"Blind Faith" | part i
Priest!Joel Miller x nightclub dancer!reader
masterlist | next chapter
summary: Running away from your home, you found a small town to stay. Once there, you met people and the priest, Joel.
wc: 5,2 k
warnings: age gap (Joel is in his late 40s, reader in her late 20s), religious conflict, a crisis of faith, temptation, forbidden attraction, forbidden romance, eventual smut, social expectations, nightlife themes, the contrast between joel's and your world, protests, mentions of exile, mention of politics. For clarification, reader is Latina on this one.
a/n: Hello. I wanted this story to be something beyond a forbidden romance between two people, after reading books and watching things I wanted to recall that reader's background comes from her being an activist. I want to approach all the topics with all due respect and I hope you do too, nevertheless, those are not going to be the main center of the story.
Happy reading and please tell me what are your thoughts about this one.
You had built a life most people only dreamed of. A life filled with passion, purpose, and the kind of joy that comes from doing what you love. You were surrounded by friends who understood you, a family you cherished with every fiber of your being, and a career that made waking up every morning feel like stepping into a dream.
You had studied dance at university, dedicating years to perfecting your craft until movement became your language, your art, your very identity. But you didn’t see yourself just as an artist, you were educated. You had spent your life asking questions, seeking answers, and standing for what was right. Politics fascinated you, not as a distant game played by men in suits, but as something alive, something that shaped the world around you. You were drawn to justice, to fairness, to the fight for those whose voices were drowned out by oppression.
Protests became as much a part of your life as well as performances. You had stood in the streets, chanting until your voice was hoarse, raising signs, raising awareness, raising hell when it was necessary. You believed in change, in the power of people united. But belief alone was never enough to stop what came next.
The illusion of safety shattered the moment power fell into the wrong hands. The men who took control of your country did not tolerate opposition. They did not welcome free thought or voices that questioned their authority. People like you, the educated, the artists, the teachers, all who had seek justice, were dangerous but because you couldn’t be controlled. Because you saw through their lies.
You remember the night your world collapsed. The hurried whispers in the dark. The fear in your mother’s eyes. The way your brother’s hands shook as he cut your hair, disguising you in a desperate attempt to buy you time.
He drove you to the airport as your heart pounded, then, you boarded that plane, leaving behind everything you had ever known. Your home. Your family. The life you had built.
And that is why you ended up here, in a bus driving to a foreign city located in California. The bus rattled as it rolled into town, the low hum of the engine filling the silence of the nearly empty cabin. You sat near the window, watching the Californian sun stretch across the dry fields, golden and endless, nothing like the dense, humid air of home.
Home.
The word sat heavy in your chest, a place you could no longer name without feeling the weight of exile pressing against your ribs.
This town was small, quieter than you expected, but that was good. You needed a quiet, a place to disappear, to become no one, to not be recognized. You stepped off the bus with only a battered leather suitcase and a name written on a slip of paper.
The paradise, a nightclub where a friend of a friend had said you might find work.
You pulled your coat tighter around you, though the air was warm. You must have learned to move carefully, to keep your eyes down, to not be recognized. But you couldn't help glancing up at the church as you stepped off the bus.
That’s when you saw him.
He was standing on the steps, speaking to a woman holding a little baby in her arms. There was, a priest, dressed in black, with tired eyes and a kindness in the way he bent his head to listen. He looked up, meeting your gaze for the first, just for a fleeting second. Then, his gaze left your eyes, leaving you with a weird feeling, warmth rising up to your cheeks.
You pulled the slip of paper from your pocket, staring at the name scrawled in fading ink staring at the name scrawled in fading ink. The paradise.
When you lifted your gaze again, the priest wasn't there anymore.
You sighed and adjusted the trap of your suitcase over your shoulder, feeling anxious creeping upon your skin as you try to picture your life in a foreign place.
You looked towards the church in the front of the street, where the priest had stood minutes before, perhaps trying to look and answer to your questions. You weren't a religious person, but you did believe in calls, and you felt the pulling thread forcing you to walk towards the church, as if something were calling you, perhaps someone.
Your feet found their way to the old church at the edge of town, its stone walls worn and cracked from years of standing against the wind. It loomed tall and hollow, the kind of place that had seen more sorrow than joy. You hesitated at the entrance, your heart beating faster than you liked.
