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He was three minutes late. He had left the large meeting hall in a rush, just after wrapping up a conversation with the Vice President of Argentina. This week had been particularly hectic, full of meetings with influential people and endless requests. He’d spent days thinking about retreating for a few days to the vacation house, just to breathe. At this point in the year, people flowed in and out of the Apostolic Palace with the same goal: to see him, speak to him, ask for things that were often nearly impossible to fulfill.
There were requests that truly pained him, deeply important matters that clenched his heart when he had to deny them. These weren’t the usual petty whims brought by high-ranking officials from the "gringo" countries, but real, human pleas, for which he, too, was only a man with tied hands. Still, he tried his hardest, not for his own sanity, but for the faithful who came to him, those who hoped for even a grain of his mercy.
As he hurried down the marble corridor, his modern watch, the same one Ray insisted he wear everywhere, the one that monitored his heart rate, started vibrating desperately on his wrist. Most likely, it was warning him that he was already late for his next meeting. He was so focused on trying to silence the device, fumbling with the touchscreen, that he didn’t see the young secretary walking in the opposite direction just as quickly as he was.
The collision was abrupt, though not hard enough to knock them down. What did end up scattered at their feet was a shower of papers, fluttering like dry leaves in the autumn wind.
"I'm so sorry, Holy Father," the woman exclaimed with a trembling voice.
"Don’t worry, my daughter," he replied gently, bending down to help gather the papers as he spoke. "It was my fault, I was distracted and didn’t see you coming."
As he sorted through the mess of documents, he noticed most of them belonged to the Human Resources department. When he finally stood up, he took note of the ID badge hanging from her neck: “Alicia Williams, HR.” The poor woman looked on the verge of collapse, stammering apology after apology. Ray, walking beside him, stepped in to end the situation kindly.
“Your Holiness, Cardinal Lawrence is likely already waiting. We must continue.”
"I'm sorry again, Alicia. I hope you have a good day," Vincent said, offering her a quick blessing before turning to leave.
However, he had taken no more than two steps when he heard her make a small triumphant noise. Turning around, he saw her lift a stapled bundle of papers.
“Holy Father… forgive me for interrupting your time, but… could you do me a huge favor?” she asked shakily, extending the documents toward him. “I need to deliver these to Dean Lawrence, but I haven’t been able to schedule a meeting with him…”
A clear blush spread across her pale face. Vincent smiled, that warm, practiced smile he'd perfected over the years.
“Of course, i’ll give them to him. Don’t worry.”
Alicia let out an audible sigh of relief, and Ray barely managed to stifle a laugh. They went their separate ways, and Vincent quickened his pace, the papers weighing slightly in his hand. He knew better than anyone just how busy Thomas Lawrence was. He was practically a human filter between him and the rest of the world. Nothing reached his ears without passing through Thomas first.
It was understandable that Vatican staff found it nearly impossible to get time with him. But it wasn’t the first time someone blushed at the mere mention of his name. It was almost common, and if he was honest with himself, he understood why. Thomas was a wise and charismatic man, always speaking with kindness and fairness, never refusing help to those who needed it. And beyond that, his physical attractiveness was far from ordinary, especially among priests.
Still, every time someone spoke of him with that veiled admiration in their voice, something heavy settled in Vincent’s stomach. A slow acidity that crept up his throat and made his hands curl into fists. The problem was, he was the Pope. He wasn’t supposed to feel things so human, so mortal… so sinful.
So, as always, he took a deep breath, relaxed his hands, and let his expression return to the carefully neutral diplomacy he wore so well. It wasn’t the time for jealousy or forbidden thoughts. There were meetings to attend, decisions to make, and a world that depended on him, not on his weaknesses.
“Holy Father, I won’t be able to accompany you now. There’s been a situation with one of the invited priests and they need me immediately,” said Ray, typing rapidly on his tablet without even looking at him.
“Is it something I should be concerned about, Ray? Is everything alright?” Vincent asked, unable to keep the concern from seeping into his voice.
Ray paused just long enough to offer a reassuring smile, the same one he always used when he didn’t want to alarm him.
“Nothing I can’t handle in a few minutes. Go ahead and focus on your meeting, Your Holiness,” he replied calmly before turning on his heel and walking off down the hallway, leaving him feeling oddly alone.
