You pause, tugging gently at your youngest sister’s scarf, and feel his eyes—Mikael’s—on you. You look up quickly, pretending to fix a stray ribbon in your hair.

Mikael clears his throat. His chest tightens slightly, a warmth creeping up that has nothing to do with the Sunday sun. You are… beautiful. Not in a flamboyant, distracting way, but quiet and luminous, as if the church light itself had found its home in you. And yet, you look down almost immediately, hiding the faintest blush behind your hair.

Neither of you speak for a moment. Words seem both unnecessary and impossible. The air between you is thick, alive, carrying a weight you’re both too shy to name.

“You,” Mikael says finally, his voice low, careful, “thank you… for helping today. It does not go unnoticed.”

You smile faintly, heart fluttering. “You notice too much,” you whisper, almost teasing yourself.

He bows his head slightly, the smallest of gestures. “I notice what matters.”

Your fingers fiddle with a ribbon on your coat, your courage shrinking and swelling all at once. You want—need—to say more, to tease, to flirt, but the words catch in your throat. You settle for a soft, shy smile, and the briefest glance that dares to meet his eyes.

Mikael’s gaze lingers just a heartbeat longer than propriety allows. He wants to say something—something that would shatter the boundary between priest and parishioner—but all he manages is a quiet, “Be careful as you go home,” his voice warm, tinged with something he does not name aloud.

You nod, feeling the weight of his words and the unspoken pull between you. You turn to leave, and for a moment, you think you might risk looking back. You do. Your eyes meet again, fleeting but electric, and in that glance, both of you understand: this attraction, though unspoken, is undeniable.