Why am I even here? you thought. But the pull wouldn’t let you turn away.
You stepped inside.
The stained glass cast soft, fractured colors onto the worn wooden pews, painting the empty space in hues of crimson, gold, and deep blue. The scent of burning wax and old books filled your senses, grounding you in a place that felt both foreign and strangely familiar.
Your footsteps echoed as you moved deeper inside, the vast silence of the church swallowing every sound. You weren’t sure what you were looking for, an answer, a sign, something to tell you that coming here wasn’t a mistake.
The priest where nowhere to be found, so you took seat in one of the wooden benches, perhaps waiting, perhaps resting.
You got yourself comfortable, the sleep catching upon you. Your body felt heavy, exhaustion creeping into your bones the moment you allowed yourself to rest. The weight of the suitcase by your side, the long journey that had brought you here, it all pressed down on you at once. The church, with its quiet stillness, felt like the safest place you’d been in weeks.
That was where Joel Miller found you.
On a quiet evening when the chapel was empty, save for the flickering candlelight and the faint scent of incense clinging to the air. You were curled up on one of the wooden pews, arms folded beneath your head, chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep.
He cleared his throat, but you didn’t stir. He hesitated before reaching out, tapping your shoulder. “Miss?” His voice came softer than he expected. “You can’t sleep here.”
"Father, do you always wake up strangers like this?"
Your voice was thick with sleep, eyes blinking against the dim glow of the chapel’s candlelight. The air smelled of old wood, wax, and something faintly metallic, like rain on stone. You looked young like this, your face soft, but Joel knew better. You shouldn't be older than thirty.
"You can’t sleep here," he repeated.
You smirked, rubbing your eyes. "Didn’t know God kicked people out."
Joel exhaled sharply. The world outside was changing, rock ‘n’ roll, free love, protests, women in miniskirts. But in this town, in this chapel, things were supposed to stay the same.
This town hadn’t met those changes.
Joel stood over you, stiff-backed, his fingers still hovering near your shoulder from where he’d tapped you awake. He shouldn’t have noticed the way your legs stretched across the pew, the way your blouse, too low-cut for a place like this, shifted as you moved, leaving no place to imagination.
Joel exhaled sharply. Lord, give me patience.
"This isn’t a shelter," he said. "If you need a place—"
"I'm not homeless" Your tone was firm and final, as if you were done, but there was something else in your voice too, something he couldn’t quite place, but it hinted sadness. "I just got into town," you admitted after a beat, glancing toward the stained-glass windows, dark now with the night. "Didn’t know where else to go. At least not tonight."
Joel studied you, his chest tightening."Are you in trouble?"
A small, humorless laugh left you. "Depends on what you call trouble."
Silence filled the chapel, thick and unmoving. The rain had stopped, leaving only the distant hum of the highway beyond the hills.
"You shouldn’t be here," he said finally. But his voice had lost its authority, had softened just enough that he felt the weight of it settle in his own bones.
“Why?” You asked
Joel exhaled slowly, shifting on his feet. He looked down at you, his expression unreadable, but there was something in the way his jaw tensed, something he was holding back.
"You can’t stay here," he said again, voice firm but not unkind.
You sat up properly this time, stretching your legs out in front of you, your boots scraping against the floor. His eyes flicked to them, brief, barely noticeable, you caught it, but you chose not to say anything.
"Didn’t mean to cause a problem," you said, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.
"You’re not a problem," he said, then hesitated. "But this isn’t a place for…"
You arched a brow. “For what? For a woman like me?”
For someone wearing boots and a blouse that clung a little too tight, a skirt that rode too high when you stretched out.
He didn’t utter that the sentence. Instead, he sighed, raking a hand through his hair.
"Where you planning on staying tonight?" he asked.
You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Haven’t figured that part out yet."
Joel frowned. "You got family here?"
"No father, I don’t."
"Friends?"
"No."
His gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through it. So, you’re alone.
You weren’t sure if that unsettled him or if it was something else.
He shifted again, exhaling through his nose like he was about to say something he’d regret.
"There’s a place near the church," he finally said. "A small guesthouse. Church used to use it for traveling pastors, but it’s empty now. You can stay there tonight."
You studied him. "Why?"
His brow furrowed. "What do you mean, why?"
"I mean, why help me? You don’t know me."
