#thunder bay

The rain starts slowly as she leaves the house. It spits, then sheets, then slaps the street hard enough to lift the smell of the tarmac. She keeps her hood up and her jaw set, one hand on the keys in her pocket and the other on her phone. The house behind her gleams in the rain, immaculate and false. Just like their smiles will be on Sunday morning.

She pulls her phone out of her pocket before she steps off the porch. It lights her face for a second, hollow and tired. The text she writes is only two words:

It sends. She imagines it reaching him wherever he is, lighting something in him the way a match catches a wick. She imagines his eyes on the screen, then the road.

She walks fast. The rain finds its way into her hood anyway. Her breath fogs in the cold and she counts each exhale like it’s proof she hasn’t drowned yet. Their words keep replaying in her head, ungrateful, selfish, sinner.

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St. Killian’s stands on top of the hill, rain polishing its carved stone clean. Everyone in Thunder Bay knows it, the catacombs, the broken pews, the echo that dares you closer. It calls to kids for parties and for courage, but tonight it calls to her. The steps are slick, the noticeboard is water damaged from decades spent unused in the rain. She pushes the door open. The hinge complains and then relents.

Inside, the tall room is dim and welcoming. The air tastes of old incense and damp wood; it fans across her cheeks like a hand checking for breath. A red sanctuary lamp glows at the far end like coal embers. The nave is a spine of wrecked pews and shadows. The moonlight mixed with rain turns the stained glass into a melting watercolor, saints faces looking warped in the storm.

Her hands are shaking with the cold, but they know what to do. She finds the lighter in the pocket of her damp hoodie, a cheap plastic one he had bought on their first date. She flicks it once, twice. The flame jumps up, eager, and then steadies. She offers it to the first squat candle in the brass rack beside the empty stoup.

She lights it. “For leaving,” she murmurs, barely sound.

She moves to the next wick. “For not looking back.”

She lights a third. “For not believing them tonight.”

Rain patters softly on the roof. Somewhere the building shifts and sighs. She moves down the line, lighter to wick, wax runs down the candles like a quiet prayer finding its way to God. The trembling in her hands eases with every small, obedient flicker. The church brightens in increments, an amber path leading to the altar.

The door groans behind her. The sound of shoes on stone echoing.

“Kai,” she says, without turning, and the name flows from her like the breath she’d held since dinner.

“I got in the car as soon as I saw it,” he says, voice low. He doesn’t ask what happened yet. He never does. He moves up the aisle with the quiet confidence of someone who has never needed to ask a room’s permission to be in it. Hoodie dark, hair wet, expression attentive without being hungry for details. He stops a pace away, saying her name. “Hey.”

She nods, turning to face him. The candlelight softens his face, sliding along the angle of his jaw before it catches on his mouth, appearing much softer than he means it to be. The rest of him is all shadow and gold, hair blending into the dark, eyes deep enough to hold it. She thinks the church must want to claim him, the candles always seem to lean his way.

“You’re soaked,” he says.

“So are you.”

He glances around the nave, at all the little flames she has made. “You still carry that thing,” he says, meaning the lighter.

“It’s comforting, warm,” she says with a small shrug.

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Silence rolls in, not awkward, just the quietness of a big room letting them take their time.

“Talk to me,” he states, finally. The way he says it is gentle and sure. The tone of someone who will hold what you hand him and not drop it.

His words shake something up inside her and she moves. Feet carrying her to him. He catches her without question, arms circling her shoulders, hoodie cold and wet against her face. For a few breaths there’s nothing but the sound of rain and her breath against his chest.

When she eases back, he keeps his hands on her shoulders. His eyes search hers, quick but thorough, as though he’s reading a language written in old bruises and split lips. She doesn’t appear hurt, at least not physically. He tilts her chin up with one finger, careful.

“Did they touch you?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “No. Not tonight.”

The answer doesn’t quite settle him. His thumb lingers near the corner of her mouth before he drops his hand.

“You texted from the street?” he asks, voice steadier now.

“The porch,” she clarifies.

He waits.

She stares at the flames until her eyes feel dry. “It’s the same script,” she says. “I asked to go out. I said the word want and it turned into a hours long fucking indictment.” Her mouth twists, a dry laugh escaping. “Ungrateful. Disobedient. Dirty. Selfish. Sinner.” Her throat chokes on the word like it’s smoke. “It feels so heavy when they say it, Kai. It feels so true.”

He doesn’t flinch. “I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s simple enough to settle her mind for a second. Then, steadier, the absolver in him stepping into place. “They’re wrong.”

“They’re convinced.”

“So were the witch hunters,” he says mildly. “Does that mean that all those people were guilty just because they shouted about it?”

