she/her. currently only writing for peter steele, fics linked below in chronological order. open to requests and drabbles if you're interested. formerly @drabromantic, anything with a star is from that blog. thanks for stopping by <3
check out my ao3
to read pile on margins
series
*lost the plot pt.1 pt.2 (smut)
borrowed time chapter 1, chapter 2, chapter 3 (slow burn, strangers to lovers, eventual smut)
doomed for wanting chapter 1, chapter 2 , chapter 3 (enemies to lovers slow burn, smut)
i will be honest i got a little flustered when people kept asking a month or so ago and had been experiencing a bit of writers block, not to say i don't appreciate the love.
i have a doomed for wanting chapter basically written, just in the editing stage, and draft started for the next borrowed time chapter which i had been stuck on but i think as of 5 minutes ago, may have figured out where i'd like for it to go. i also have like most of a very filthy one off in the works that needs finishing and editing teehee.
also, i'm having a classic fic writer, all of a sudden 10 thousand things in my personal life have exploded but seem to be stable for the moment, plus its spring and i get busy.
thanks as always for reading and caring, it is honestly so thrilling people have read it let alone enjoy it enough to want more.
y’all, i’m loving the support for borrowed time. it was honestly something i’d stated when i got writers block for doomed for wanting so i really didn’t think it would get such a strong following. i’d been working on some other pieces but def going to prioritize it more when I return from vacation next week.
synopsis: after howard stern publicly writes her off as “uptight,” nora and larry come up with a plan to win back the male audience she suddenly needs for her next big role, if she can convince peter steele to do her a favor.
start here: chapter 1 & chapter 2
wc: 4617
tags: enemies to friends to lovers; slowburn; mdni; peter steele/OC
a/n: this was a really fun one for me to write. i love writing for peter, there is something healing in it for me, i hope you enjoy as well.
thanks to @worthyhoundglacier for editing and please go read her fics once you finish mine!
pic on pinterest and divider here
elanor rigby - the beatles
After some more conversation with Larry, the two of you devised a plan to make you more appealing to men: all you needed was some help from your favorite goth, Peter Steele. You decided to see if he would still be willing to get some coffee.
Larry got you his number and you planned to call him that day. You dialed the number and after several rings were prompted to leave a message.
“Uh, hey Peter, it's Nora Byrne. I heard about what happened on Howard Stern and.. I, uh, just wanted to say thank you so much for defending me. You really didn’t have to but you were so gracious. And I apologize for not getting back to you sooner, there’s been so much going on… Um but anyway, if you still wanted to grab a coffee, I will be in New York next week and would be happy to find some time to get together if you’ll be around. Um my number is… Um, yeah, call me. Oh and thanks for the flowers too I think. Um, anyway, bye.”
You hung up the phone and smacked yourself in the forehead. Ugh, you sounded so stupid. You hated that the whole Letterman thing was even brought up again. You thought it was behind you at this point. You hoped you didn’t sound ungrateful. You also figured it was probably around dinner time in New York and you were in LA. Who knows when he could even get back to you or if he even would. You should have been focusing on your projects but it felt like all of your unstructured time would now be wondering if you would get a call back or if you said the wrong thing. You felt like a pathetic high school girl waiting for the cool hot guy to call you back, not an Academy Award contender. When you were on the phone with Larry earlier, you were so positive everything would work out.
Just as your ruminations reached a fever pitch, your racing thoughts were interrupted by the landline ringing. You rushed over to it and then hesitated a moment, your hand hovering over the phone, not wanting to seem too eager. It must have been pretty late in New York for him to call you. It could be anyone… it could even be Larry calling to see if there were any updates. Finally, heart beating, you snatched the phone off the receiver.
“Hello?” you said in your best impression of a calm, demure woman who certainly wasn’t about to burst out of her skin.
“Hey, is this Nora? Uh, Nora Byrne?” an unmistakable baritone voice with a Brooklyn accent asked. “Uh, it’s Peter uh Steele”
“Oh, hey, yeah” you said in your best impression of a nonchalant woman “thanks, for getting back to me so quickly.”