Joel was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. "That doesn’t mean I should turn you away."
You held his gaze, searching for something in it—hesitation, reluctance. But there was only conviction.
And yet you could feel something else there, buried beneath all that righteousness behind his clothes.
Something you hadn’t named yet.
"Alright, Father," you said finally, standing up. "Lead the way."
He hesitated, just for a second. Then, he turned, stepping toward the chapel doors, and you followed.
Back at his house behind the church, Joel lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. The wooden beams above cast long shadows in the dim glow of the lamp beside his bed. He should’ve been sleeping, his body was tired enough for I, but his mind refused to settle. It was noisier than ever.
His thoughts kept drifting back to something else, to you. To the way you’d looked at him when you stood up from that pew, like you already knew he wasn’t as correct as he pretended to be.
To your voice, husky with sleep, the way you stretched without a care in the world. To your legs.
Joel shut his eyes. Lord, give me strength.
It had been a passing glance, barely a flicker of a thought, but now it gnawed at him.
He had seen a lot of things in his years as a priest. A lot of people in need, a lot of wandering souls. But he wasn’t blind. He could recognize beauty when it was right in front of him. And tonight, for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t just his faith speaking.
It was something else. It felt dangerous.
He turned onto his side, sighing through his nose. This was just another test. He’d seen men struggle with temptation, had guided them through it. This was no different.
You were just a woman in need. That’s all. That’s all.
And yet, sleep never came easy that night.
The early sun cast long golden beams through the chapel windows as Joel made his way to the guesthouse. He carried a small plate of toast and eggs, as a gesture of hospitality. He thought about last night, on how he hadn’t offered food or a cup of tea.
He wanted to show kindness, but the second he stepped inside, he knew.
The bed was made, the blanket neatly folded. No sign of anyone.
And on the small wooden table by the window, a note.
Joel set the plate down and picked it up, his fingers tightening around the paper.
"Thank you for your help, Father."
That was it. No name, no explanation. Just a quiet departure, as if you’d never been there at all.
Joel exhaled slowly, staring at the empty room.
Something settled deep in his chest, something that felt too much like disappointment.
He was afraid of the fleeting feelings coming to him. Because last night, he’d told himself you were just passing through. But now, standing here, he wasn’t sure he believed it.
You were strong and brave enough this day. When you found yourself in the front of the paradise, the neon light flickered weakly in the daylight, music pulsed behind the doors, muffled but steady, a heartbeat beneath the night.
You inhale deeply, pushing the door behind.
The club smelled of sweat, perfume, and cigarette smoke. It wasn’t alive as you expected to be during the day, but there were men in tight pants, women in flowing skirts, people who existed somewhere in between, all shining under the low, colored lights of the place.
This wasn’t the kind of stage you were used to. But it was something.
Behind the bar, a broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed beard was pouring whiskey into a glass, his gold rings catching the light. He spotted you instantly, eyes narrowing slightly before softening.
“You must be the new girl,” he said, voice thick with an accent she couldn’t place.
You hesitated for a moment, but then you nodded.
The man wiped his hands on a towel, then leaned over the counter, studying you.
“You dance?” He asked.
You lifted your chin. “Yes.”
He smirked. “We’ll see about that.”
A warm hand touched your back.
Your turned to find a woman at your side, tall, dark-skinned, with a shimmering dress that clung to her curves. Her lipstick was deep red, her eyes lined in black.
“Come on, cariño,” the woman purred. “Let’s get you ready.”
You swallowed, but you followed her backstage.
Backstage was a blur of colors, perfume, and laughter. The other dancers moved around you effortlessly, adjusting their costumes, fixing their makeup, teasing each other in rapid-fire whispers. You stood still, taking it all in. People here were wild, free and beautiful, and you smiled at that.
The woman who had led you back, Carmen, handed you a black slip dress. It was simple, barely more than a tiny thing of fabric, with thin straps that draped off your shoulders.
“You need shoes?” Carmen asked, watching as you slipped it over your head.
You shook your head “I’ll dance barefoot.”
Carmen raised a perfectly sculpted brow but didn’t argue. “Suit yourself.”
The music outside shifted, growing louder. Your stomach tightened.
You had danced for crowds a thousand times before, but never like this. This wasn’t a stage with velvet curtains, with polished floors and orchestrated movements. This was something raw and new for you, something meant to be felt rather than admired.
