make arrangements.”

I hesitated. “I don’t think I need—”

“It’s not a request.”

My jaw clenched. “Yes, ma’am.”

She nodded like that settled it.

“Have you been exercising?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Be specific.”

“Running three times a week. Gym twice. Choir practice almost every evening.”

“Good. You’re maintaining your weight.”

“I’m not trying to—”

“You look healthier when you’re lean.”

I didn’t answer. She sipped her tea again.

“You need to control the way you stand on stage,” she added. “Your posture is collapsing when you hold long notes.”

“I’ll work on it.”

“See that you do. Presentation matters.”

I nodded.

“Go wash the dishes. Then get back to your studies. I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”

I stood. “Okay.”

“And Ezra?”

I paused. “Yes?”

She looked at me sharply. “Stop slouching.”

I straightened immediately. “Yes, ma’am.”

I walked to the kitchen, ran the water, and started scrubbing the plates.

My head was still full of equations and notes and pressure and his voice.

God help me, I was trying.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about Father Dorian Vale.

And I didn’t know if that made me sick or just human.

Dinner was quiet. Genevieve always made it feel like an interview.

She sat at the head of the table with her back straight and her eyes sharp. Her plate was always neater than mine. She ate slowly, precisely, like she was judging every bite I took.

"You're not drinking your juice," she said.

"I'm not really thirsty," I replied.

"It has vitamin C. You're pale again."

I picked up the glass and drank.

She watched me like that proved a point.

The clink of forks and knives filled the silence. She didn’t like music during meals. Said it distracted the mind.

"You’re going back to school on Monday," she said.

"Yeah."

"You’ll wear the blue shirt. The ironed one in your second drawer. And tuck it in properly this time."

"Okay."

She gave me a long look. "Okay is not a confirmation."

"Yes, ma’am."

More silence.

She didn’t ask about my classes again. Didn’t ask if I was tired. She rarely did. She only asked things that could be measured. GPA. Posture. Weight.

When we finished, she stood. I started gathering the dishes.

"Don’t forget to wipe the counters," she said.

"I won’t."

"And the floor around the bin. I saw crumbs yesterday."

I nodded again. "Okay."

She gave me one final look before leaving the dining room. Her heels tapped down the hall like a metronome.

When I was done, I turned off the lights, headed upstairs, and shut the door behind me.

My bed was still messy from earlier. I didn’t care. I dropped into it, pulled the covers up to my chin, and stared at the ceiling.

Sleep wasn’t coming.

I turned to my side. Then my back. Then my stomach. Nothing worked.

I thought about his hands.

God, that was so stupid.

But I couldn’t stop.

Big hands. The kind that didn’t belong to someone gentle. I saw the veins in his forearms when he moved the mic. I saw ink peeking from under his sleeve. Just the edge of something. It was careful. Clean.

Not flashy. Just hidden enough to make you wonder.

I bit my lip and flipped onto my back.

My body felt hot.

I reached for my laptop. Opened a tab. Typed “p—” and the suggestion filled in.

I hesitated.

Then clicked.

The page loaded. Loud moaning filled my speakers. I panicked and slammed the volume down.

“Jesus—”

I waited a beat.

No footsteps. No knock. Nothing.

I turned the volume down more and scrolled.

Two men. One tall, one smaller. The big one grabbed his hips. Fucked him hard. The smaller one moaned so loudly I felt it in my throat.

I watched.

My hand slipped lower.

No. Stop. Just watch.

But it was getting worse.

I started imagining things. His voice in my ear. His hands on my hips. His body pressed to mine.

“Stop it,” I whispered.

I slammed the laptop shut.

My cheeks burned.

I didn’t touch myself. I couldn’t.

It would feel too real. Too close.

I curled under the blanket and stared at the wall.

My heart beat too fast.

I knew what I was.

I liked men.

But I had never done anything. Never kissed. Never touched. Never let anyone see me like that.

Now I was imagining a priest.

I pulled the covers over my head and squeezed my eyes shut.

“Stop,” I whispered again.

But sleep didn’t come for a long time.