Between Mercy and Fire

The skies opened up that morning with a suddenness that rattled the tin roof. Rain poured like judgment, relentless and echoing against the world. Isabella stood by the window, arms wrapped around herself, watching the water run in streams down the glass. It was a kind of cleansing, she thought, a baptism of the earth. But it also reminded her of all the things she and Auther still hadn’t spoken about.

Auther emerged from the small room they shared, barefoot, hair tousled and damp from sleep. He paused, seeing her silhouette against the window, and came up behind her, gently wrapping his arms around her waist.

"You okay?" he whispered.

She nodded, resting her head on his chest. "Just thinking."

He didn’t press her. He knew that tone—soft, distant, the kind that said she was sorting through emotions too tangled to voice yet.

The quiet moment was broken by a knock at the door. Not loud, but urgent. They exchanged glances. Visitors were rare, especially in the middle of a downpour.

Auther opened the door to find a drenched figure standing there, cloaked and trembling. A woman. Her hair clung to her face in soaked curls, and her eyes—familiar yet aged—met his with raw desperation.

"Catherine?" he breathed.

Isabella froze. Catherine. The name cracked through her like lightning.

Catherine was the woman from Auther’s past, the name that had surfaced only once, whispered in half-formed confessions. A name associated with shame, heartbreak, and a mistake that nearly cost him everything.

"I need your help," Catherine said, voice shaky. "Please, Auther. I didn’t know where else to go."

He stepped aside instinctively, letting her in.

---

She shed her soaked cloak and accepted the towel Isabella handed her. The air inside the cottage tightened with unspoken things. Auther stood in the corner, arms folded, eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in caution.

"Why are you here, Catherine?" he asked.

She glanced at Isabella before answering. "Because I’m in trouble. And I thought if anyone would still care enough to listen… it’d be you."

Isabella excused herself to the kitchen, though she could still hear their voices. She busied herself with boiling water, trying not to let jealousy crawl up her spine. But it was there, lurking.

Catherine explained everything over tea. She had been involved with a group of church investors—people who promised to fund new parishes across the region. But things had gone wrong. Funds disappeared. People vanished. And now, someone had threatened her life.

"They said I knew too much," she whispered. "But I swear, Auther, I never meant to get involved in anything illegal. I thought I was helping."

He studied her face. "You always meant well, Catherine. But you never stopped to think where the road led."

She flinched at that. "I didn’t come here for judgment. I came for help."

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. "I’m not judging you. Just trying to figure out how deep this goes."

Isabella finally stepped back into the room. "You can stay the night," she said quietly. "But tomorrow, we need to find a solution."

Catherine nodded, tears brimming. "Thank you. Both of you."

---

That night, Isabella lay awake long after Auther had fallen asleep. Catherine was asleep in the other room, but her presence lingered in the air like incense from an old altar. Bitter and sweet.

Isabella stared at the ceiling, replaying the woman’s words, her eyes, the way Auther’s voice softened when he said her name. She trusted him—God, she wanted to trust him. But she was also human.

She got out of bed and went to the living room where the Bible still lay open from the day before. She sat by the candle and whispered a prayer.

"Lord, if this is a test, let me pass it. Let me love him without fear. Let me be strong without becoming hard. Let me not be afraid of the woman he used to know."

When she returned to bed, she found Auther awake, watching her with quiet eyes.

"You think I’ll leave you for her?" he asked softly.

She froze. "I didn’t say that."

"You didn’t have to."

A long silence. Then she climbed into bed, curling beside him. "I just needed to remember who I am. That’s all."

He kissed the top of her head. "You’re mine. That’s who you are."

---

The next day brought more than just rain. It brought fire.

Auther took Catherine into town to speak with an old priest he trusted, Father Marcus—a man known for helping people disappear when their lives were at risk. While they were gone, Isabella stayed behind to tend the cottage.

That’s when the knock came.

But it wasn’t a knock. It was a crash.

The window shattered, and a bottle—lit with flame—soared through the air. It hit the floor and exploded in fire. Isabella screamed, grabbing a blanket to smother the flames, heart thudding. Smoke rose fast, thick and suffocating.

Neighbors came running. Someone called the fire department. By the time Auther returned, the front half of the cottage was scorched black.

Isabella sat outside, wrapped in a neighbor’s coat, coughing.

He dropped beside her. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head. "Someone sent a message. Catherine’s past followed her here."

His jaw clenched. Catherine stood nearby, shaking, guilt all over her face. "I didn’t know they’d find me. I didn’t think—"

"You never do," Auther snapped. Then softer, "But this isn’t just about you anymore."

---

They moved into a temporary place—a one room shelter offered by Father Michael.

The next week unfolded like the soft bloom of spring after a harsh winter—tentative, beautiful, unsure. The mornings began with sunlight creeping through the muslin curtains of the cottage, casting gold on the floorboards where Isabella would often sit cross-legged, sipping tea while journaling her thoughts in the battered leather book she’d kept since university. Auther, freshly shaved and buttoned in one of his three clean shirts, left for the bookstore at eight on the dot every morning, kissed her forehead, and whispered, “Pray for me.”

And she always did.

The days had become structured in a way that neither felt like obligation nor performance. He worked among books and people who didn’t need him to preach, just to listen. She painted when inspiration hit, tended to the small herb garden growing behind the cottage, and occasionally met with Mrs. Alvarez—an older widow living close by who’d taken a special liking to her—for tea and warmth.

But beneath the slow, sacred rhythm of their new lives pulsed an unspoken truth—love had already arrived, fierce and full-bodied, and now waited patiently for permission to break free.

It happened on a Tuesday.

The day had started as any other. Autumn’s breath was in the wind, and the clouds hung low like secrets ready to spill. Auther returned home, cheeks pink from the cold, holding a second-hand scarf he’d found for Isabella—ivory, soft, and still faintly smelling of lavender.

“For you,” he said, holding it out awkwardly.

She blinked, smiling. “You got me something?”

“Something warm,” he said.

Isabella took the scarf, ran it through her fingers, then stepped forward and draped it around her neck.

“You’re sweet,” she said.

“I’m trying.”

“You’re succeeding.”

They were standing close. Too close for the usual unspoken boundaries they’d drawn since reuniting. And neither moved.

“I missed you today,” she said.

He swallowed. “I missed you every second.”

And then, the moment happened.

Not forced. Not dramatized. Just two souls drawn together by a gravity no doctrine could explain. He leaned in, forehead resting against hers, breath trembling.

“Is it wrong,” he whispered, “that I want to kiss you?”

She tilted her head, their noses brushing. “If it is, then let’s both be wrong together.”

Their lips met—softly, reverently, like a prayer uttered after years of silence.

It was the first flame.

---

That kiss didn’t undo the pain they’d known, nor the judgment still looming like storm clouds on the edge of their world. But it lit a fire in the hearth of their hearts. One that crackled through every look, every touch, every word spoken in the quiet intimacy of their shared life.

After that, they stopped pretending. He no longer kissed her forehead like a friend; he kissed her lips like a man who had nearly lost everything but was finally brave enough to hold on. She no longer hid her smiles or tried to silence her heart’s song.