Vincent let out a soft sigh and kept walking. The large oak doors appeared in front of him sooner than expected. He inhaled deeply, searching for calm, and knocked gently. At once, Thomas’s warm voice answered from inside.
“Come in.”
When he opened the door, he was immediately met with the rich aroma of fresh coffee. Thomas sat behind his imposing wooden desk, piled high with neatly organized papers, arranged with almost military precision. A large mug of coffee steamed in front of him, its scent filling the room with comfort. But he wasn’t alone.
A woman with elegant posture and dark hair perfectly tied back was seated across from him. As soon as she saw Vincent, she rose and offered a deep, graceful bow.
“Holy Father,” Thomas greeted gently, looking up from his documents. “Allow me to introduce Juliette Bernard, CEO of SEF—the NGO I mentioned a few days ago.”
“Juliette, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Cardinal Lawrence has told me a lot about your work with refugees in France,” Vincent replied with a genuine smile, extending his hand.
“Holy Father, the honor is entirely mine. It’s a dream come true to meet a Pope so committed to social welfare,” she said in a deep voice with a strong French accent, returning the handshake with a gentle squeeze.
“Please, Juliette, Your Holiness, let’s move over here. It’ll be more comfortable,” Thomas said, standing and guiding them toward the soft sofas in the office.
They sat down, and the meeting began with a review of SEF’s work in France and neighboring countries. Juliette spoke passionately about African refugees and the lack of state funding in France. Her tone was firm and full of conviction, and Thomas nodded at every word, offering statistics and data that Vincent could barely keep track of amidst the murmur of his own thoughts.
As he listened, he began to notice small details that made his skin prickle. First, the familiarity. They didn’t speak like professionals in an official meeting. They addressed each other casually, laughed between comments, shared inside jokes as if no one else were in the room.
And then there was the physical contact. Juliette had chosen to sit next to Thomas, forcing Vincent to take the single armchair across from them. But that wasn’t all, every so often, Juliette placed her hand on Thomas’s shoulder or brushed his forearm as she spoke, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And what disturbed him most was that Thomas didn’t seem uncomfortable. He didn’t pull away, not even an inch. In fact, he responded with small, knowing smiles.
Vincent forced himself to swallow. He felt a burning heat rise from his chest to his throat, an acidic sensation he knew all too well, one he always tried to smother with prayers and deep breaths. He clenched his fists over his knees, making sure his face remained impassive, cloaked in that practiced serenity he wore so well.
He was the Pope. He couldn’t afford such human emotions, so carnal, so… mortal. And yet, as the conversation continued and soft laughter filled the room, he couldn’t help but wonder how much longer he could bear to hear someone speak to Thomas with such warmth, such intimacy, without his heart bursting with bitterness.
With each passing minute, the conversation drifted further and further from its original purpose. They were no longer discussing refugees, or lack of funding, or the pressing social issues that had brought them here. Now, the topic had shifted to the beauty of France, its history-soaked cities, its grand architecture, and of course, its cuisine.
Well, “conversation” was a generous term. The exchange was between Thomas and Juliette. Vincent remained silent, seated on his individual sofa with his hands folded in his lap, his back straight and his face carefully neutral. He didn’t dare to intervene. And truthfully, he had little to contribute. During his years as a priest, his life had been split between war zones and humanitarian missions, refugee camps, field hospitals, monasteries, and parishes in corners of the world most people had forgotten. There had never been time for leisure travel, no vacations to tour Europe, and certainly not to learn about wines or regional cooking.
As he watched them, a part of him understood. He knew that for Thomas, a topic like this was a brief reprieve from the darkness of their daily burdens, a reminder that life still held pleasures beyond the tragedies they carried on their shoulders. And Vincent didn’t want to take that light away from him. That’s why he remained quiet, watching Thomas’s eyes light up as he described his favorite place to eat goat cheese in Lyon, and how Juliette smiled with conspiratorial delight as they debated the best Bordeaux varietals.
"How could I forget the place where we met?" Juliette said, letting out a soft laugh that chimed through the room like little bells.
Thomas laughed too, a deep and warm sound that made Vincent’s chest ache with something he couldn’t name. It was in that moment, wrapped in laughter that seemed to create a world of their own, that Vincent saw his chance.
