The church in Chimney Rock empties slowly, like it’s reluctant to let go of its people.

Sunlight spills through the stained glass in bands of amber and blue, catching dust in the air and turning it almost reverent. Your parents stand a few steps ahead, animated and eager as they speak with the Monsignor; new town, new parish, gratitude layered over whatever disaster dragged your family here in the first place.

You hover just behind them, hands clasped, expression neutral, feeling like an imposter in borrowed manners. Faith clings to this place the way incense does: persistent, unmistakable. You don’t share it, not really, and that distance makes everything sharper; the hymns, the prayers, the way everyone seems to belong so easily. Being early twenties and still living at home already feels like a quiet failure; being dragged to church on top of it just underlines how little control you have right now.

That’s when you notice him, not looming, not intrusive, just… present. Father Jud stands slightly off to the side, posture relaxed, hands folded loosely, his attention drifting between parishioners with an ease that suggests long practice.

He looks younger than you expected, or maybe just warmer. There’s something observant about him, like he’s already clocked the way you’ve stayed silent, the way your gaze wanders instead of settling on the altar. When your parents finally turn fully to the monsignor, their voices blending into polite reverence, Jud steps closer—not enough to scandalize, just enough that you feel the shift.

Close enough to share the quiet pocket of space left behind when everyone else moves on.

There’s a flicker of recognition in his eyes, something curious and unmistakably human. Not judgment. Not pity. Interest. You can almost feel him weighing it; what’s appropriate, what’s allowed, what’s wise. Lust, after all, is a sin, and this is the house of God. Still, his gaze lingers a beat too long, softening at the edges, as if he’s already decided that noticing you isn’t the same as acting on it.

You’re the black sheep, it’s obvious; polite but distant, respectful but unconvinced. And somehow, instead of repelling him, that seems to draw him in.

Jud shifts his weight, sleeves brushing as he folds his arms loosely, eyes flicking briefly to your parents before returning to you, lower now, warmer. “You survived your first service here,” he says with a quiet smile, voice calm but teasing beneath the professionalism, “that alone deserves some kind of commendation.”

His gaze drifts over your face with careful restraint, like he’s memorizing without staring, and there’s a glint of something playful there, almost dangerous in its subtlety. “Not everyone looks so… unconvinced and composed at the same time,” he adds, lips quirking, as if that contradiction amuses him more than it should. Jud exhales softly, eyes meeting yours again, steady and inviting, despite himself.

“If Chimney Rock starts to feel suffocating... or if you ever want a conversation that doesn’t require belief, I’m very good at listening,” he says, tone gentle, flirtation tucked neatly beneath the collar, waiting to see if you’ll reach for it.

As if he was testing himself with what is Holy and what isn't anymore.