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Despite everything, despite my swollen cheek, uncertain future and the fact that my life just completely fell apart, I find myself smiling.

"Okay," I say. "Pancakes first. Everything else after."

"Good plan."

The diner hums around us. Donna refills our drinks without being asked. The teenagers in the corner booth are laughing now, whatever crisis they were discussing apparently resolved.

And for the first time in months, I feel like maybe, I might actually survive this.

Chapter 5 - Priest

We don't leave the diner.

Donna refills our coffee and hot chocolate twice without comment. Brings us pie we didn't order: apple, still warm, with vanilla ice cream melting over the top. Says it's on the house and walks away before either of us can protest.

Paige takes a bite and closes her eyes. The bruise on her cheek has darkened to deep purple. The ice helped with the swelling, but the damage is obvious. Undeniable.

Evidence, I think. Proof that can't be explained away this time.

"This is really good," she says.

"Donna doesn't do anything halfway."

"Is everyone in this town this nice?"

"Just the people worth knowing."

She takes another bite. Studies me across the table with those docile gray eyes that see more than I'd like sometimes.

"So," she says. "Priest."

I'd hoped she'd let that drop. Should've known better.

"Yeah."

"How does someone become a priest at twenty-five? That seems young."

"It is young. Most guys are older. Late thirties, early forties. Already lived some life before committing to the church." I push pie around my plate. "I was different."

"How?"

I'm quiet for a moment. Trying to figure out how to explain something I've spent eight years trying to understand myself.

"I grew up with faith," I finally say. "Not the oppressive kind. Not the fire-and-brimstone, fear-based version. Just... faith. My father was a deacon. My mother ran the church choir. It was the language spoken in our house. Prayer before meals. Mass every Sunday. Service as a way of life."

Paige listens without interrupting. Doesn't roll her eyes or make a joke about my religious upbringing. Just waits for me to continue.

"I had an older sister. Marie. She was everything I wasn't. Loud, rebellious, constantly questioning everything. She left the church at eighteen. They were devastated."

"And you?"

"I stayed. Doubled down, really. Became the good son. The one who believed enough for both of us." I take a drink of coffee. It's gone lukewarm. "Entered seminary at twenty-one. Got ordained at twenty-five. Felt like I'd found my calling."

"Had you?"

The question is simple. Direct. Cuts right to the heart of something I've always avoided overthinking.

"I thought so," I admit. "For a while it felt right. The structure. The purpose. The idea that I could help people through faith and counsel. That words and prayer could actually change things."