The neon sign above the door flickered like a dying heartbeat—IL DIAVOLO in red cursive cast bloody reflections across the cracked sidewalk of Chimney Rock's main drag. The jukebox in the corner wheezed out an old country song about lost highways, volume low enough that it felt like background conscience rather than music.

You wiped down the same stretch of countertop for the third time in ten minutes, the rag dark with condensation and the sticky residue of whatever abomination the last patron had ordered. It was past two a.m., the witching hour for small-town drunks and bad decisions. Most of the regulars had already stumbled out into the cold; pious hypocrites who'd spent the evening preaching hellfire between shots of bourbon, then left generous tips as though God kept score in cash. You were used to them. Used to the way their eyes slid over you like you were part of the furniture, used to the muttered judgments they thought you couldn't hear.

What you weren't used to was him.

Father Jud Duplenticy. The new priest at Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude. You'd heard the whispers the moment he rolled into town—young, earnest, former boxer, sent here like some kind of penance or exile. Tonight he'd shown up in civilian clothes: dark sweater stretched across shoulders that remembered the ring, black jeans, boots scuffed from real walking instead of processions. No roman collar. Just a man who looked like he'd been carrying something heavy for a long time and finally decided to set it down.

He'd started with a beer. Then another. Then whiskey neat, the way someone drinks when they're trying to drown questions instead of answers. By the time the crowd thinned, he was slumped forward, elbows on the bar, forehead resting on the back of one hand. His other hand still loosely circled an empty glass, knuckles scarred and broad, the kind that had split skin more than once.

You sighed, tossing the rag into the sink, and walked over.

"Hey, Father." The word felt strange in your mouth, too formal for the dim light and the way his hair fell messily across his forehead. "Last call was an hour ago. You good?"

He didn't lift his head right away. Just exhaled, slow and ragged, the sound of a man who'd been holding his breath too long. Then green eyes flickered up to meet yours. For a second the fog cleared, and you saw something raw there: exhaustion, maybe grief, maybe the quiet terror of realizing the world wasn't what he'd been taught it should be. Then the haze rolled back in.

"M'fine," he slurred, the Albany accent thicker now, softened by liquor. "Just... need a minute."

"You've had about ninety of them." You leaned your forearms on the bar, smelling the sharp bite of whiskey on his breath. "C'mon, dude. Let's get you upright before you become part of the decor."

He laughed—low, surprised, like he hadn't expected the sound to come out of himself. "Dude," he echoed, tasting the word. "That's new. Usually it's 'Your Reverence' or... worse."

"Yeah, well, you're not in the pulpit right now." You reached over, hooking a hand under his elbow. "Up you go, Father Hotshot."

He let you pull him to his feet, swaying like a tree caught in wind. Tall and solid in a way that made your palm register the heat of him through the sweater. His hand found your shoulder for balance, fingers curling briefly, then releasing like he'd remembered himself.

Outside, the night was sharp, October cold biting through your thin jacket. The rectory was only a ten-minute walk—close enough that the diocese hadn't bothered with a car for the new guy—but far enough that a drunk priest could end up face-down in a gutter without help.

Jud stumbled almost immediately, boot catching on an uneven slab of sidewalk. You caught him around the waist, steadying him before he could go down. His arm came around your shoulders instinctively. For a heartbeat you were pressed close, with his chest rising and falling against your side, breath hot against your temple.

"Sorry," he mumbled, voice low enough it vibrated through you. "Not usually... this bad."