Barely.
The morning of the seventh day, I’m caught in a slurry of UCL students, tourists, and commuters pushing impatiently out of Euston Station as I make my way to the archaeology building to find Church. Gordon Square is spitting wet leaves in shades of red and gold onto the street, and I try not to think about how many peaceful hours I spent in that damp and rustling stretch of trees and grass while I was a student here. I try not to remember what it was like to stare at the window I knew belonged to Church’s office, a smile on my lips to match the secret tucked away in my chest.
I mumble apologies as I push past the students and make my way into the building, ducking through hallways filled with chatter about soil micromorphology and ceramic petrography. I pass by labs and lecture rooms; I catch the familiar scents of coffee and climate-controlled air. Longing for this place fills me up like heavy water as I climb the stairs.
I was happy here.
I could have been happier still.
No sense in rehashing all that now. I’ll be back. If not here, then somewhere else, and I’ll kick ass there instead. I’ll make up for all the lost time and then some.
Bolstered by the thought, I reach Church’s floor, taking deep breaths in an effort to steady my thumping heart. What will he say when he sees me? Will he be angry? Will he be frustrated? After all, it was me who demanded space, and now here I am waltzing right into his.
He’s a smart man, I remind myself. He’ll understand that just for today, I need to reopen communication, and anyway, ifhe’dasked for space, then of course I would respect that. But he didn’t, and a not-so-small part of me flutters at the thought that he didn’t ask for it because he wants me to change my mind. Because he wants to be open and available in case I do.
Which I am.
Because I have to give the rent back.
I wish it was because of pride. I wish I could say it’s because I’ve taken care of Jax and myselfjust finefor four years, and I don’t need to ruin my streak with some man’s guilt-money. I wish I could say that making any part of my life easier on his account irrevocably taints my honor and it just can’t be borne.
But none of that’s true. I’ve been poor my whole life and desperately so for the last four years; if everything else about me and Church were different, I’d take his money just like I took all those orgasms from him a week ago and walk away without looking back.
No, it’s a bigger sin than pride that compels me today.
I can admit it now, after this last awful week. I love him. Stupid bunny that I am, I love him and crave him and want to forgive him. And maybe...maybe I already have forgiven him? There’s a difference between forgiveness and trust, right?
I can forgive him without trusting him, I can let go of my pain without giving him the power to hurt me again.
The problem is that I want more than just to forgive, bloodlessly and from a distance.
I want to curl up in his lap and sob into his strong chest. I want to be angry with him, I want to hate him, and I want him to be strong enough to take it, to hold me while I cry over the hurts he gave me.
And then I want every dirty, sacred moment I missed with him over the last four years. Every moment I’m owed.
But how can I want that without betraying the girl he hurt?I demand of myself.How can I want to be his again without betraying myself?
I can’t.
But I also can’t have his gift haunting me. It’s like the ghost of his smoky, spicy scent; it’s like the still-warm imprint of him in my bed. So long as the money is there, Church is there. And every moment free from worry is now laden with memories of him—the midnight eyes, the harsh mouth. Thewords.
I am your temple no matter what.
There is one thing you can never ask of me, and that is for me to stop loving you.
Fuck, I have to give that money back. I have to be free of this.
Church’s office is tucked away on an upper floor, on the side overlooking Gordon Square, and it’s impossible not to have a Pavlovian response as I approach it, even after all this time. My heart thuds wildly, my belly feels hot and tight, everywhere my skin begs for touch, for teeth. Sometimes I’d be summoned here, sometimes I’d surprise him, but more often than not, I was hauled here by the elbow and then covered with his trembling body the minute the door clicked shut.
That infinite god-hunger of his. How I delighted in being his sacrifice over and over and over again...
Fitting that it ended at a literal altar.
Maybe it doesn’t have to end, a traitorous hope murmurs.Maybe he’ll spread you out on his desk and...
I ache with the thought—a deep, shuddering ache that only Church can soothe. I should leave. I shouldn’t knock on his door like this, wet and ready for him to ease his heavy cock inside me, but I am knocking, I am opening the door, knowing full well if he so much as looks at me, I’ll fall to his feet and beg for just one more minute of supplication. One more act of worship.
But when I open the door, it doesn’t reveal my flawed deity, but an utterly empty room. There’re no books on the shelves, there’s no antique desk with a drawer for the little depravities we couldn’t help but indulge on campus. There’s no sofa for a scared, exhausted girl to crash on after keeping watch over her brother, and there’s no basket next to it for a soft blanket to cover her with.