A question I shouldn't ask

The next morning, I woke up with a slight neck pain. I stretched on my bed then turned on my side, hugging my pillow, staring at the pale light creeping through my curtains. My mind replayed yesterday in pieces. The way he said my name. The way he didn’t blink. The way his fingers held the rosary before I took it from him.

His fingers.

Why did I notice his fingerrrrrs!!!!?

I pressed the pillow over my face and groaned quietly.

“This is crazy, Elena,” I muttered to myself.

But was it?

I had known Matteo Romano before he left for Paris. Not closely. Not personally. But Rome is not as large as it pretends to be. Especially not Trastevere. He was older. Quieter. Already serious even as a young man. The type who walked with purpose while the rest of us laughed too loudly in the piazza.

Back then, he was simply Matteo.

Now, he is Father Matteo.

And somehow that made him more dangerous.

I sat up abruptly. If I stayed in bed any longer, my imagination would wander into places it shouldn’t. I glanced at the rosary resting on my bedside table. I had placed it there carefully last night, as if it is fragile.

Like it is sacred.

As if it were something else entirely.

I picked it up.

The beads were smooth and cool against my skin. My thumb traced over the crucifix slowly. Too slowly. I remembered the warmth of his hand when he passed it to me. The brief brush of skin.

It couldn’t have meant anything.

It probably didn’t.

But why did it feel like it did?

I exhaled sharply and stood up. Today was one of the days I usually helped at the parish, arranging hymnals, dusting the side chapel, making sure everything looked orderly before evening prayers.

Would I still go?

I don't want to answer this question.

If I didn’t go, my mother would notice immediately. If I did go… I would see him again.

My stomach tightened at the thought.

By late afternoon, I found myself walking toward the church.

Of course I went.

The streets were calmer than Sunday, but the parish doors were open. I stepped inside, inhaling the familiar scent of incense and polished wood.

Safe.

Sacred.

Predictable.

I am convincing myself yesterday had been an exaggeration of my own imagination.

Until I saw him.

He was near the altar, speaking quietly with one of the altar servers. His sleeves were slightly rolled back, revealing strong forearms as he adjusted something on the lectern. He looked less ceremonial today. Less distant.

More human I'd say.

My breath started racing before I could control it.

He looked up.

And he saw me.

There was no confusion in his expression. No delay. His awareness was obvious as his gaze found mine as if he had been expecting me.

“Elena.”

Just my name.

But the way he said it ignited the same feeling it did yesterday at mass. It was steady, assured and made me swallow hard.

“Good afternoon, Father,” I replied, forcing my voice into something respectable.

The altar server excused himself, leaving us in a silence that felt far too intimate for a church in daylight.

“You help here on weekdays?,” he asked, stepping down from the altar.

“Yes", I replied almost immediately.

“Oh I remember.”

Of course he remembers, how my parents like to keep their status and service in church which I am not left out as a Moretti.

I thought bitterly. Everyone remembers the Morettis.

But something in the way he said it didn’t sound political. It sounded… personal.

I moved toward the pews, gathering stray hymnals to avoid standing still under his gaze.

“You’ve grown,” he said casually.

My hands froze.

“I beg your pardon?”

He stepped closer, though still keeping a respectful distance. “The last time I truly noticed you, you were… younger.”

My heart began pounding again.

I smiled and didn't utter a word

silence echoed between us.

I forced myself to look up at him fully. “Why did you come back?”

The question slipped out before I could stop it.

He observed me carefully, as if weighing how much to reveal.

“This is home,” he said finally. “And some callings… pull you back whether you resist or not.”

His tone was layered. Too layered.

“Did you resist?” I asked quietly.

I shouldn’t have asked that.

That was not a parishioner’s question.

His jaw tightened in a serious way.

“Some things,” he replied, “are not meant to be discussed lightly.”

“Forgive me. That was inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate?” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Or honest?”

My palms became sweaty.

Why was he doing this?

Why wasn’t he shutting this down?

“I don’t want to disrespect you,” I said, almost ashamed of myself.

“You haven’t,” he replied, taking another step closer.

Not enough to scandalize.

Enough to disturb.

I became painfully aware of the space between us. Of the way my breathing had changed. Of how my fingers were gripping the edge of the pew.

"I appreciate how dedicated you and your family are in church, it's really encouraging"

Did he say that to change the topic or just to neutralize the obvious tension?

I kept mute and he didn't say another word and the tension grew wilder.

But before I could say anything else, the heavy wooden doors at the back of the church creaked open. Voices echoed faintly.

The spell broke.

He stepped back immediately, composure sliding over him like armor.

“Focus on your work, Elena,” he said calmly, as if nothing had happened.

As if the air hadn’t just shifted.

As if my entire world hadn’t paused.

“Yes, Father,” I replied automatically.

But my hands were shaking as I gathered the remaining hymnals.

Because I knew.

This was no longer harmless curiosity.

And if he truly felt even a fraction of what I felt...

Then this was going to be far deeper than I ever intended.