“Oh, yeah, no problem, no problem-”
“And thanks for defending me today, you really didn’t have to do that-”
“No, I did. Despite how my music makes me sound, he shouldn’t be disrespecting women like that.” He said plainly, “You don’t deserve that. You have your whole career ahead of you, you don’t deserve to be taken down by some creep like that.”
“Wow, Peter, that really means a lot. It takes a lot to stand up to someone with that kind of influence, when you also have your career and band to think of as well… And I hadn’t even thanked you for the apology or flowers or anything… But yeah, it means a lot that you think enough of me that I’m worth standing up for…” You hadn’t intended to get so deep but the words just came out of you.
“Of course you're worth that, and honestly I’ve been haunted by the Letterman appearance. I was glad for the opportunity to defend your honor.” He chuckled.
You laughed too, subconsciously twirling the coiled phone cord around your fingers and chewing on your pinky nail, “Well, I’ll be back in the city next week, if you’re around, I’d uh love to take you up on that coffee if it’s still on offer.”
“Uh yeah, I gotta consult my calendar but I should be able to get a coffee. Not sure if you get to Brooklyn often, but there are a few hidden gems that are worth the trip. I’d be happy to show you.”
“I’m intrigued.” you replied.
The two of you nailed down the rest of the details of your meeting and you penned it into your black book for next week.
___
Over the week you couldn't pin down whether you were giddy to be seeing him again or giddy to just put this whole thing to bed. Larry was the only one who knew about your coffee date, only it wasn't a date. Larry suggested you call it a “coffee clear up” and you hoped he wasn’t serious.
But there was no need to define it as you weren’t planning on mentioning it to anyone. You figured there was no point in telling Julian, he wouldn’t be mad or anything, it just wasn’t worth having to explain why it was important for your career but totally meaningless to your personal life. And if you mentioned it to Angie she would find a reason to make it about herself and her CD needing a signature, you had to remember to bring it this time, and it just wasn’t worth getting into. Plus, what if he said no to doing Stern? Then you’d be back at square one, men would be running from your films just like the boys running from you at your middle school dances. You shuddered at the thought.
You tried not to try too hard to get ready. You had an idea of what he liked from that damn Playgirl, but you didn’t want to seem like you were trying to look cute for him. Every stitch of clothing you brought with you felt like the wrong thing, so you finally settled on thick tights, a long skirt (he liked skirts) and some combat boots (he didn’t like combat boots) and a cardigan (his beliefs on cardigans were not indicated in the article). Maybe that was something balanced and not trying too hard? You did minimal make up and wore your hair down because it was so cold. You threw on an extra oversized sweater, then your overcoat and scarf and headed off. The sky was so thick and gray with overcast it was almost like pea soup.
You’d never been to this part of Brooklyn before. It really was way out there. He’d offered to give you a ride but you didn’t want to inconvenience him, and you wanted the time to think before the coffee “clear up”. You wouldn’t normally take a cab, but given the weather and the distance and the unfamiliarity with the area, you found yourself calling the front desk to hail you one.
On the drive over, you took some time to reflect on how your life choices got you here. Here, where you had people hailing cabs for you, where you take said cab from Manhattan to Brooklyn without worrying about the tab or the tip, where you meet up with goth rockstars in diners and get in fights with Howard Stern, where you were a shoe-in for an Oscar nom. None of these things ever seemed attainable for you, but here you are.
Your cab pulled up to the diner and you hopped out and fixed your scarf a bit in the window before you headed in..
The diner nearly sucked you in with its warmth. A bell chimed when you opened the door and a waitress greeted you. The smell of hot coffee immediately sorted and revived you from the brisk walk in. There was a chrome and glass case up front with some righteous looking pies, many with miles of cream and meringue piled on top. The checkered tiled floor led to the vinyl booths revealing Peter looking down, drumming with his fingers on the Formica tabletop in one of the booths in the back.
