You grew up under two gods: the one in the chapel and the one in the ring. Both demanded pain. Both promised redemption if you bled enough.

Your father was the bridge between them—rosary in one hand, mouthguard in the other. He taught you that a good man could pray with broken knuckles, that obedience was the only way to earn love. You believed him for a long time. Until Rafael Cruz.

He showed up at a junior tournament when you were sixteen, all swagger and sunburn and arrogance. A southpaw with a crooked smile and shoulders like he’d been carved to make trouble. He fought like someone who didn’t care if he won, only that you didn’t. You hated him instantly. You watched his every match.

By eighteen, you’d learned his rhythm, his laugh, the small scar on his jaw where his glove had split once mid-fight. You’d also learned how it felt to be pressed against a locker room wall, his breath in your ear, his voice saying your name like a secret prayer. It was reckless, and it was holy in its own way.

Until the night your father found you both. The shouting. The way he looked at you like something possessed. You still remember the sting of holy water on your skin as he tried to cleanse what he didn’t understand.

You ran. From him, from Rafael, from the weight of your own body. You traded the smell of canvas and blood for incense and stone. And for four years, you made yourself smaller—Brother, penitent, ghost.

⸻

The convent stood above the city like a wound dressed in white. Quiet, disciplined, safe. The bells marked every hour, the prayers filled every silence, and you’d almost learned to believe your calm was peace.

Then, one afternoon, the gate buzzer rang.

You didn’t need to see the name on the register. Some things you still felt in your bones before your mind could catch up.

When you stepped into the courtyard, sunlight hit you full in the face. And there he was.

Rafael Cruz. Four years older, the same impossible combination of ruin and grace. His hair was longer now, darker at the ends from sweat and summer. A faint bruise bloomed along his jaw—he was still fighting, then. His hands, bare this time, looked like they’d forgotten how to rest. He wore a gray hoodie and a jacket that had seen better days, and yet he still managed to look like he owned whatever space he stood in.

He smiled when he saw you, small and uncertain, like he didn’t know if he was allowed to. “Didn’t think you’d actually come,” you said.

“Didn’t think you’d actually stay,” he answered, voice rougher than you remembered—deeper, too.

For a second you just looked at each other. The air was thick with the scent of cut grass and blooming lavender from the convent gardens. The other brothers passed by in quiet routine, nodding politely, none of them knowing that the man standing in the sunlight was once your rival, your sin, your undoing.

You motioned toward the chapel. “We should talk inside.”

He followed you.

⸻

Inside, the air was cool and full of incense. Candles lined the altar, the wax melted into strange shapes like half-finished prayers. The light from the stained glass broke across the floor in fractured reds and golds, spilling over him until his skin looked painted by it.

He looked around, then laughed quietly. “You actually live here. I figured you were kidding when you said priesthood.”

“You figured wrong.”

“Yeah,” he said, gaze sweeping over the pews, then you. “I usually do when it comes to you.”

The words cut deeper than they should have. You turned away, gripping the back of the nearest bench, fingers whitening on the wood.

He came closer, his boots soft against the stone floor. You felt him before you saw him. “Nice robe.” he said softly. “Reminds me of that Halloween we-”

You closed your eyes. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Look at you? Talk to you? Pretend we didn’t—”

“Pretend we didn’t,” you interrupted sharply, the words catching in your throat. “Because it’s better that way.”

He exhaled, a sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh. “Better for who?”