Under Candlelight

If anyone had told me I would spend an entire evening thinking about the way a priest holds a wine glass, I would have laughed in their face.

Yet there I was.

The parish hall glowed with light from hanging lanterns and tall white candles arranged along the walls. The long tables were dressed in cream table cloth, plates of nicely prepared vegetables and cakes were arranged across them. The scent of grilled turkey, Avocado oil, and red wine filled the air.

It was a welcome dinner.

For him.

My mother made sure I put on something “respectful but elegant.” I chose a girly ivory dress that fell below my knees, it has a modest neckline and fitted enough that I had to remind myself to breathe properly. I told myself I dressed this way for the occasion.

Not for him.

The hall boomed with excitement. Parishioners laughed too loudly. Older women adjusted their dresses. Young girls whispeing behind their hands, Something made me so sure they were talking about Matteo.

Everyone wanted a closer look at Father Matteo Romano.

He stood near the head table beside Father Lorenzo, composed with a slight smile. Black clerical shirt. Roman collar. Sleeves buttoned neatly at the wrist. He wasn’t smiling widely. He didn’t need to. His presence alone warmed the room.

And when he finally laughed at something Father Lorenzo said, low and controlled, I felt it somewhere dangerous in my stomach.

“Elena.”

I turned quickly. My father stood beside me, proud as ever. “You look beautiful tonight,” he said, squeezing my shoulder. “Stand straight. You represent this family.”

Of course I did.

I always did.

We moved toward the center table where Father Matteo was greeting benefactors and committee members. I could feel my palm sweaty as we approached him. I told myself to relax. This was public. Harmless. Safe.

When we reached him, he was shaking hands with Mrs. Bellini, who was leaning slightly too close.

My father's presence disrupted Mrs.Bellini and she excused us immediately.

Matteo looked up.

And for a second, everything around us dimmed.

“Elena,” he said smoothly.

Just my name.

But softer this time.

My father beamed. “Father Matteo, we are honored to have you serving here. Our family has always supported this parish, and we look forward to assisting in any way necessary.”

“I am grateful, Mr. Moretti,” Matteo replied respectfully. His tone was calm, polished and perfect.

He was flawless.

That annoyed me.

My mother leaned forward next, offering compliments about his sermon. He responded with gratitude, humility, and just the right amount of warmth.

But his eyes kept returning to me.

Not openly.

Not long enough for anyone to notice.

But enough.

“How was Paris?” I asked before I could stop myself.

Three heads turned toward me.

My mother’s brows lifted slightly.

I wished I could take those words back but it's already out, betraying my composure.

Matteo’s expression did not change, but something sparked in his eyes.

“It was formative,” he replied. “And demanding.”

“Did you ever consider staying?” I asked.

There it was again. That silence. That pause that felt heavier than the question deserved.

“I was called back,” he said.

Called.

The word lingered.

“Rome suits you,” I murmured before I could filter it.

My father chuckled. “Our Elena has always loved this parish.”

“I can see that,” Matteo replied.

A strange silence kicked in among us

And then someone else interrupted.

A younger woman from the choir committee slid beside him, laughing lightly as she asked about organizing a youth retreat. She touched his arm softly as she spoke.

Softly

Innocent.

Normal.

My chest tightened anyway.

Why did that bother me?

I turned away, suddenly interested in rearranging cutlery that did not need rearranging.

“Elena,” my mother called in a low tone. “Smile.”

I forced one.

Across the room, Matteo was speaking with the choir woman again. Calm. Engaged. His attention appeared fully on her.

But then,

His jaw tightened.

Almost invisible.

And I realized something.

He wasn’t comfortable.

The choir woman leaned closer again. He stepped back in a pace.

Relief washed over me before I could stop it.

Ridiculous.

The evening continued with speeches. Father Lorenzo praised Matteo’s dedication. Applause echoed through the hall.

Then Matteo stood to speak.

The hall went silent immediately.

He held the edge of the table lightly, posture straight, voice calm and audible.

“I am honored to return to Trastevere,” he began. “This parish shaped me. The streets outside, the bells above us… they remind us that faith is not only practiced inside walls, but lived daily.”

His voice carried easily.

Controlled.

Strong.

“But returning,” he continued, “is rarely simple. Familiar places change. Familiar faces grow. And sometimes… what we left behind is not what we find when we come back.”

My breath knotted.

His eyes lifted.

And landed on me.

Not obviously.

Not dramatically.

But undeniably.

“Growth,” he said calmly, “is not always comfortable. But it is necessary.”

Applause followed.

I barely heard it.

Was I imagining this?

Was he speaking generally?

No....no

Don’t be foolish Elena"

After the speech, dinner resumed. Wine flowed. Conversations deepened.

At one point, I went outside the hall for air.

The night in Trastevere was cooler, quieter, candlelight flickered through the hall windows behind me.

“You left early.”

I froze.

His voice.

Behind me.

I didn’t turn immediately. I needed a second to compose myself.

“It was warm inside,” I said lightly.

Footsteps approached but stopped at a careful distance.

“You seem distracted tonight,” he observed.

I turned slowly.

“And you seem observant.”

A faint smile touched his lips.

“It is part of my duty.”

“And what exactly have you observed?” I asked, heart thudding.

His stare softened slightly.

“That you are not as composed as you pretend to be.”

Heat rushed to my face.

“I don’t pretend,” I replied quickly.

“No?” His head tilted slightly. “Then why do you avoid looking at me for more than three seconds?”

I inhaled sharply.

“I do not.”

“You do.”

Silence stretched between us.

The hall door opened briefly behind him. Laughter spilled out before closing again.

Public.

Always public.

“Father,” I said carefully, “you should return inside.”

“And you?” he asked quietly.

“I will follow.”

He studied me for a moment longer.

“I am trying,” he said suddenly.

My heart stumbled. “Trying?”

“To behave appropriately.”

The honesty in his voice startled me.

“I have given you no reason not to,” I whispered.

“You exist,” he replied.

The words hit harder than they should have.

Footsteps approached from inside the hall again.

He adjusted immediately. Composure snapping back into place like armor.

“Goodnight, Elena,” he said formally.

And just like that, he walked back inside.

Leaving me alone.

Trying to understand why his restraint felt more intimate than any touch could have been.

And why, for the first time in my life, I fell like I needed a super power to unfeel everything I'm feeling.