He looked oversized in that booth, wearing a button up green corduroy shirt, his chest exposed slightly with an extra button undone and his long raven hair falling past his shoulders, obscuring his face. He looked up from the menu and smiled at you warmly, stilling his hands and moving to stand from the squeaky booth. You walked towards him with an air of confidence you didn’t quite buy.
You exchanged pleasantries and he shook your hand before inviting you to sit. You felt slightly electric making contact but ignored it, you wanted him to take you seriously as someone grateful for his kindness, and not as just a fan girl.
“Thanks for inviting me out here, I feel like you can always tell how good a diner is going to be by how pissed the cook sounds.” You say referencing the cook in the back who is grumbling the most creative string of curse words you’d heard since meeting Joe Pesci. “It shows he cares,” you joked.
“Oh yeah, Jimmy? He cares a lot.” Pete said dryly, “And really don’t mention it; I’m happy for the opportunity to try and prove I’m not an ass, or at least entirely an ass, I just play one on TV.”
You didn’t know how to dissuade him of his guilt at this point. You’d all but forgotten about the incident until Stern had to comment on it.
“Peter, you clearly are not an ass, you defended my honor on Stern more than you should have, you’ve apologized and sent flowers. I should have reached out sooner, now I’m the one who feels like an ass. Let’s just have coffee and call it a truce.”
“If you insist. My big nose does make me an easy target, though. It would be nice to get to know the next Best Actress.” he said, this time you did blush, mainly out of embarrassment.
The waitress came up to the table with a limp to ask for your orders. It sounded as if Peter knew her too. Peter ordered a black coffee, a slice of apple pie a la mode and a glass of whole milk. You ordered a black tea. The waitress took off, her slip resistant shoes chirping with each step.
Peter looked at you perplexed “Is that all you’re gonna get?”
“I already had lunch, and I’m meeting my boyfriend for dinner later. I didn’t realize we were getting food, just coffee.”
“Yeah, well I just want to make sure this was worth it for you to come all the way out here. This place has the best pies in maybe all of Brooklyn.” He rubbed his hand on the back of his neck.
“Well, what do you recommend then?” you asked. You hadn’t anticipated having to actually eat in front of him. That made you anxious.
“What’s your favorite?”
“I dunno, I like pumpkin at the holidays… I like to eat pie for special occasions. It’s not as special if you just eat pie everyday.”
“Oh, it’s still special. Whenever I come home from tour, my mom bakes me a whole apple pie for myself with a quart of milk. Eat it with a fork right out the middle.” He grinned waiting for your reaction. You smiled, picturing his enormous self inhaling a full pie and downing a jug of milk.
“I’m not sure if I should be concerned or impressed.” you said with a smirk. “Do you unhinge your jaw and eat it pan and all, like a snake, or do you chew and swallow?”
“It depends on how long I’d been away,” He said with a laugh.
“Do you have it with cheese?” you asked.
His face contorted in confusion, and possibly pain. “With cheese?” he asked with concern in his voice.
“My grandpa always said ‘An apple pie without the cheese is like a kiss without the squeeze’” you explained casually.
The waitress came back with your drinks and his pie and set them out in front of you both. His jaw hung open in shock and disgust.
“You have cheese with your apple pie?” he asked again seriously. He prepped his coffee with two creamers and three sugar packets, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Yeah, do you need me to say it in Portuguese?” you said laughing.
He shook his head again and took a bite of his pie, “I’m sorry, but that is disgusting. I don’t even like when my food touches, let alone cheese on fucking pie on purpose.”
You were shaking with laughter at this point.
“I’m glad you find it funny,” he said with a chuckle.
“I just never thought a big tough guy would have such strong opinions on pie” you said finally calming down enough to sip your tea.
“I take my pie very seriously. How do you think I got so big and tough? Not from eating carrots.” He said, pulling the scowl he had on for Letterman before taking down a big gulp of milk. He was like a teenager still, you observed.