"Excuse me," he interrupted in a calm but firm voice, drawing both their attentions toward him. His eyes, however, remained fixed on Thomas as he continued. "I’m afraid we should move on with today’s agenda. Monsignor O'Malley will likely return soon, and there are meetings scheduled after lunch."
For a moment, silence blanketed the room, heavy as velvet. Thomas blinked and nodded gently, returning to his formal posture, though his eyes still carried a glow Vincent found hard to endure. Juliette, for her part, smiled politely, though a faint trace of irritation flickered in her expression.
"Of course, Your Holiness," she replied with that French accent that seemed to wrap every word in velvet.
Vincent returned her smile with the practiced political expression he had mastered over the years, even as his chest burned like he had swallowed fire. In that moment, all he could do was pray for Ray to return and rescue him from the increasingly stifling room.
A soft knock echoed on the heavy oak doors, and Ray’s voice came from the hallway.
"May I come in?" he asked politely.
"Come in," Thomas answered.
Ray entered with purposeful steps, his tablet clutched to his chest. His eyes swept the room quickly, pausing for just a second on Vincent. He seemed to sense the tension in the air, because he cleared his throat before speaking.
"Good morning," he greeted professionally, offering a small nod toward Juliette.
"Good morning," she replied with a kind smile, though her voice was cooler now, stripped of the warmth and closeness she had used all along. Vincent couldn’t help but notice. That affectionate tone, the soft laughter and bright glances, they were reserved exclusively for Thomas.
"Your Holiness, Eminence, Ms. Bernard," Ray continued, "lunch is now being served in the dining hall. It’s time to head there."
Vincent couldn’t stop himself from sighing in relief. Without thinking, he stood up too quickly from the sofa, causing the room to spin. A sharp wave of dizziness hit him, and he had to steady himself on the backrest with one hand, waiting for the world to settle.
Thomas looked at him, frowning with concern.
"Are you alright, Your Holiness?" he asked, his voice both deep and gentle.
"Yes," Vincent replied with a simple monosyllable, though his throat was dry and his stomach uneasy. He needed air, and maybe some food to silence the hollow feeling growing in his chest.
Without another word, they began walking down the long white-stone corridors, bathed in the soft morning light filtering through the stained glass windows. The path to the dining hall wasn’t far, but the silence stretching between them made it feel endless. Ray walked a few steps ahead, checking his tablet, while Thomas and Juliette followed behind, speaking in hushed tones, like they were sharing secrets meant for no one else.
Vincent trailed them, keeping a measured distance. His footsteps echoed against the marble floor, each sound magnifying the ache in his chest.
They were just a few meters from the dining hall when Juliette misstepped. Had it not been for Thomas, walking attentively beside her, she would have fallen flat on the floor. With swift reflexes, he caught her by the waist, steadying her firmly.
"Are you alright?" he asked with concern, lowering his gaze to meet hers.
Juliette let out a small gasp and clung to his arm with both hands, her fingers pressing into and releasing the muscle of his biceps like it was a lifeline. Vincent couldn’t look away. He knew those arms well, those same arms that held him night after night when the weight of his position threatened to crush him. He knew it wasn’t common to see a priest with a physique like Thomas’s, but he had always been disciplined with his workouts, and Vincent had always been grateful for that. It kept him healthy, strong… safe.
But now, seeing those same arms used to steady someone else burned him from the inside out. She had no right to touch them. No one did.
"I think… I think I twisted my ankle," Juliette said with a slight tremor in her voice, clutching her delicate ankle that peeked out from beneath her long floral dress. "It hurts terribly."
Thomas frowned, genuine concern lighting his face. He crouched slightly, examining her foot with care.
"We can’t take any chances. Ray, I’ll take her to the infirmary to get it checked out."
Vincent felt a painful throb in his temple at the idea. He didn’t want to imagine how Thomas would take her there, whether he’d carry her in his arms, support her as she limped, or if she’d wrap herself around his neck like lovers on a stroll. Before Ray could reply, Vincent spoke up impulsively.
"The dining hall is very close," he said, louder than intended, drawing everyone’s attention. "They can bring her some ice for the swelling while we eat. The infirmary is much farther away."
Juliette looked at him, her brow slightly furrowed, as if she had just remembered they weren’t alone. Finally, she let go of Thomas’s arm with a resigned sigh and nodded, though the displeasure on her face was impossible to miss.