You exhaled slowly.
You’ve already lost everything. What’s left to be afraid of?
A hand touched your shoulder. She turned to find Carmen smiling. “You’re up next, estrella.”
The lights were dim when you stepped onto the small, elevated platform.
The club wasn’t packed, but there were enough people to make the air thick with murmurs and expectation. A few heads turned, eyes gliding over you as you took your place.
You closed your eyes.
The music started, a slow, sultry rhythm, deep bass vibrating through your bones.
And then you moved. At first, it was instinct. The slow bend of your knees, the gentle sway of your hips. You let the music guide you, feeling it the way you once had in the studio, back when you were still the dancer, before you became the fugitive.
Your arms lifted, fluid and controlled, your body following in careful, deliberate motions.
And then you forgot to be careful. You turned, arching into a spin, the hem of your dress fluttering around your thighs. You let your feet move the way they had been trained to—pointed toes, precise steps, every motion a whisper of the ballerina you once were.
A gasp rippled through the crowd.
Someone murmured, “Mierda… she can dance.”
You barely heard them. For the first time in months, you felt like yourself again. Not a girl running, not a girl hiding, but a girl who had been born to dance.
You let yourself go. By the time the music ended, a hush had fallen over the club.
And then—applause. You stood there, breathing hard, your skin glowing under the soft red lights.
When you stepped down from the platform, Carmen was waiting, grinning.
“Dios mío,” she said, shaking her head. “Where the hell did you come from?”
You just smiled. You didn’t have an answer for that. But for the first time since you had arrived, you felt like you had found a piece of home to stay in.
The night air was warmer as you made your way back to the church, the scent of warm pastries wrapped in cloth filling your hands. The applause from the club still echoed in your ears, the feeling of movement still lingering in your limbs. You felt light. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt less lonely.
You paused at the entrance, looking up at the towering stone structure, its stained glass barely illuminated by the sunlight. The contrast was almost laughable.
The dancer and the priest. A contradiction in itself.
With a breath, you stepped inside.
He was there, seated at one of the pews, his back turned to you. His posture was stiff, as if he’d been deep in thought, or perhaps in prayer.
“Father.”
He turned sharply at your voice, his dark eyes immediately landing on you. For a moment, he said nothing, just studying you as if trying to figure out why you had come back.
You held up the bundle in your hands. “I brought you something.”
His gaze flickered to the wrapped pastries before settling back on your face. Slowly, he stood, walking toward you with careful, deliberate steps. When he got close, the faint scent of smoke and candle wax clung to him.
“You didn’t have to,” he muttered, but he still took them from you. His fingers brushed yours briefly, warm, rough, calloused. The hands of a man who had worked long before he had ever been a priest.
You shrugged. “It’s a thank-you. For helping me yesterday.”
He watched you for a beat before nodding. “Did you find a place to stay?”
“I did.”
He didn’t ask where. He just looked at you, waiting. Maybe he wanted to know. Maybe he already had an idea.
You weren’t going to tell him either. Instead, you smiled. “Don’t eat them all at once, Father.”
Joel’s eyes flickered down, lingering for a second longer than they should have. You noticed.
It was brief, so brief you might have convinced yourself you imagined it. But you didn’t. His gaze had traced over the curve of your waist, the way the fabric of your blouse rested against your skin, the gentle swell of your collarbones. The flicker of something unreadable in his expression disappeared just as quickly as it had come.
He cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “Do you—” He hesitated. “Would you like to talk?”
You raised a brow. “Talk?”
He nodded, tilting his head toward one of the wooden pews. “If you want.”
A small part of you wanted to tease him, ask if priests usually invited strange women to talk in dimly lit churches. But you swallowed the thought.
Instead, you sighed, walking past him and settling onto the worn wooden bench. You crossed one leg over the other, tapping your fingers idly on the surface. Joel sat beside you, close, but not too close.
The silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable.
“Is this the part where I have to confess my sins?” you asked, breaking the quiet.
Joel exhaled through his nose, almost like a quiet laugh. “Only if you want to.”
You studied him for a moment. The way his hands rested on his lap; fingers curled slightly as if he wasn’t quite at ease. The tension in his shoulders, the quiet restraint in his posture.
You tilted your head. “What about you, Father?”
