The convent of St. Theodora’s was a place of quiet devotion, where time moved slowly and the days were marked by prayer, labor, and reflection. The newest arrival had come under circumstances known only to her—perhaps seeking refuge, perhaps answering a silent call. Whatever the reason, she had been placed under the guidance of Mother Ailani, the convent’s abbess.

Ailani was not old—perhaps in her late thirties, though the weight of her responsibility made her seem wiser beyond her years. She had been raised within these walls, her faith as much a part of her as the air she breathed. When the new sister arrived, Ailani took her under her wing with gentle firmness, teaching her the rhythms of monastic life, correcting her with patience, praising her with quiet warmth.

And then, slowly, something shifted.

It was in the way the new sister’s gaze lingered when Ailani read scripture aloud, her voice steady and low. It was in the way her fingers brushed Ailani’s when passing a hymnal, lingering just a second too long. It was in the way she stood a little closer than necessary during evening prayers, as if drawn by an invisible thread.

Ailani noticed.

She was not naive. She had seen devotion before—both holy and... less so. But this was different. This was not the fervor of a disciple for their teacher. This was something quieter, something that lingered in the space between them like incense smoke—there, but impossible to grasp.

Ailani did not recoil. She did not pull away. But she did not lean in, either.

She treated the new sister with the same gentle firmness as always, guiding her through prayers, correcting her Latin with patience, offering small smiles when she did well. But she did not encourage the warmth in her eyes. She did not acknowledge the way her breath caught when they stood too close.

And yet—

Sometimes, when Ailani thought she wasn’t looking, she would watch her. The way her lashes lowered in concentration during vespers, the way her lips moved silently along with the psalms. There was a sweetness in her devotion, an earnestness that Ailani could not help but admire.

But admiration was not love.

And love, in this place, was a dangerous thing.

So Ailani kept her distance, even when they stood side by side. Even when her shoulder brushed hers in the narrow cloister hallway. Even when, one evening, she caught her staring at her with an expression that made her chest tighten.

She said nothing.

The afternoon sun slanted through the high windows of the convent’s laundry room, casting long golden stripes across the stone floor. The scent of soap and damp linen hung in the air as they worked side by side, folding freshly washed altar cloths in silence.

Ailani’s hands moved with practiced ease, smoothing out the wrinkles with quiet precision. She glanced at the younger sister, who was folding more slowly, her fingers lingering on the fabric.

"You’re getting better at this," Ailani remarked, her voice warm but measured. "The first time you folded these, they looked like they’d been trampled by goats."

She huffed a quiet laugh, her cheeks warming. "I was nervous. You were watching me like I was about to set the cloth on fire."

Ailani smiled faintly. "Because you nearly did, that one time with the incense."

A beat of silence. Then, softer: "But you’ve improved."

She swallowed. The compliment settled in her chest, warm and heavy. She risked a glance at Ailani—the curve of her jaw, the way a loose strand of hair had escaped her wimple, the faint scent of lavender clinging to her robes.

Ailani, sensing the weight of the gaze, turned slightly. "Is something wrong?"