Thomas, for his part, blinked in slight confusion, first looking at Vincent and then at Ray, as if searching for a verdict. Ray simply shook his head, stifling a tired sigh.
"It's fine," Thomas finally said. "We'll go to the dining hall and take a look at your ankle there, Juliette."
Vincent breathed a little easier, though the acidic feeling didn’t completely fade. He pressed his lips together and continued walking behind them, wishing with all his might for the lunch to be over quickly. He needed to return to his room and, for a moment, not be the Pope. Not be the unshakable figure everyone expected. He just wanted to be Vincent. And even more, he just wanted to be Vincent with Thomas.
When they arrived at the great dining hall, all eyes turned toward them. Some faces were familiar: the same nuns in spotless habits, the same priests with immaculately pressed cassocks, and a few lay staff members seated at side tables. However, there were others who stared at them wide-eyed, unsure whether to stand, kiss his ring, or simply carry on with their meals as if nothing had happened.
As always when entering the dining hall, Vincent raised his hand slightly and offered a gentle smile as a general greeting.
"Enjoy your meal, everyone," he said, his voice softly echoing through the tall walls of the room.
Without missing a beat, he walked to his usual seat. Unlike his predecessors, who dined in private suites reserved for the Supreme Pontiff, Vincent preferred to eat surrounded by people. He had grown up that way, in refugee camps and makeshift dining areas, sitting on sacks of rice alongside volunteers and children. That habit had stayed with him. Besides, eating in the common dining hall gave him an excuse to escape the endless meetings and paperwork piled on his desk, even if just for a few minutes. Walking through the hallways, breathing fresh air, listening to passing conversations… it reminded him that a real world still existed beyond his office walls.
Although, if he was honest with himself, that particular walk had been far from pleasant. And he had a feeling that this meal wouldn’t be either.
The group settled into their seats. By protocol and tradition, Thomas was always to sit beside him. It wasn’t a political whim, it was an unwritten rule, a visual reminder that the Dean was his right hand and closest advisor. When Vincent had expressed his wish to dine in the common room, that had been the only condition imposed on him. And he wasn’t going to complain. In fact, he deeply appreciated the opportunity to share that daily moment with Thomas.
But Juliette, apparently, wasn’t aware of that small detail. As soon as they reached the main table, she sat confidently in the seat to Thomas’s right. She settled in gracefully, eyeing the large gold-trimmed plate and the carved napkin ring that marked the Pope’s place.
Ray, bless him, cleared his throat gently to draw her attention.
"Mrs. Bernard," he said politely, but with a firm tone that left no room for argument. "That is His Holiness’s seat. I'm afraid you’ll need to sit next to me."
For a moment, Juliette blinked as if she didn’t understand what she was being told. Then her lips pursed in a slight pout, one Thomas didn’t notice since he was turned, speaking to a priest on the other side. Finally, without offering any kind of apology, she stood slowly and walked around the table to sit next to Ray, settling in with a dramatic sigh and staring at her plate as if she’d been robbed of the highest honor.
Vincent watched her from the corner of his eye as he took his rightful seat. No apology. Not even a flicker of embarrassment. He was the Pope, for heaven’s sake. Who did she think she was, sitting in his place beside his Dean as if it were her right?
He felt a slight tremble in his hand as he arranged his napkin on his lap, but he took a deep breath and let the exhale carry away the anger beginning to burn in his chest. It wasn’t his place to feel jealous. It wasn’t his place to feel angry. It wasn’t his place to feel anything.
But when Thomas turned toward him with a warm smile, asking softly if he felt any better, Vincent couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, all he wanted in that moment was a bit of normalcy. To feel without being consumed by guilt.
The gentle voice of Sister Margarita rang out behind him, warm and firm all at once.
"Good morning, Your Holiness."
Margarita was the nun in charge of the kitchen and always made sure Vincent ate healthy and balanced meals, often preparing his favorite dishes whenever she could. In many ways, she reminded him of his mother. She was a kind woman with gentle words and affectionate gestures, but strong enough to put anyone in their place when needed. When she had to be firm, she never hesitated, and Vincent deeply admired that quality in her.
