Page 46 of His Elder

My body knew before my mind caught up. The dull ache in my lower back. The unfamiliar soreness. The warmth of another body pressed against mine, Eli's arm draped across my waist, his breath soft against my shoulder blade.

I had crossed the line. Not just crossed it—obliterated it. Burned it to ash and scattered the remains.

I didn't move. If I moved, it would become real. If I stayed perfectly still, maybe I could exist in this suspended moment forever, neither damned nor saved, just here, in the warmth of his arms.

But then Eli's alarm went off.

He stirred behind me, his arm tightening briefly before he reached over to silence the alarm clock. I felt him freeze, the same recognition washing over him. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.

"Samuel," he whispered.

I closed my eyes. My name in his mouth was a prayer and a curse.

"We have to get up."

I nodded against the pillow but still didn't move. His hand slid down my arm, his fingers finding mine, squeezing once before he pulled away and sat up. The loss of his warmth was immediate and terrible.

I forced myself to roll over. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, his back to me, his shoulders tense. When he turned his head, his expression was unreadable in the dim light.

"Are you—" he started.

"Don't."

He flinched but nodded. He stood and grabbed his towel from the hook on the door, disappearing into the washroom without another word. I heard the shower start, and I finally sat up, my body protesting the movement.

I looked down at myself. My garments were on the floor. I'd removed them. Deliberately. Consciously. I reached down and picked them up, the white fabric feeling obscene in my hands. These were supposed to protect me. They were a reminder of covenants made in the temple, of promises to God and family. I'd discarded them like they meant nothing.

I pulled them on anyway, the fabric settling against my skin like accusation.

By the time Eli emerged from the washroom, I was dressed in my white shirt and tie, sitting on my own bed, my scripture case open on my lap. I wasn't reading. I was staring at the page, the words swimming.

He stopped in the doorway, a towel wrapped around his waist, water still dripping from his hair.

"Samuel."

"We're going to be late for morning study."

His jaw tightened. "We need to talk about—"

"There's nothing to talk about."

"The hell there isn't."

I looked up sharply. His eyes were fierce, his face flushed. Beautiful. The thought came unbidden, and I hated myself for it.

"It was a mistake," I said, my voice flat. "It won't happen again."

Something flickered across his face—hurt, anger, maybe both. "A mistake."

"Yes."

"You didn't seem to think it was a mistake last night when you were begging me to—"

"Stop." The word came out strangled. My hands were shaking. "Just stop."

He stared at me for a long moment, and I watched the fight drain out of him. His shoulders sagged. "Fine," he said quietly. "Get dressed. We'll go do the Lord's work."

The sarcasm was a blade, sharp and precise.