Her laugh is a small, raw thing. “You can’t keep telling me I’m clean and expect me to believe it.”

“I don’t expect you to do anything,” he says. “I want you to know it’s true.”

She looks at him then, past the candlelight basking him in softness. The rain has coloured his hair darker, there’s a drip clinging to his jaw like a tear. His eyes seem impossibly darker than usual. Steady. He is not a priest, not a saint, not anything with a title that would make the absolution official. He is a man who came when she texted. Somehow that counts for more.

“You don’t know what I said,” she tells him.

“I don’t need to,” he says. “But if it helps you feel better, you can tell me.”

“It’s small, stupid really” she warns.

He moves a fraction closer, hands moving to his pockets so she doesn’t feel cornered. “The small things count.”

She swallows. The walls lean in without moving. “I raised my voice back at them,” she says. “I said, ‘It’s not a sin to want a life.’ And I said it again when they asked me to. It felt like- like pulling on a thread that had been keeping my mouth sewn shut” Her lips press thin. “And then I left.”

He nods once. “Good.”

“You didn’t hear it. It was wrong of me. I shouldn’t-”

“I heard you just now,” he says simply, cutting her off. “And I’m still saying good.”

She flicks the lighter, a nervous habit. The flame licks the air and goes out with a tiny sigh. She flicks it again. The spark catches. She breathes and tries again. “I feel-”, the word stutters against her lips. “Contaminated,” she says at last. “All the time. From the inside out. Like the dirt started under my skin and it’s worked its way out and everyone else can see it. I keep thinking if I confess enough, I’ll stop being- whatever it is. But it doesn’t change anything.” Her eyes are glassy, like there’s tears coating them from behind.

He doesn’t let the silence sit. “You’re not dirty,” he says, calm, firm. “That’s not what’s wrong, and you’re not what’s wrong either. Wanting isn’t a stain, it’s a pulse.” His gaze moves from her damp hair to the lighter to her trembling thumb. He reaches up and tucks a strand behind her ear. “You want air,” he says. “You want out. You want to laugh and not apologize for it. None of that needs penance.”

Something in her eases, then stands on end. “They say it does.”

“Your parents are not God.”

She huffs, a soft sound, not a laugh, not quite a sob. The candles paint gold along her cheekbones and the rain keeps writing on the roof.

“And if God is watching?” she asks, not sure if she is provoking him or begging.

“Then he knows who did this to you,” Kai says, and his voice slips an inch lower, iron wrapped in felt. “And he’s not going to aim his anger at you.”

“He,” she repeats.

“Or she,” he amends with a shrug. “Or the part of you that still believes you’re worth loving. Pick whichever you want.”

She turns and stares at the brass cross on the altar. “I hate this,” she says, voice small but level. “I hate needing to come here to feel like a person.”

“You come here because it’s ours,” he says, taking a step to stand at her shoulder. “Not theirs. If it helps, we can pretend it’s just a building with good acoustics and decent lighting. No more holy than my car.”

“It’s St. Killian’s,” she almost smiles despite herself. “It’s trying very hard to be holy.”

“It can try,” he says, and his mouth tips. “We don’t have to help.”

She turns the lighter in her palm, the plastic slick from rain. “I keep making you-” She stops and starts again. “I keep making you into something I can confess to. I’m sorry.”

He looks at the candles, then at her. “Don’t be. I’ll be whatever you want.” he says quietly. “Do you want confession, or do you want me?”

The question lands between them, heavy. She doesn’t move. She thinks of his car turning corners fast to get here, of the way he never asks for details and never calls her dramatic. She thinks of his hands, open and empty. She thinks of the word ‘want’ and how it stung when she said it at home and how it fills her with warmth here.

“I want-”, she takes a breath. “I want the way you look at me,” she says. “Like I’m not dirty. Like I’m not a problem to solve. I want that to be the truth and not a lie.”

“It isn’t a lie,” he says.

“You say that like you believe it.”

“I say it because it’s simple,” he answers. “It’s the truth.”

She breathes again. It fits better in her lungs now. “You always come when I ask,” she says. It’s a fact, data laid out and examined like a palm.

“You don’t ask unless you mean it,” he says. “Plus, I like being needed.” There’s honesty in it, no glory. “Maybe too much.”

She turns to face him again, eyes looking up to his. He holds her gaze. “I don’t want to make you my god.”

“Good,” he says softly. “I wouldn’t be a kind one.”

Her mouth pulls into a tired smile that shows she believes him. “You’re kind to me.”

“I’m real with you,” he says. “Kind happens along the way.”

The sanctuary lamp hums faintly. A draft glides through the nave and curls at their ankles. She shivers, he notices and stands a half-step closer, not crowding, just letting his warmth become part of the air.