His gaze lifted to meet yours.
“What do you believe in?” you asked.
Joel didn’t answer. His jaw clenched, something shifting in his expression. He looked away, staring at the rows of empty pews, at the altar beyond. Instead, he let out a slow breath, his fingers drumming idly against his knee. Then, without looking at you, he asked, “Why’d you come here?”
You blinked at him. “Here? To the church?”
He nodded. “Last night”
You considered lying. It would be easier. But something about the way he was looking at the altar, like it held answers he wasn’t sure he wanted, made you tell the truth.
“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I just… felt like I had to. Like, something just called me, you know?”
His gaze flicked to you then, studying, searching. “You’re not religious.” It wasn’t a question.
You smirked. “Is it that obvious?”
Joel didn’t return the smile. He just kept watching you, unreadable. “Then what are you looking for?”
That was a harder question. Peace? A sense of belonging? A place to rest? You weren’t sure.
You hesitated, then shrugged. “Something different. A fresh start.”
Joel hummed, thoughtful. He leaned back slightly, stretching his legs out in front of him. “And you think you’ll find that here?”
You sighed, tilting your head toward him. “What’s with the interrogation, Father? Trying to save my soul?”
This time, he did smile. Barely. Just a flicker of amusement in his expression. “I think your soul is doing just fine on its own.”
That shouldn’t have made your heart stutter the way it did.
Joel shifted, bracing his elbows on his knees. His voice was quieter when he spoke again. “You got people looking for you?”
Your breath caught. There it was. The question you’d been dreading.
You glanced away, suddenly very interested in the cracks in the wooden pew beneath you. “No,” you said eventually. “No one’s looking.”
Joel didn’t press. He just nodded slowly, like he had believed you.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The church was silent except for the occasional creak of wood settling, the distant sound of footsteps from somewhere outside.
Then Joel inhaled, shifting beside you. “You should be careful.”
You turned to him, frowning. “Why?”
His jaw tightened. He hesitated, then sighed. “This town—it’s small. People notice things.”
Your chest tightened, but you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral. “And what have they noticed about me?”
Joel didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to your hands resting in your lap, then back up to your face.
“Nothing,” he said finally. “Yet.”
The word lingered between you, heavier than the silence that followed.
“What about?” you asked, “What do you notice about me?”
Joel didn’t answer at first. He just looked at you, eyes unreadable, something working behind them, something you couldn’t quite place.
You held his gaze, waiting, heartbeat steady but slow.
Then, he exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly. “I noticed you don’t like talking about yourself.”
Your lips quirked. “Maybe I just don’t like talking to priests.”
That got the barest huff of amusement from him. “Could be.” His fingers tapped lightly against his knee before he added, “But I think it’s more than that.”
You arched a brow. “Oh?”
Joel nodded, his voice quieter when he spoke again. “I think you’ve been running from something”
That made your stomach tighten.
Your first instinct was to deny it, to smirk, roll your eyes, brush it off like he was just another man who thought he had you figured out. But Joel wasn’t just another man. And the way he was looking at you, like he could see past whatever mask you were wearing, made it harder to lie.
Your fingers curled slightly against your lap. “And what makes you think that?”
Joel leaned back slightly, stretching one arm along the pew. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “The way you don’t settle,” he said simply. “Not even when you’re sitting still.”
The words sent something sharp through your chest.
You swallowed, looking away, suddenly feeling too seen, too exposed. “Maybe I just don’t like these wooden benches.”
Joel hummed, like he wasn’t convinced. But he didn’t push, instead he smiled at you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The dim glow of candlelight flickered against the stone walls, casting long shadows across the empty church.
Then, finally, Joel shifted beside you. “Did you eat?”
The abrupt change caught you off guard. You blinked, glancing at him. “What?”
His expression was unreadable again, but his voice was casual when he repeated, “Did you eat?”
You frowned. “Why?”
Joel sighed, shaking his head. “Because if you haven’t, I got food in the back.”
You tilted your head, a small smirk playing at your lips. “Are you asking me if I want to eat these pastries with you, Father?”
Joel huffed, shaking his head as he glanced down at the bag of pastries still resting between you. “You brought them” he said gruffly. “Seems only fair.”
You pretended to consider it, tapping a finger against your knee. “Well, I supposed I must take you for a man who shares.”