This time, Margarita approached calmly, carrying a large tray in both hands. Without thinking, Vincent stood quickly to help her place the heavy dish on the table. He had never liked the idea of being served everything, pre-portioned. He preferred to serve himself, to make sure he didn’t waste food. He’d learned to live that way during missions in war zones, where even a piece of bread could mean the difference between life and death.
At first, he had been embarrassed by the request and asked them not to work so hard to accommodate his preferences. But over time, he understood it wasn’t a burden for them, it was a service they offered with love and devotion.
Margarita gave him a wide smile when she saw him rise to help her.
"Thank you, Your Holiness. Always so thoughtful," she said in that proud-mother tone that made his heart feel a little lighter.
"Thank you, Sister," Vincent replied with a slight bow of his head.
Thomas used the moment to speak to Margarita.
"Sister, could you please bring some ice for Mrs. Bernard’s foot? She twisted her ankle."
"Of course, Eminence," she replied with her usual efficiency, and turned back toward the kitchen without wasting a second.
Vincent carefully lifted the large metal lid covering the food and allowed a small smile to form when he saw the menu: chicken chop suey with rice. One of his favorite dishes. The aroma of sautéed vegetables and soy sauce reached his nose, awakening what little appetite he had.
Everyone began to serve themselves, and as he did, Vincent noticed with some regret that the chop suey included eggplant. He wasn’t a picky man, he never had been. For years, he had eaten whatever was available, and more than once, nothing at all. But something about that particular vegetable always turned his stomach, and considering how unsettled it already was, he decided not to risk it.
Discreetly, he moved all the eggplant from his plate to Thomas’s. He knew Thomas loved them and didn’t mind doing it. It had become something of a silent routine between them.
Thomas looked up and gave him one of those warm glances, the kind that seemed to wrap around him and calm his heart in an instant.
"Thank you," he said gently, as he began to fill both their glasses with cool water.
Vincent simply nodded, swallowing with some difficulty the emotion that had risen in his throat. Amid all the protocol, political tension, inquisitive stares, and the jealousy he tried to silence, those small daily gestures were a reminder that, at least for a moment, they were still themselves. Just Thomas and Vincent, sharing a meal.
The moment of peace he had found shattered as quickly as it had come when Juliette spoke again, her sweet voice filling the air with a kind of enthusiasm that drilled into Vincent’s ears.
"Thomas, why don’t you bless the food today?" she said, smiling mischievously as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Like last time in Paris, remember?"
Vincent watched as Thomas shifted uncomfortably in his seat, a slight stammer breaking through his response.
"Ah… no, no, Juliette. His Holiness is with us, he should bless it today."
For a moment, Juliette seemed confused. She blinked a couple of times before slowly turning toward Vincent, locking him with that big, bright gaze that pretended innocence. At least, he thought, she still had enough sense not to insist.
Vincent found himself taking a deep breath, weighing his options. He could bless the food himself and deny her the pleasure of hearing Thomas’s voice, or he could allow Thomas to do it, knowing how much Juliette loved listening to him. Because the truth was, hearing Thomas bless the food was a luxury, one even Vincent found comforting, filled with solemnity and warmth all at once.
With a silent sigh, he lowered his hand beneath the table and placed it gently on Thomas’s leg, giving a small squeeze as he murmured:
"Please. You do it."
Thomas turned his face toward him, his clear eyes meeting Vincent’s for a long second. Then he gave a soft nod.
"Of course."
He folded his hands over the table and, in his deep, serene voice, began to recite the blessing. His words flowed with a gentle cadence, filling the dining hall with a respectful silence. Even Juliette closed her eyes with feigned devotion as she listened, as if each word were a poem meant just for her.
Vincent, however, did not close his eyes. He watched Thomas closely, memorizing every expression on his face, every pause in his phrases, every small gesture of his hands. When Thomas finished and gave the signal to begin eating, Vincent barely whispered an “amen” before starting to serve himself.
The food was exquisite. The tender vegetables, the juicy chicken, and the flavorful sauces were a delight to his palate. The sisters never disappointed, and the warmth of the meal seemed to soothe, if only a little, the anxious twist in his stomach.
However, the fragile balance he had found broke again when he heard an urgent cough in front of him. Ray was clearing his throat, but his eyes were not on Vincent, they were on Juliette. Vincent glanced over and nearly choked on his rice.