“Walk with me?” he says, extending a hand to fill the shallow gap between them.

She nods and pockets the lighter, threading her fingers with his. They move down the center aisle, their steps meeting each others. The rotting pews watch like sentinels. Above, the rain hammers heavier on the slates and on their right, a rack of votives throws a golden glow over Kai’s jawline.

“You shouldn’t always have to come get me. It’s not fair on you,” she murmurs, almost ashamed.

“Probably not,” he agrees. “But I’m not mad about it.”

“Why?”

He thinks for a moment, then answers without hesitation. “Because I care about you,” he says. The words come out warm enough to fog the space between them. “Because this- being useful, showing up- it makes me feel like I’m something I sometimes forget I can be. I’m not trying to make it my job, but I’m happy if it is.”

She nods. There’s a flinch in her when he says ‘I care about you’. Old theology. Old conditioning, telling her to run far, far away. “I don’t want to keep replaying the same scene,” she says. “They carve me open, I light some candles, cry, get told I’m forgiven, go home, get told I’m not. It’s exhausting.”

“Then let’s not treat this like confession,” he says. “Choose.”

The altar waits behind them, brass cross dim with dust, the stone surface mottled with old wax and rain stains, steps worn to shallow bowls by long-vanished feet. She looks at it and then at him. “Choose what?”

He looks like he’s considering something heavy and simple. “What you want this to be, but know you’re not dirty,” he says, “and I’m not holy, and we’re not a sermon. We’re two people who want each other and we don’t have to lie about why.”

The want resonates in her chest. She half laughs, half exhales. “You always make things sound so easy.”

“No, I put things into a different perspective for you”, he corrects.

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They turn and walk again. The altar looms as they near, less a stage now, more a table built for offering and surrender. She thinks of all the hands that have smoothed over the stone, all the whispered words that have hung here like a noose. She thinks of her own hands, weak from the weight of holding herself together, and of his hands, which she has learned are steadier than his heartbeat.

“You asked me to choose,” she states. “Ask me something else.”

He takes a breath, careful and considerate. “Think about what they said that stuck the most,” he says. “Don’t say it. Just think it.”

She swallows. ‘They said I was unclean,’ she thinks. ‘They said I was born all wrong. That every-time I defy them, I prove it.’

He nods once, reading her, seeing the cogs tick inside her head. “Okay.” He gestures with his chin to the brass cross on the altar. “Put it there.”

She looks at the cross, then back to him. Her fingers flex, empty. “How?”

“Stand there and say it out loud,” he says. “And then say what’s true after.”

She lifts her chin. It trembles, but it lifts. “I’m unclean,” she says into the space before the altar.

He waits.

She swallows. “What’s true,” she says, “is that I was born, and that is not a crime.” A breath. “What’s true is I want a life and there is no virtue in not wanting one.”

His eyes soften minutely, like the words touched something just under his skin. “Good,” he says. “Again.”

“I am not a mistake, I am not a sin,” stronger this time.

“Good girl.” He moves to stand beside her. The altar rail grazes the side of his hoodie. They stand there now. The place where prayers have ended and begun, where vows made people brave or broke them gently.

Kai’s voice lowers without darkening,“I asked you to choose earlier”. He asks, “Have you chosen yet?”

She looks at him. There’s water dried in his hair like salt. His clothes hang, damp at the shoulders. He looks holy in this light, the same gold that once softened his jaw now crowns him, anointed. He is hers the way a harbor belongs to a storm tossed boat, granting mercy, not forcing possession.

“I want to stop feeling punished, like I need to confess just for breathing” she says. “I choose you Kai, I want to be needed by you like you’ve been needed by me.”

He moves away from her, walking up the steps to the altar. “You are,” he says. “Needed by me,” it sounds like a prayer on his lips, like she’s his God and he’s calling out.

He doesn’t reach for her. He waits.

She steps into his space until the altar edge presses against the back of her thighs. The candlelight raises to make slow gold circles on the ceiling; each one trembles when she breathes. Kai doesn’t move at first. His restraint biblical, an invitation waiting for her answer. The air between them thickens, it hums like a harp plucked tight.

“You told me not to make you a god,” she sounds conflicted.

“I meant it,” he replies, voice low, almost breaking.

“But I can’t help it,” she whispers. “I have to worship you.”

A small smile touches his mouth.

Their pull on each other is gravitational. She feels the vibration of his next breath before she hears it. He doesn’t touch her yet, but the energy between them is taut enough to snap.

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The thunder outside rolls itself into silence.

His hands hover just above her hips, fingers twitching with want. She can smell the rain on his skin, the faint smoke from the candles, the way his breath catches when he leans in. "Tell me to stop," he murmurs, thumb brushing the bone of her hip.

