Brielle

CHAPTERS:

DOUBLE FEATURE: CHAPTER ONE

Or you can read it on my Patreon:

DOUBLE FEATURE: CHAPTER TWO

Or you can read it on my Patreon:

DOUBLE FEATURE: CHAPTER THREE

Or you can read it on my Patreon:

DOUBLE FEATURE: FINAL CHAPTER

Or you can read it on my Patreon:

...

A sharp, insistent banging on your door pulls you from your thoughts as you’re enjoying your breakfast. You barely have time to process before Hyunjin’s voice comes through.

“It’s me, your neighbor.”

You sigh, already knowing what this is about. When you unlock the door and pull it open, Hyunjin stands there, chest rising and falling with controlled breaths, jaw tight with frustration.

“You paid my rent,” he says, cutting straight to the point. His voice is low, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s holding himself back from saying more.

You step aside and open the door wider to let him in. “Please, come in.”

He hesitates for a moment before stepping past you, his presence filling the small space of your apartment. You close the door behind him, watching as he runs a hand through his dark hair, clearly trying to collect himself.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” he says, turning to face you. His eyes are sharp, his expression a mix of frustration and something else—something unsure.

You remain calm, leaning back against the counter. “I know you didn’t.”

“Then why did you do it?”

You exhale, keeping your voice even. “Because I wanted to.”

Hyunjin lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “That’s not a reason.”

“Does there have to be one?” you counter. “I had the money. You needed it.”

“I don’t want charity,” he snaps.

“It’s not charity,” you say calmly. “I’m not giving you the money for free.”

Hyunjin stops short, confusion flickering in his eyes. “…What do you mean?”

You walk past him, grabbing two cans from your fridge and offering him one. He takes it hesitantly, watching you warily as you settle onto the couch. After a beat, he sits down too, though his posture is still tense.

“I want you to work for it,” you say simply.

He raises a brow. “Doing what?”

You take a sip of your drink before setting it down. “You know what I do, right?”

His jaw tenses slightly, but he nods. The rumors have been around for a while but again, he's not one to care about other people's business.

“I create content for Lustre,” you continue. “It’s a subscription-based platform where people pay for exclusive content. My content is... adult-oriented, but it’s more than just that.”

Hyunjin looks down at the can of drink he's been holding in his hand, letting you continue.

“I don’t just post random pictures or videos,” you explain. “I put effort into making everything look good. I plan my shoots, choose my outfits carefully, pay attention to lighting, angles, and themes. It’s about aesthetics as much as anything else.”

Hyunjin listens, his fingers tapping against the can in his hands.

“I need fresh content,” you continue. “Something more artistic, more professional. My subscriber count has been dropping, and I need to do something about it. That’s where you come in.”

Hyunjin blinks, clearly thrown off. “…Me?”

“You’re an artist,” you say. “You understand composition, lighting, angles. You could help me take my content to the next level.”

Hyunjin stares at you, processing. Then, he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “So let me get this straight. You paid my rent, and in return, you want me to work for you, to take pictures of you… for Lustre?”

You meet his gaze steadily. “Yes.”

He lets out a laugh—disbelieving, maybe a little incredulous. “This is insane.”

You take a small sip of your drink and grin. “Well, just a little.”

Hyunjin doesn’t answer right away. He just sits there, staring at the floor, fingers still lightly drumming against his drink. You don’t push him. You know he needs time. But the idea is planted and now, all you have to do is wait.

...

Full fic will be released on Friday, April 4th. Or you can read it early on my Patreon page:

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are products of my imagination and used in a fictitious manner. Be aware that there are mentions of alcohol addiction and self-harm implicitly.

The church is quiet, save for the distant murmur of prayers and the soft creak of old wooden pews. Outside, the scent of burning incense lingering in the air, wrapping around the sacred space like a whisper of devotion. Candles flicker along the altar, their golden light casting shifting shadows against stained glass, illuminating stories of faith, sacrifice, and redemption.

But in the privacy of his office, Jeongin feels none of that.

The sanctity of the church should be enough to steady him, to remind him of his place, of his duty. And yet, as he stands before you, his pulse thrums unsteadily beneath his skin, loud enough that he wonders if you can hear it too.