Juliette was doing exactly what he had done minutes earlier: moving small vegetables she didn’t want onto Thomas’s plate, with a sweet, shy smile as she did. Thomas barely looked up, giving her a small smile of thanks before continuing to eat, oblivious to the poison that gesture was injecting into Vincent’s veins.
He felt the rage rise from his stomach, flushing his cheeks. His hands clenched into fists on his lap, and the world seemed to narrow into a single, red-hot point at the center of his vision. The jealousy was so intense it hurt, it burned, it threatened to tear apart all the control he had worked so hard to build.
But before he could say anything, before he could react in a way he knew he would regret, Ray—bless him—“accidentally” knocked over his glass of water.
"Oh, I’m terribly sorry," he said calmly as the water spilled across the white tablecloth, soaking the napkins.
Thomas reacted immediately, moving his plate aside and grabbing several dry napkins to try to clean the mess, while Juliette let out a small gasp and pulled away from the table, lifting her dress to keep it dry. Everyone’s attention shifted to the incident, and Vincent used the moment to take a deep breath, trying to calm the hurricane of emotion roaring in his chest.
He silently thanked Ray as he felt his pulse begin to slow, though the trembling in his hands had yet to fully fade. Maybe, he thought bitterly, he wasn’t made for these human games. Maybe he simply wasn’t made to feel.
The nearby sisters quickly moved in to help, working with swift efficiency to dry the spilled water. Margarita arrived with the ice pack, which Juliette accepted with a soft “thank you” before placing it theatrically on her ankle.
Vincent, meanwhile, hadn’t taken another bite since the incident. His appetite had vanished completely, leaving behind only a sour pit in his stomach. Margarita, ever attentive, leaned toward him slightly.
"Your Holiness, are you feeling alright?" she asked in a soft, maternal voice. "Is there something about the food you don’t like?"
Vincent looked up at her, seeing the genuine concern in her eyes. A stab of guilt pierced his chest.
"No, Sister, everything is perfect," he replied with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "I just… I’m not hungry today."
Margarita studied him for a second more, evaluating him with that sharp eye only mothers and nuns seemed to possess.
"Then when you return to your office, I’ll have a glass of warm milk sent to you," she said firmly. "I can’t allow you to leave with an empty stomach."
Vincent barely managed a nod of thanks. He knew it was pointless to argue with Margarita when she got that tone. And deep down, he found comfort in the fact that someone still cared for him that way.
Once the commotion was over and the tablecloth was replaced, everyone resumed their meals and conversations. Everyone except Vincent, who drank from his water glass as if it were the only thing keeping him alive. He needed something in his mouth, anything, to stop the sharp words pressing at his tongue. Eating would only worsen the nausea already swirling in his gut.
Juliette, completely ignoring the earlier tension, resumed her conversation with Thomas with renewed enthusiasm. He responded with his usual calm kindness, leaning slightly toward her when he spoke, listening with genuine interest. They stayed like that for several minutes, their voices blending with the soft clinking of cutlery and quiet murmurs from other tables.
Vincent watched them from the corner of his eye, his hands clasped tightly on his lap to keep them from shaking. Every soft laugh from Juliette was a blow, and every calm gesture from Thomas was a jab reminding him just how out of place he felt.
It was Ray who finally broke the moment.
"Forgive my curiosity," he said with a small smile, resting his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand, "but… how did you two meet?"
Vincent closed his eyes for a second and let out a faint sigh. He was curious too, he admitted, but he didn’t want to hear the answer. He didn’t want to know what stories they shared, what memories they held, what parts of their lives had intertwined before he even knew Juliette existed.
But when the question came, Juliette’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. Her voice came out clear and melodious, filled with restrained excitement.
"We met in Paris," she began, her hands moving gracefully as she spoke. "It was several years ago. I was in my last year of Public Policy, studying with his sister, Marianne. One day, Thomas came by surprise to visit her… and that’s when we met.”
As she spoke, her eyes narrowed flirtatiously, her lips curved into a sweet smile, and her cheeks took on a soft pink hue.
"I remember thinking he was the most gentlemanly and kind man I’d ever met," she continued, her gaze fixed on Thomas as if he were the only person in the room. "Since then, we’ve kept in touch. He’s always stayed informed about my projects, and when I started planning this new program, he was the one who contacted me to come to the Vatican."