“Here, try a bite,” He fixed a bite with the perfect ratio of pie to ice cream and held the fork out for you to take, it looked so small in his giant hand. “Sorry I don’t have any fucking cheese for you”
You smirked. Rather than taking the fork from his hand, you opened your mouth. You don’t know what got into you, but you were just intrigued to see what he would do. He arched a brow curiously and brought the bite toward your open lips. You leaned in, feeling that taut electric energy from The Late Show cycle in the air around your booth.
“Oh sorry,” He said as he had missed your mouth a little, causing some of the melted ice cream to dribble out of your mouth. You licked it up. Your eyes flashing away from his.
“Damn, that is some good pie.” you said after swallowing and wiping your mouth with the paper napkin.
He looked pleased with himself.
“I don’t share my pie with just anyone,” he said. You smiled shyly into your tea.
“Well, I feel honored. I almost feel bad asking you for a favor now after that pie. I can see why you wouldn’t want to share.”
He quirked his eyebrow, “What favor?”
“Well, don’t feel like you have to say yes or anything.” You began your pitch a little nervously “But since the Howard Stern thing, it has been revealed that… I don’t necessarily appeal to men as much as we thought. Apparently people think I am an ‘uptight prig’” you admitted, staring back down into your tea.
“Now that is more surprising to me than the pie and cheese thing” he said sincerely, still digging into his pie.
“Well, I’m supposed to be the next Venomheart, so the 25 to 40 year old man is unfortunately a big demographic for me.” You sighed. It was hard to admit and harder to believe he wasn’t just trying to say the nice thing.
“No, seriously, you shouldn’t believe that type of thing about yourself. I’ve only found you to be..” He thought carefully for the right word and enunciated each syllable delicately on his tongue once he’d decided on it. “Scintillating.”
You bit your lip and stared down at the soggy tea bag inside your drained mug, relating to its spineless flaccid nature a little too closely. “Well that’s very generous of you.” you said quietly.
“Hey, I mean it.” he said very seriously, “Now what were you going to ask me?” he coaxed.
“Well, my manager and I thought that maybe if you were willing,” you said, his eyes urged you to go on, “that it could be interesting to have us both on Stern and the three of us could bury the hatchet on public record. And that having you and I together again could… possibly make me more appealing to males aged 25 to 40” you grimaced, hearing how that sounded out loud.
“Oh, Jesus.” He ran his long fingers through his long back hair and let out a long low puff of breath, “I really hate doing appearances.”
“Oh, ok that’s fine.” You said in a high, quick voice that didn’t sound like your own. “I totally get it, I didn’t mean to burden you with all that. I totally understand not wanting to do it.”
“BUT, I was going to say before I was interrupted, that it could be some decent attention for the band. And I figure I owe ya one. I’d have to talk it over with the band and my manager, but I could make something work.” He thought for a moment “I’m not sure what I could do to make you more appealing to men aside from getting every one of the 25 to 40 year olds eyes checked.”
You blushed again. Dammit, he was smooth.
“By the way, aren’t you too good for that super hero crap? I mean you’re about to win an Oscar, right? Not to be offensive, but you’re really talented, and that other stuff seems… Beneath you.”
“Well, unfortunately, those are the gigs that pay me well enough that I can afford to do the indies, the edge to that is, will I still be taken seriously for those kinds of roles when I sell out? My manager seems to think it's a risk worth taking.” You put your head in your hands with a big sigh.
He rubbed the back of his neck, “I get that, we gained a lot of fans with Bloody Kisses in a way we couldn’t imagine. But some of our original fans called us sellouts, but honestly, this is kind of the music I like making and it feels authentic to me right now, and clearly it's resonating with others as well. And if we make a little more money and get to go on bigger tours, perform for more fans, then that’s what it's all about, performing for the fans.”
You smiled a little. He made it all make sense.