You’re still close—so close that he can feel the warmth of your body in the dimly lit space. The air between you is thick, heavy with something unspoken, something dangerous. It coils around him, testing the limits of his restraint, daring him to step over a line he swore never to cross again.

He should say something. He should tell you to leave, that this—whatever this is—has to stop. But his voice betrays him, staying lodged in his throat as his gaze drifts to your lips, remembering the way they felt against his only moments ago.

His mind is a mess, tangled between restraint and desire, faith and something that feels just as powerful. But when he looks at you—at your glassy eyes, at the way your lips part as if searching for something to say—his resolve fractures.

And then, before he can stop himself, he kisses you.

The moment his lips meet yours, Jeongin feels his world shift. It's soft, tentative at first, but the second he feels you respond—your fingers tightening around his, the slight tilt of your head, the way you sigh against his mouth—something deep within him crumbles.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows this is dangerous, that crossing this line again will only complicate everything further. But with you pressed close, his hands finding their way to your waist, he feels everything else slip away—the church, his vows, the weight of his title. Right now, none of it exists. There is only you.

A part of him waits for guilt to settle in, for the crushing weight of his conscience to pull him back. But it doesn’t come. Instead, all he feels is warmth—the kind he hasn’t allowed himself to feel in so long.

When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling in the quiet space between you. His hands linger at your sides, hesitant, as if unsure whether to let go or pull you closer.

“This… isn’t right,” he murmurs, but even as he says it, he doesn’t move away.

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you search his face, as if trying to understand what’s going on inside his head. When you finally speak, your voice is barely above a whisper.

“Then why does it feel like it is?”

Jeongin closes his eyes, exhaling shakily. He doesn’t have an answer. Maybe because part of him agrees. Maybe because, for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t want to fight it.

But wanting something doesn’t make it right.

And yet, as you stand there in the quiet of his office, as he traces the shape of you with his fingertips, Jeongin wonders if maybe—just maybe—this is the one sin he’s willing to commit.

-

Jeongin moves before he can think.

One second, he’s battling the storm inside him, and the next, his hands are on you—grasping, pulling, pressing. Your back meets the bookshelves with a soft thud, the scent of aged paper and ink mixing with the warmth of his breath as his lips crash against yours. It’s desperate, consuming, a kiss that speaks of everything he’s tried to bury.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, and he groans against your mouth, his grip tightening on your waist as he presses you further against the shelves. Books shift, a few tumbling to the floor, but neither of you notice. The weight of restraint, of months spent apart, shatters between you.

Then, suddenly, he lifts you—strong hands curling under your thighs as he carries you across the room. The edge of his desk meets your stomach as he turns you, his fingers splaying over your spine, guiding you down. Your breath hitches as he leans over you, his lips trailing along the curve of your shoulder, his hands exploring, worshiping.

As for his hands, they're busy pulling, yanking your underwear down and once it's pooling around your ankle, ha palms your sex, feeling your clit pulsating with every gentle rub of his fingers on it.

The room is silent save for the ragged breaths you share, the faint creak of wood beneath you, and the whispered remnants of his resolve unraveling with every movement.

Here, in the dim glow of his office, Jeongin surrenders. Not to temptation, not to sin—but to the undeniable truth that when he’s with you, he feels whole.

The moment he fully sinks into you, he pauses, giving you a moment to adjust to his size. He hears you breathe in and out, and then suck in a sharp, needy inhale as his hand land on your clit again and begin circling on it. He doesn’t move for several long moments, simply letting you feel his whole length inside you.

His hands grip your hips, fingers pressing into your skin as if to remind himself that you're real—that this moment isn't some fleeting dream. He moves with urgency, with hunger, each motion a confession of everything he's tried to suppress. The need, the longing, the ache of your absence—it all unravels in the way he takes you.

Your body molds against him, meeting every touch, every thrust with the same desperate need. A sharp gasp escapes you, followed by another, and another, until your voice grows louder, echoing through the quiet of the office.

