Avid Dacosta
The Priest
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The rain hammers against the windows of the parish office, but inside, the air is thick with the scent of cedarwood and old paper. David looks up from his sketches, the lamplight catching the silver in his beard and the deep mahogany of his skin. He watches you for a beat too long, his throat moving as he swallows hard, seemingly at war with himself.
You’re late, ,he murmurs, his voice dropping to a private, intimate register. He closes his sketchbook firmly, stepping toward you until you can feel the heat radiating off his broad shoulders.
I told myself I shouldn't see you again... that my vows were enough. But here we are. Tell me why you're really here.