She exhales, heat pooling low in her stomach. "I don’t want to." Kai’s fingers tighten, finally, dragging himself forward until their bodies slot together. The hard line of his erection presses against her stomach, and the gasp that leaves her lips sounds obscene in the quiet of the church.

He swallows the next one with his mouth. The kiss is unhurried, deliberate. His tongue traces her bottom lip like a pilgrim at the gates, asking for sanctuary. She opens for him, moaning when he licks into her, slow and deep. Reverent. As if this is the first prayer he’s ever meant.

His hands slip under her hoodie, fingers skating up her ribs, pulling it off over her shoulders. She shivers as he steps back, pulling off his own. His palm finds the clasp of her bra and he pauses. "Is this okay?"

She nods, biting her lip. His fingers flick open the clasp with practiced ease. The bra loosens, and his hands slide around to cup her bare breasts. His thumbs brush over her nipples, teasing them into tight peaks.

The groan that sounds from his chest is sacrilegious. "Fuck," he mutters, bending to take one into his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue makes her back arch, fingers tangling in his hair. The altar digs into her back, a sharp contrast to the softness of his lips.

Saints watch from the stained glass, their faces warped by rain and candlelight. She wonders if they’re judging. She hopes they’re jealous. His teeth graze her nipple, just enough to make her gasp, before he sinks to his knees below her, pulling down her leggings and underwear in the process.

On the way down he looks over her, skin glowing in the flickering gold, every curve draped in shadow. She looks angelic, like something divine made into flesh for ruin.

The candlelight glows along the slope of his shoulders and the bow of his head. A worshiper at a desecrated shrine. His breath ghosts over her bare thighs, warm against the dampness already gathering there. "Look at you," he teases, "dripping for me in a fucking church."

He grins slightly, looking up at her from under his heavy lashes. "Ever been touched here?" he murmurs, fingertips tracing the crease where her thigh meets her hip. She shakes her head, swallowing hard. The stone is cold, but the heat of his gaze burns through her. His lips brush the inside of her knee like a blessing.

"Tell me if it's too much." She nods, fingers gripping the rough edge of the altar beneath her. His mouth moves higher, slow, deliberate. Every press of his lips is a blasphemy, every exhale against her skin sinful. The same mouth that once recited verses now learns her, the hitch in her breath when his tongue flicks over the softest part of her thigh, the way her hips jerk when he bites lightly at the tender flesh.

Then, hot, wet pressure between her legs. His tongue drags through her slick folds. She gasps, back arching off the altar. “Kai-”

“Shh." His hands slide under her thighs, spreading her wider. "Let me worship you." His tongue circles her clit, teasing, coaxing. The pleasure almost too much as she curls her fingers into his hair.

The church air is thick, between the candles and their sweat, the wet sounds of his mouth on her drowning out the rain. He groans against her, the vibration making her whimper. His fingers join his tongue, one slipping inside her with torturous patience. "You’re so tight," he murmurs, lips brushing her inner thigh. "Perfect." Another finger eases in, stretching her gently. The stretch burns but the way his thumb presses circles on her clit makes her forget everything else.

The pleasure peaks, hot and sudden and overwhelming. She cries out, thighs trembling around his head. He doesn’t stop, licking her through it until she’s squirming. When he finally pulls back, his chin glistens. He swipes a thumb over his mouth, eyes dark.

Standing now, between her thighs, he asks, "Are you sure?" She reaches for his belt, undoing it with shaking hands.

“I spent my whole life being told no," she whispers. "I want this, Kai." He lines up, the head brushing her entrance, slick with her arousal and his spit.

"Last chance," he rasps, barely holding back.

She digs one set of her nails into his shoulders. “Please,” she begs. He grips her free hand, intertwining their fingers. He pushes in with a groan, slow but insistent. She gasps at the stretch, lips parting around his name. The pain is sharp but it fades as he bottoms out, replaced by something heavier, hotter.

"Fuck," he hisses, forehead pressed to hers. "You okay?" She nods, thighs tightening around his hips, "move."

He does. The first thrust drags a loud moan from her throat. The next one absolutely ruins her. The altar rocks beneath them, the brass cross trembling as he fucks her deeper and harder. His grip on her hips is bruising, his breath ragged against her neck. She can hear the sinful slap of skin on stone and the creak of the church itself protesting.

“Look at you," he grits out, slamming into her. "Taking me like a fucking saint." Her orgasm washes over her without warning, white-hot and blinding. She tenses, crying out as her nails rake down his back. He follows with a groan, spilling inside her.

The church is silent except for their uneven breathing. The candles flicker. The rain still falls. Kai pulls out, pressing a kiss to her trembling lips. "Still feel dirty?" he asks.

She laughs, breathless, "yes."