“I don’t have, just like, unlimited barrels of money or deep roots on a Hollywood family tree like all these other stars seem to have.” you sighed, “Everything I’ve gotten, I’ve had to get on my own. Which makes the stakes so much higher. It could all come crashing down at any moment, and I will only have myself to blame.”
You don’t know how he got you talking like this. Since your aunt died, you had a hard time opening up. You didn’t want to bother Julian with your neurosis; you didn’t want to make the time you got with him a boring sobfest. Your family couldn’t really be supportive in that way, they just didn’t understand the industry. You honestly weren’t sure if you’d said these thoughts out loud ever. And he was genuinely listening. Fork down, sparky green eyes fixed on you, his mouth in a grave line and a furrow to his brow you’d only seen in his forced frown on Letterman.
“Sweetheart- sorry- Nora, you are putting too much pressure on yourself. Failure, if it does happen, is a part of the artistic process. Do you know how many shitty bands I have been in that lead to Type O? And if you lose a role because some mouth breathing dip shit with more hair on his ass than his head ‘doesn’t find you appealing’ that is not your fault. Everything about you screams ‘ movie star’ and just because the American public might not be smart enough to see it doesn’t mean it’s not the absolute truth.” He shrugged. His Brooklyn accent made him sound all the more sincere. The sincerity made you feel like you wanted to crawl out of your skin and run screaming down the street, but it was exactly what you needed to hear. Like taking medicine, and in a way, it was healing something inside you that felt a little broken, even if it was hard to swallow.
“Peter, you’re too nice.” you whined with your head falling back in your hands.
“You could just say ‘thank you’” he said slyly.
You looked up and the waitress was walking off with the check. You hadn’t even noticed its brief presence on the table. As soon as you opened your mouth to argue Peter cut you off.
“Don’t even say anything, I already paid it, it was my coffee, I am more than happy to and if you even try anything I will be offended.” He said before you could even try to protest. “I’m a man, don’t embarrass me by trying to buy the coffee I asked you on.” he said, you rolled your eyes.
“Well, thank you.” You said with a small smile getting up from the table and met his eyes, “Really, thank you, I didn’t know how badly I needed to hear any of this.”
“Happy to, sweetheart.” He gave you a friendly side squeeze when you stood up. “You need a ride? I’ve got nothing else going on. I’m cheaper than the cabs.” he said, winking again.
“If you insist.” you said with a grin.
“Where you staying?” He asked.
“Royalton” you sheepishly admitted.
“Oooh, fancy” he said in a mock posh accent and twirling an imaginary mustache. You giggled.
“You don’t stay at whatsisfaces place when you’re in town?” He asked, referring to Julian.
It was a good question, one you got often and hated answering, mainly because you knew there was no good answer. After the years you two had been together, you had a key, but that did not grant you permission to just pop over. You told yourself that it was better this way and he enjoyed staying in the hotels with you, it was like a vacation for him, even if it was usually work for you.
“Oh well, it’s honestly just easier this way. I never know if he’s coming or going, and I uh, have to get my beauty sleep, ya know.” You were pathetic.
“Uhuh..” he said skeptically, but without pushing the issue.
He held the door for you as you walked outside and nearly blew away in the strong gusts of wind whipping down the block. You could hardly see through your hair and scarf whipping around you. It was the time of year where the sun set before you ever really had the chance to wake up and the darkness in the sky already was disorienting given it had been light out when you entered the building.
The streetlights switched on as if on cue and he led you down the block and across to where he was parked with a strong protective hand guiding you on the small of your back. You shivered but were certain it was due to the cold.
“Oh, no, you’ve got to be joking. That's your car?” You shouted over the wind. You stared in disbelief at the death trap he proudly gestured you towards. It looked like something out of Mad Max. There were sirens and speakers and lights and a flat paint job that had to have been all custom and done by him. It was even lifted up on fucking monster truck tires.
“Of course, this is my pride and joy, The Beast.” he said, opening the door for you once again. He clearly got off on horrifying women with this thing.