Panic flickers in Jeongin’s eyes. The church is vast, but sound carries, and the thought of anyone hearing you—of anyone knowing—sends a jolt through him. Without thinking, he presses a hand over your mouth, his breath hot against the back of your neck as he whispers, “Shh…”

But even as he says it, he knows he's lost. Knows he can't stop, can't pull away, can't pretend he doesn’t want this, doesn’t need this. And the way you tremble beneath him, the way you don’t resist—only sink further into his touch—tells him that you don’t want him to stop either.

The desk creaks beneath you, your bodies moving in sync, tangled between want and something deeper, something unspoken. His hand remains over your mouth, but your muffled moans still break through, each one unraveling him further.

He’s never wanted anything more than this—than you. And right now, nothing else exists.

Jeongin's grip tightens on your waist, his pace unrelenting, his body pressed firmly against yours. His breath is hot against your ear as he leans in, voice low, teasing, sinful.

"Do you want the whole church to hear you?" he murmurs, his tone laced with something dark, something wicked. "Want someone to walk in and see you like this? See you bent over my desk, moaning like a sinner?"

A shiver runs down your spine at his words, a rush of heat pooling in your core. He feels it—the way your body clenches around him, the way you react to his taunts—and it only spurs him on.

"You like that idea, don’t you?" he breathes, his fingers trailing up your back, your skin burning under his touch. "Filthy."

Your muffled whimper against his palm betrays you, and Jeongin chuckles, the sound deep, knowing. His other hand slides down, gripping your hip tighter as he pushes into you with more force, more purpose.

"Maybe I should take my hand away," he muses, teasing. "Let them hear exactly how much you love this."

But he doesn’t. He keeps his hand firmly over your mouth, swallowing every desperate sound you make, as if he knows you’d be too loud—too lost in the pleasure he’s giving you. And that thought alone—knowing how much he affects you—undoes him completely.

"You like this, don’t you?" he murmurs, his voice a deep whisper against your ear. "The thought of someone hearing, of someone knowing what I’m doing to you right now."

Your body tenses at his words, a shudder rolling through you as your fingers curl against the polished wood. You shouldn’t like it—shouldn’t crave it the way you do—but the way his voice drips with something almost sinful makes your breath hitch.

Jeongin chuckles softly, pressing a kiss against the back of your shoulder, his lips warm against your skin. "You're so eager for me," he muses, his grip tightening, his pace unrelenting. "Maybe it’s a good thing I covered your mouth. Otherwise, the whole church would know just how filthy you sound when I touch you like this."

Your muffled whimper is his only answer, and it only fuels him further. His restraint is fraying, unraveling with every desperate sound you make beneath his palm. The weight of his presence, the heat of his body against yours—it’s overwhelming. Consuming.

Jeongin pulls out just to push it back in, hard enough that he launches you forward, he continues thrusting and slides a hand around your hips to play with your clit. Three or four strokes later, and you come around him.

He follows you over the edge, chanting your name like a prayer andAnd in this moment, with nothing but the heavy scent of old books and candle wax in the air, Jeongin lets himself forget. Forget the weight of his collar. Forget the vows he’s breaking. Forget the world beyond these four walls.

Right now, there is only you.

-

The weight of the moment still lingers in the air, thick and heady, as Jeongin slowly exhales. His hands move on their own accord, instinctively smoothing down your dress as he kneels before you. His breath is warm against your skin as he leans in, his lips brushing over the inside of your thigh, a soft kiss before his tongue flicks out to taste the remnants of himself on you.

A quiet gasp leaves your lips as your fingers weave into his hair, but Jeongin doesn’t linger—not this time. He’s gentle, thorough, his hands gripping your legs steady as he cleans up the mess he made with his slick, hot tongue, the intimacy of it making something tighten in his chest.

Once he’s finished, he reaches for your discarded underwear, sliding it back up your legs with careful hands. His fingers graze your skin as he adjusts the hem of your dress, his touch lingering a second too long before he finally stands.

Neither of you speak as he helps you straighten your clothes, his hands smoothing out the wrinkles on your sleeves, then reaching down to pick up your purse from where it had fallen. When he hands it to you, your fingers brush, and you look up at him, searching his face.

