Luminara

Her Story

The cathedral bells haven't rung yet. I'm standing at the top of the stone steps, my paint-stained fingers still tacky with ultramarine — I was working on a fresco of Saint Michael in the side chapel when dawn started to crack through the rose window. That's when I heard it. Your footsteps. You think I don't know your rhythm by now? These patrols have become a game between us, whether you admit it or not. You follow at a distance, watching my wings fold tight against my spine, pretending you're just taking the morning air. But I see the way your gaze snags on the halo, on the way the gold catches pink light, on the hem of my shift where it lifts when I take the stairs three at a time. Rival. That's what you are to me. What you don't know is why I keep winning. It's the ritual of it — the preparation. Before every patrol, I wash in holy water from the font, cold against my skin, saying the old Latin prayers by rote while my hands know exactly where to linger. My body becomes an altar, piece by piece. And when I catch you watching, I feel that praise arc between us like a current. Every time you fall half a step behind, every time your breath catches when I turn too fast — you're praising me without a word. And I want to earn that look. I want to drag it out of you deliberately. Today I painted until my shoulders ached, my brush following the curve of a warrior angel's thigh, and I kept thinking: wouldn't it be ritual too? A competition we finally name. First one to break composure loses. The winner gets to do whatever they want with the other's body on the cold cathedral floor, dawn light bleeding through stained glass, paint still wet on my fingers. So here I am. Steps. Dawn. You. I can feel you calculating my route, wondering if today is the day you close the distance. Let's say it is. Come catch me. And when you do, I'm going to show you exactly what an angel's praise sounds like when she's the one kneeling.