Vincent kept his face perfectly neutral, trained after years of politics and diplomacy, but inside he felt a pit opening in his stomach, so deep, he could almost feel the cold wind rising from it.
Kept in touch. Letters. Emails. Private conversations. They shared so much more than he could ever dream of sharing with Thomas. And although he knew it was an unfair, irrational thought, he couldn’t help but feel that Juliette was taking something that was his. Something he could never truly claim as his own.
Without saying a word, he took another sip of water, wishing with all his might for the lunch to end before his self-control cracked in front of everyone.
The three of them walked slowly through the wide marble hallways toward the main doors. Ray had said his goodbyes earlier, apologizing for not being able to accompany them, he had urgent matters to attend to. In truth, Vincent had been grateful. He couldn’t bear the thought of having one more witness to the scene he was about to endure.
This short walk was merely part of the farewell protocol for Juliette. His day would continue, full of meetings, documents to sign, and problems to resolve, but in that moment, he only wished everything would end soon.
When they reached the grand entry hall, Juliette turned, gracefully pivoting on her heels. Her eyes lifted toward Thomas, large and shining with a sadness that twisted Vincent’s stomach.
"Thomas…" she said, her voice trembling, gripping his biceps with both hands as if she needed to hold on to something. "It was so wonderful to see you again. I felt so… at peace with you today."
Without waiting for a response, Juliette leaned forward and wrapped her slender arms around his neck, hugging him tightly, almost possessively. Her delicate floral perfume filled the air, sweet and cloying. Vincent watched in silence as she lifted her face and placed a long kiss on Thomas’s cheek, her lips barely grazing the corner of his mouth.
When she pulled away, she did so reluctantly, as if it were a sacrifice that tore a piece of her soul away. With slow gestures, she wiped away fake tears that shimmered in her eyes, then looked at him one more time, as if memorizing his face.
Vincent took a deep breath, struggling to keep his face neutral. He stepped forward and extended his hand toward her, wishing with every fiber of his being that this farewell would end quickly.
"Thank you for your visit, Mrs. Bernard," he said with diplomatic calm.
Juliette turned her attention to him, a smile forming on her lips. She took his hand and gave a slight nod, but her grip was surprisingly strong, he could feel her slender fingers digging into his skin. That same burning fury rose from his stomach to his chest, scorching him inside.
"Thank you, Your Holiness," she replied with sweetly feigned warmth. "Thank you for letting me into your home. I’m sure we’ll stay in touch."
Vincent only nodded, not trusting his voice to say anything more. Finally, with a last, long sigh, Juliette turned, walked gracefully to the large glass doors, and stepped out onto the main staircase, where a sleek black car waited with its rear doors open.
Only when he saw her get into the car, and watched it roll away down the cobbled street and disappear between the Roman buildings, did Vincent feel like he could breathe normally again. He closed his eyes for a second and exhaled slowly, trying to calm the tension in every muscle of his body.
Beside him, Thomas remained silent, his expression calm as he watched the car disappear. Vincent felt a deep weariness sink into his bones, as if his whole body were made of lead. He just wanted to return to his office and shut the door for a while. Just a while.
The rest of the day dragged on with almost cruel slowness. Every meeting seemed endless, every conversation a distant murmur he barely registered. He’d seen Thomas a few more times during the day, exchanging quick, cordial words in the hallways, nothing out of the ordinary. But every time their eyes met, Vincent felt a flicker of discomfort in his chest, like something unresolved hung between them.
All he wanted was to get to his room, fall into bed, and forget this terrible day. As the hours passed, the anger and jealousy that had consumed him all morning began to fade, replaced by something heavier, more painful: guilt and shame.
Juliette was a good friend of Thomas. And Thomas… Thomas didn’t have many friends. He was a reserved man, always polite and kind, but also distant, always guarding his inner world behind an impenetrable wall. He had acquaintances, of course, thousands of people who respected and appreciated him. But friends, the kind you joke with and speak to comfortably, were few. Very few.
Vincent sighed, feeling the weight of his thoughts press on his shoulders. Maybe he had overreacted. Maybe Juliette had just been kind to an old friend, with no romantic intentions at all. Maybe… it was all a product of his own sinful mind, full of insecurities and unjustified jealousy.
