The Unholy Oath

The storm had been howling for hours. I hated it so much. If I were God, I wouldn't even let it ever rain again.. We'd have just 3 seasons instead of 4.

It rained heavily against the windows of The Salty Anchor, the only bar in town still open at this hour. Not that anyone was drinking. The whole place was tense. Half the fishermen were crammed inside to escape the wind, the other half praying their boats would survive.

I wiped down the counter for the third time in ten minutes, the rough cotton rag a familiar anchor. My nerves were too heightened to stand still because storms always did this to me. It wasn't the thunder or the lightning. It was the noise, the constant, unpredictable violence of it.

It reminded me of another life.

Of a cramped Portland apartment where the shouting was just as loud as the weather, and a lot more personal. Jared used to hate the rain. He said it made people stupid and melancholy. He blamed it for his bad moods, which usually meant I spent the night trying to be invisible. Polishing glasses. Keeping quiet. Pretending not to exist.

I shook the memory away. Wrong place. Wrong time.

The Salty Anchor smelled of wet wool and cigarette smoke. Boots thumped against the wooden floors. No one spoke above a murmur. Outside, the wind screamed like it wanted to rip the town apart.

BANG.

The door slammed open, nearly ripped off its hinges. A blast of cold air shoved into the room, spraying rain across the floor. I clenched my jaw. If someone broke that door again, I was going to kill them.

But then he walked in.

Father Daniel.

Dripping wet, black shirt plastered to his chest. Dark hair slicked to his neck. The usual hum of conversation died in a heartbeat.

He never came in. Not once in the five years since he'd arrived, taken his vows, and buried himself in that church like a ghost no one could touch.

What the hell was he doing here?

I gripped the rag harder, forced a smirk. My voice came out sharper than I meant.

"Well, hell froze over. What brings you in, Father? Finally here to preach about my sinful margaritas?"

His eyes flicked to me. Dark as the storm outside. He didn't linger, only looked for a second before moving on.

"The church roof collapsed."

Silence spread like spilled beer.

I blinked. "...Shit."

"The rectory is flooded. Uninhabitable." His voice was flat, like he was reading a grocery list.

"So, you need a place to stay?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Three seconds passed. The longest three seconds of my life.

"If it's not an inconvenience."

Inconvenience? I almost laughed. Try torture.

Because Father Daniel standing in my bar was one thing.

Father Daniel sleeping under my roof?

That was a whole different kind of sin.

The rain slowed to a miserable drizzle by the time we stepped outside. He walked a steady three feet behind me the entire way, like I carried the plague.

"You don't have to act like I'm contagious," I muttered.

"Habit."

"What, staying five miles away from women?"

"Yes."

I snorted. "Wow. Really selling the whole holy man thing."

He didn't answer. His footsteps stayed steady, too controlled, like he was marching toward something he hated.

My house sat on the edge of town, half-hidden behind crab traps and a rusted truck that hadn't run in years. I fumbled with the keys at the porch, aware of him behind me, tall and silent as a shadow.

"You can take the guest room," I said once the door opened. "Bathroom's down the hall. Towels under the sink. Don't... pray at me or whatever."

A pause stretched between us. Then, low and even: "I won't."

I turned. For the first time, his gaze met mine. Not long. Not intense. Just long enough to make my stomach flip.

Then he looked away, brushing past me with that calm detachment, vanishing down the hall.

Oh, this was going to be hell.

I busied myself in the kitchen, pretending I wasn't counting every sound he made upstairs. The creak of floorboards. The soft click of the bathroom door. The rush of water through the pipes. Each sound made him more real. Not the ghost in the church. Not the untouchable Father Daniel. Just a man in my house.

My phone buzzed.

Maggie: Wait. HE'S STAYING WITH YOU?!

Of course, she already knew. News in this town traveled faster than lightning.

Me: Church got wrecked. No choice.

Maggie: Bullshit. You've been eye-fucking him for years.

Me: I HAVE NOT.

Maggie: Liar. You get twitchy when he walks by.

I didn't answer. Because she wasn't wrong.

The floor creaked again. I turned sharply, pressing the phone against my chest.

Father Daniel stood there. Dry black sweater. Damp hair curling at his temple. Out of the collar, he looked different. Human. Dangerous.

"You hungry?" I asked too quickly.

"No."

"Right. Forgot you live on communion wafers and guilt."

His jaw tightened. "I should retire for the night."

"Yeah. Sure. Good talk."

He turned. Stopped. Looked back.

"Thank you. For your hospitality." The words sounded forced, like he had to drag them out.

I swallowed. "Don't mention it. Literally. Ever."

Something flickered across his face. Almost a smile. Then gone. He walked upstairs, leaving me alone with the hum of the fridge and the quiet drip of water from my coat.

Three weeks. That's how long it would take to fix the church roof, according to old Pete from the hardware store.

Three weeks of this.

Whatever this was.

I was so screwed.

The night dragged on. I cleaned bottles that weren't dirty. Rearranged napkins that didn't need rearranging. My nerves buzzed too hard to sleep.

Every storm set me on edge, but this one was worse. Because every creak above my head wasn't just the house settling. It was him.

I made tea, the cheap kind Maggie swore tasted like boiled socks. Sat at the table. Forced myself to breathe.

The rain tapped softer against the windows. The storm was easing. I should have felt calmer. Instead, my chest felt tight.

I thought about Jared again. His anger. His fists. The way storms had always meant a long night of keeping quiet.

I glanced up at the ceiling. Father Daniel's shadow moved across the crack of light under the guest room door.

Different man. Different storm.

But the tension in my gut felt the same.

Morning came gray and heavy. I hadn't slept more than an hour.

The smell of coffee reached me before I even made it downstairs. I froze.

Father Daniel was in my kitchen.

He stood at the counter, pouring coffee into one of my chipped mugs like he belonged there. His sleeves were pushed up, forearms bare. Strong. Steady. He didn't look at me when he spoke.

"I hope you don't mind. I found the coffee."

My voice came out rough. "If I'd known priests made themselves at home, I'd have locked the cabinets."

He set the pot down. Turned. His face was unreadable.

"You have work today?"

"Yeah." I moved to the fridge, grabbed milk I didn't need, and anything to avoid his eyes. "Storm didn't wreck the bar, so someone's gotta keep the town drowning in whiskey."

A silence stretched, thick as smoke.

Then, softer: "Thank you. Again."

I almost laughed. "Don't make a habit of it, Father."

He didn't answer. Just lifted the mug, took a slow sip, and returned to staring out the window.

I hated how much space he took up without even trying.

Three weeks.

I could survive three weeks.

Couldn't I?