He shot you a look, one that might’ve been stern if not for the flicker of something else in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or something deeper, something you weren’t ready to name.
“Don’t make me take it back,” he muttered.
You bit back a grin, shrugging as you reached for the bag. “Well, if you insist.”
Joel stood, nodding his head toward the back of the church. “Come on. I’m not going sit out here and eat in the dark like some kind of—” he gestured vaguely before shaking his head. “Just come on.”
You followed, the sound of your footsteps echoing against the stone floors. The air was warmer in the back rooms, less hollow than the empty church.
Joel pulled out a chair for you at a small wooden table, and you sat, watching as he grabbed a couple of plates and a knife.
“Tea?” he asked.
You arched a brow. “Didn’t take you for a tea drinker.”
Joel shot you another look. “Or coffee. Pick one.”
You hummed, pretending to consider. “Tea.”
He nodded, setting a teapot on the stove before sitting across from you. The candlelight flickered between you, soft and warm.
You broke off a piece of pastry, popping it into your mouth. “Not bad,” you admitted.
Joel took a bite himself, chewing slowly. Then, he glanced at you,
You weren’t looking at him, too focused on the pastry in your hands, the way the flaky crust crumbled against your fingers. But he was looking at you.
He hadn’t meant to, not like this, not for this long. But there was something about the way you sat there, elbows on the table, the candlelight casting soft golden hues over your skin. Something about the curve of your lips as you chewed thoughtfully, the way your lashes lowered when you focused.
You were different. A fresh breath in a town that had long gone stale, where faces blurred together, where days passed without change. But you—
You weren’t part of this place. Not yet. And maybe that was what drew him in.
His gaze flickered lower, just for a second. The delicate slope of your collarbones, the soft neckline of your blouse that dipped just enough to hint at what lay beneath. He swallowed, jaw tensing, and forced himself to look away, to focus on something else, the flickering candle, the steam rising from the kettle.
“You’re quiet,” you murmured, your voice pulling him back.
Joel cleared his throat. “Just thinking.”
You tilted your head, studying him now, those sharp eyes of yours peeling away layers he hadn’t realized were there. “About what?”
He could’ve lied. Could’ve told you something simple, something easy.
Instead, he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Nothing important.”
A small smile tugged at your lips. You didn’t push, just took another bite of pastry.
And Joel? Joel tried not to look at your lips when you did.
The teapot whistled, breaking the silence. Joel pushed back his chair, a little too fast, the legs scraping against the wooden floor. He muttered something under his breath, maybe a curse, maybe just an exhale—as he stood and turned toward the stove.
You watched him, chin resting in your hand, fingers tapping absently against your cheek.
He moved with quiet fast, pouring the hot water into two mismatched mugs, the steam curling up between you like an unspoken thought.
“Sugar?” he asked.
You hummed, pretending to think. “Do you have honey?”
Joel shot you a dry look but opened a small cupboard, rummaging until he found a half-used jar. He set it down in front of you, his fingers brushing the edge of your mug as he did.
You wrapped your hands around the warm ceramic, taking a slow sip.
Joel sat back down, quieter this time, his elbows resting on the worn wooden table.
You tilted your head. “So, do priests always offer tea and pastries to strangers passing by?”
A corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. “No.”
You raised a brow. “Just me, then?”
Joel held your gaze, something unreadable flickering in the depths of his brown eyes. Then he looked away, took a slow sip of his own tea.
“Yeah,” he said. “Just you.”
You set your cup down gently, the porcelain clinking softly against the table. "Thanks for being so kind to me." you said, your voice low, more than just for the tea and pastries. It was for the quiet, for the refuge, for something you couldn't quite explain.
Joel didn’t respond right away, but you saw the faintest shift in his posture, the tightness in his shoulders easing just a little. His eyes flickered back to yours, and there was something different about the way he looked at you now, less guarded, almost as if he’d let a small part of himself slip into the space between you.
He nodded, almost imperceptibly, then reached for the teapot, his fingers brushing the warm ceramic. "You don't have to thank me," he said quietly. "It's... it’s nothing."
But you both knew it wasn’t nothing. It never was.
Behind his intentions there was always kindness, but now something new flickered.
A temptation threatening his faith, like the world had set on fire the moment you glances met for the first time and he wanted the flames to catch him to be saved by you.
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