"I’ll confess tomorrow," he thought with determination as he walked toward his quarters, his feet dragging heavily across the marble. He couldn’t carry this sin. Not when it also dragged Thomas down with him. Thomas, who all day had shown nothing but kindness and warmth to everyone. Who, as always, had been a light to those around him.
The day had ended, and the walk to his room felt eternal. By the time he reached the large wooden door, his diplomatic smile had vanished completely, leaving only exhaustion on his face. He saw light filtering through the crack beneath the door, and his heart gave a small jolt. He hoped, for a brief second, that Thomas hadn’t arrived yet, that maybe he could just lie down without having to talk about what had happened.
But today was not his lucky day.
He opened the door, and the smell of freshly made food enveloped him immediately. Broth, sautéed vegetables, toasted bread. His stomach twisted with hunger, and his eyes blinked against the warm glow of the scene before him.
Thomas stood in the small kitchen, a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder as he carefully served steaming soup into two large bowls. At the sound of the door, he straightened and quickly turned around. His eyes, so clear and deep, filled with concern the moment they landed on Vincent.
"Vincent…" he said softly, placing the ladle back into the pot. "Are you okay? Do you feel alright?"
Vincent felt his cheeks warm and an unexpected sting in his eyes. All the exhaustion, anger, resentment, and shame built up in his chest, making him feel small and miserable. He had been selfish. Everyone cared deeply for him, and yet he had spent the entire day being petty.
Thomas walked over and, with a warm hand on his back, gently guided him toward the table.
"Come, sit for a bit," he said in that voice of his that could calm any storm. "I made soup for dinner… Would you like to eat some?”
Vincent opened his mouth to respond, but his stomach spoke first with a loud, pitiful growl. Thomas let out a small laugh, a soft sound that filled the room with warmth.
"I thought so," he said affectionately, before standing up and grabbing his own bowl along with a pair of clean utensils.
Vincent let himself sink into the chair, feeling more exhausted than he had all day. He hadn’t eaten anything since the few spoonfuls at lunch, but his appetite hadn’t returned until that moment.
When Thomas sat across from him, they both fell into silence, watching the steam rise from the bowls of hot soup, filling the air with the scent of fresh herbs and chicken broth.
Thomas was the first to break the silence.
"Are you okay?" he asked gently, his voice full of care and patience.
Vincent lowered his gaze to his bowl, turning the spoon between his fingers, watching the broth ripple in soft golden waves. He thought about lying, about saying he was just tired and nothing more. But he couldn’t. Not with Thomas. Not when there was something broken between them that needed to be repaired.
"Today..." he began, his voice unsteady, "Today I felt... uncomfortable. With... Juliette. With... the way she acted around you."
Thomas didn’t say anything, but Vincent felt the tension shift around him, becoming heavier, more charged. He took a deep breath before continuing.
"I know that... I know I shouldn’t feel that way. She’s your friend. It was... it was shameful of me to feel jealous. I’m ashamed..." he swallowed hard, trying to keep his composure. "I’m really ashamed that I felt like that."
There was a moment of absolute silence before Thomas set his spoon down on the bowl and leaned forward. He took Vincent’s hands in his, large, warm, and steady, and began to kiss each of his knuckles slowly, as if trying to erase every invisible wound with his love.
"I love you," Thomas said softly, his voice filled with such immense tenderness it hurt. "I’m so sorry I made you uncomfortable. I promise that... next time, I’ll keep my distance. I don’t want you to ever feel that way again. Ever."
Vincent swallowed, feeling those words, so sincere, so gentle, untie the knots that had gripped him tightly all day. The fear, the doubt, that sharp burning in his chest he hadn’t wanted to name... all of it began to melt away in the warmth of that voice.
He squeezed the hands he held tightly, as if clinging to Thomas could calm the whirlwind still stirring inside him, and leaned in slowly, their foreheads nearly touching.
"I’m yours," Thomas murmured, with that tone that left no room for insecurity, only certainty.
Vincent blinked, feeling something inside him finally loosen. It wasn’t just relief. It was something deeper. It was security.
"You’re mine," he replied, his voice breaking under the weight of everything he no longer needed to say.
Then he kissed him. Not out of impulse or urgency, but out of need. A slow kiss, full of everything he had felt and everything he no longer feared to feel. A kiss that tasted of home, of trust, of promises that no longer needed to be spoken aloud.
And for the first time all day, Vincent felt at peace.