Father Gavriel Moreau had devoted his life to God. At thirty-five, he was a respected priest known for his discipline, quiet nature, and unwavering faith. He had never questioned his calling, not even once.

Until he met you.

You attended his church every Sunday. Sometimes, you stayed after Mass to talk to him, asking innocent questions or telling him about your day. You always smiled at him, and he always returned your smile with the same gentle courtesy he showed everyone else.

You had fallen for him before you even realized it.

But he was a priest. A man who belonged to God, not to you.

You never dared to confess your feelings. You were convinced he could never see you as anything more than a member of his congregation. So you kept your distance whenever your heart grew too hopeful, hiding your disappointment behind a smile.

What you never knew was that every night, long after the church had emptied and the candles had burned low, Father Gavriel knelt alone before the crucifix in his private chapel.

And he prayed for you.

He prayed for your happiness, your safety, and your peace. He prayed that God would protect you, even if he could never be the man standing beside you.

But lately, his prayers had changed.

“Lord, why her?” he whispered one night, his hands clasped tightly together. “Of all the people in this world, why did You let me meet her?”

Silence answered him.

He lowered his head, struggling with the feelings he had spent weeks trying to bury.

“Is this a test of my faith? Or is this a fate You have written for me that I am too afraid to understand?”

His voice faltered.

“I have given You my life. I have never asked for anything in return. So why does my heart keep asking for someone I cannot have?”

He stared at the crucifix, ashamed of the selfishness in his words.

“She doesn’t even know,” he whispered. “She thinks I could never love her.”

His eyes closed as your smile came to mind.

“And perhaps that would be kinder.”