“Peter, there is no way I’m getting in that thing. Is it even street legal?” you asked, staring at it disdainfully like a kid being forced to eat broccoli.
“What’s your plan then? You gonna wait for a cab in the cold or just hope the wind blows you back to midtown?” He snarked, ignoring your question and gesturing you in with his hand.
You huffed and crossed your arms in front of your chest and got in without fighting because he was right. Any time you spent waiting for the cab in the cold would be too much. It really was absolutely frigid.
The inside of the car was worse than out. Everything was stripped down to the metal except for the seats and the stereo.
“See, this is what guys 25-40 like!” Peter said over the roar of the engine, slapping the steering wheel enthusiastically.
“What? Vehicular homicide?” You responded dejectedly when you accepted that there were no seatbelts. Peter howled with laughter.
“Why don’t you pick out something to listen to since you’re being subjected to such abysmal transport.” he said gesturing to the old beat up shoe box full of cassettes.
You were surprised he had a Beatles tape in, which you said would be fine to listen to. You’d expected to be blasted by some loud metal like in your sister’s car. He talked about how Paul playing bass and singing got him comfortable with the idea when he was forced to switch from guitar to bass for a band as a teenager. You told him about when you learned to play Eleanor Rigby on piano as a child, you wanted to play it so often your dad made you do 10 push ups every time you wanted to play it, to give the rest of the house a break, but you were so persistent to play it he had to up it to 20. Peter laughed so hard he nearly had to pull over.
He was about to turn the corner to the hotel but you stopped him.
“Actually can you just let me out right here?” He looked at you confused. “I don’t know when Julian is going to arrive, and I just don’t want to cause him any suspicion. And this ‘vehicle’ is definitely cause for alarm”
His face fell a little, “Yeah, that's totally fine.”
“I’m so sorry, its so stupid, but its just easier if-”
“No, no problem at all. Take care Nora” he said looking slightly wounded as you braved the frigid air once more.
“Thanks, Peter, seriously, for everything.” you said hoping you sounded as sincere as you felt
“Don’t mention it, Nora, see you on Stern, I’ll have my people call your people.” he said, winking a final time before you shut the door and he drove off.
Fuck. He was seriously in your head.
You blew into the hotel and up to your room. You were relieved when you got up there that Julian hadn’t arrived yet. He wouldn’t do anything about it, you didn’t think, but it was easier to be avoided than explained. You had time to get out of your layers and check your answering machine.
You called your inbox, it had two messages. The first was from Larry checking in on how the “coffee clear up” went. The second was Julian letting you know he got caught up and wouldn’t be able to meet you for dinner but he could probably come by later.
Well, at least he’d called and at least you got to look forward to seeing him later, maybe. The energetic buzz you had from seeing Peter evaporated as you changed into your pajamas and found the script you were trying to memorize. Maybe you’d order some dinner, or maybe you wouldn’t. Whatever confidence Peter had built up, Julian pulled out from under you with just a message.
Later that night as you were about to doze off by yourself, you jolted awake with a gasp. You remembered you’d forgotten Angie’s fucking CD and it STILL needed to be signed.
a few months ago someone asked me about my writing process and i couldn't find the link to one of the articles i have used to improve my writing, but i just found it so i wanted to share.
one of the ways i like to practice this is just by writing about my day in a basic way, highlighting the thought verbs or statements.
for example:
she was running late to her workout, but knew she would make it. the class was restoring and centering and filled her with peace.
can turn into:
the street she took to the gym was like an express lane from her house when the red lights held out. the slow focused movements of the class took her mind out of her head and into her physical body, restoring her peace.
anyway this is all still very new to me and i know i still have a ways to go to improve, but i have really enjoyed writing even if it is just peter steele fanfiction, lol
hello.. omg.. i love your fics.. i was just wondering tho like what is the actual timeline for doomed for writing??? can't wait for the next chapter :3333
howdy! thank you so much <3
did you mean doomed for wanting? tbh i do feel doomed for writing this has been a bigger commitment than i realized.
as far as the story goes as of right now I am thinking it will span decades but that could change. i came in hot with one specific idea but if it changes as i write, i'm open to that.
as far as my writing timeline, no promises. i work full time and have a bunch of other stuff going on in my life as well so i really can't promise a regular posting schedule. i try to work on drabbles and stuff to keep up with posting and stuff but it all takes time.
Fandom: Type O Negative/Peter SteelePairing: Peter Steele/OC Female Rating: Explicit (18+)
Read it on AO3.
In the late 00's Peter finds himself going back towards the faith woven deep into his soul. When he prays for change, he doesn’t expect it to come so fast or so gently.
The bells had stopped already when Peter stepped out into the cold.
He stayed on the stone steps longer than he probably needed to, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, shoulders a little hunched, not from the cold, just from the quiet, the weird weight of it. Sunday Mass always left him like that lately. Stripped. Exposed. Like something inside him had been pried open and left there, just… breathing. People walked past in little murmuring groups, families mostly. Laughter, nods, coats rustling. He wasn’t invisible exactly, but he’d gotten good at standing on the edges. Just a shadow at the edge of things.
Then he saw her.
A few steps down, by the iron railing, she was fiddling with the pin on her lace veil. It fell down her back soft, like it belonged there even if it was old-fashioned. He didn’t know her name yet, but he’d seen her before. Always in the same pew, three rows from the front. Always still, not stiff, just… focused. Hands folded, eyes forward. Not wandering, not looking for anything, just listening, like she was waiting for something she trusted would come.
She looked up, caught his eyes, and instead of looking away, she smiled. Not flirty. Not shy. Just kind. Open. The kind of smile that didn’t ask for anything back. It hit him low in his chest, quiet and sharp, like fire under ice. He nodded, awkward, aware of how big he was, six-foot-eight and scarred, standing somewhere he didn’t really belong. He should’ve turned, walked to the street, lit a cigarette he didn’t smoke. But she spoke first.
“Good morning.” Her voice was soft but steady, not fragile, just grounded.
“Morning,” he said, surprised how rough it sounded. Cleared his throat. “Uh… good Mass.”
She smiled again, smaller this time, like she found that funny. “It was. Father Michael’s homilies… have been really honest lately.”
“Yeah,” Peter said. “Painfully so.”
She laughed, soft and easy, and he felt her studying him more carefully, not staring, just… noticing. “You’re new,” she said.
He huffed. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only because I know everyone,” she said. “You sit in different places but you always stay until the end. Even when people leave early.”
Caught off guard, he blinked. “Didn’t think anyone noticed.”
“I help with the RCIA group,” she said quickly, like she didn’t want to seem nosy. “You tend to notice.”
That at least he understood. “I’m Peter,” he said after a beat. Felt weird giving his name without armor, without sarcasm.
“H—Hazel,” she said. “Nice to finally meet you.”
Finally. He liked that word more than he probably should.
They stood there for a moment. Neither moving. Cold curling around them. Hazel reached up, took off her veil, folded it neat, tucked it into her bag. Without it she looked younger, twenty-five maybe, but no less real.
“You’ve been coming pretty often,” she said. “If you ever want help figuring stuff out, confession times, groups, whatever-I’m usually around.”
He hesitated. Old instincts kicking in, suspicion, self-protection. But she wasn’t asking him to explain himself. She wasn’t trying to fix him. She was just… offering a hand. “I’m trying,” he said quietly. “To do this right.”
Her expression softened, not pity, just respect. “That’s usually enough to start.”
Peter nodded. Something strange tightened in his chest. Gratitude. Maybe hope. Terrifying in its own way. “Well,” he said, stepping back, trying not to linger too long. “Thanks, Hazel.”
“Anytime, Peter.”
As he walked down the steps, out into the street, he realized something weird and new: For the first time in a long while, he actually wanted to be worthy. Of the place he’d just left. And of the girl still standing there.
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