“Can I see you again?” you ask softly.

Jeongin hesitates for only a second, but he already knows the answer. He’s too far gone to turn back now. His fingers find their way to your hair, gently tucking a stray strand behind your ear as he leans in, pressing a kiss to your lips.

"Tomorrow," he murmurs, his voice low, steady. "I'll see you again tomorrow."

A small smile plays at your lips, and something inside Jeongin eases at the sight. But the moment is fleeting, the reality of where you are settling back in as he glances toward the door. Without another word, he kisses you again, quick and rushed, as if afraid someone might walk in and shatter this fragile moment.

Then, with one last glance, you turn toward the door. As you step out of his office, you flash him a smile—soft, knowing—and then you’re gone.

Jeongin stands there for a moment, staring at the closed door, his heart pounding against his ribs.

Tomorrow.

It should scare him. It should make him second-guess everything. But instead, all he can think about is how he already can’t wait to see you again.

-

The café is tucked away on a quiet street, far enough from Jeongin’s neighborhood that he doesn’t have to worry about running into anyone familiar. Still, as he steps inside, a flicker of unease settles in his chest. His eyes scan the room, searching—until they land on you.

You're sitting by the window, fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee, absentmindedly stirring the liquid with your spoon. Sunlight filters through the glass, casting a soft glow on your skin, and when you finally notice him standing by the entrance, your face lights up.

Jeongin’s breath catches.

It’s ridiculous, really. He’s been with you before—held you, kissed you, memorized the way your body fits against his. And yet, standing here now, watching the way your lips curve into a smile just for him, he feels his heart stutter like a nervous teenager on his first date.

His first date.

A strange thought, but an accurate one. He hasn’t done this—met someone in a café, taken the time to sit across from them and just exist together—for over three years. The realization unsettles him, but before he can dwell on it, you wave him over.

“Hey,” you greet, your voice warm, inviting. “You made it.”

He exhales, pushing away his hesitation, and moves toward you. “Of course,” he says, pulling out the chair across from you. “Sorry, I—” He clears his throat. “Didn’t keep you waiting long, did I?”

You shake your head. “Not at all.”

For a moment, there’s a beat of quiet between you, but it’s not awkward. It’s comfortable. Jeongin watches as you take a sip of your drink, your eyes flickering toward him with something unreadable in them—something soft, something patient. It grounds him.

The conversation starts naturally, flowing like it always does between you two. You talk about little things—the café, the pastries, the books stacked neatly on a nearby shelf. At one point, Jeongin admits he hasn’t been to a place like this in years, and you smile at him knowingly.

“I guess it does feel a little… date-like,” you tease, your eyes glinting with amusement.

Jeongin scoffs lightly, though his ears burn at the comment. “It’s just coffee.”

“Mm.” You hum, stirring your drink again. “And what if I told you I liked the idea of it being a date?”

He swallows hard, fingers tightening around his cup. “Then…” He exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Then I’d be in trouble, wouldn’t I?”

You grin at that, tilting your head slightly as if studying him. Before he can overthink whatever it is you’re searching for in his face, you reach into your bag and pull something out, sliding it across the table toward him.

Jeongin blinks.

It’s his book—his latest one, the one he spent months agonizing over, the one he thought you’d never read.

“I was going to ask you last time,” you say, tapping the cover. “But… we were kind of preoccupied.”

Heat rises to his face as flashes of last night fill his mind. He coughs, shifting in his seat. “Yeah. Preoccupied.”

You laugh softly before sliding a pen toward him. “Would you please sign it for me?”

Jeongin hesitates, his fingers brushing against the book’s worn edges. He should’ve expected this—he’s signed copies for other readers before. But something about this feels different. More intimate.

Carefully, he flips open the cover, pen poised above the blank page. “What do you want me to write?”

You shrug. “Whatever you want.”

That’s almost worse.

Jeongin takes a moment, staring at the empty space in front of him. He could just sign his name and be done with it. But instead, his hand moves on its own, words flowing before he can second-guess them.

To the one who sees me, in ways no one else ever has.

He pauses, pressing his lips together before adding his signature beneath it.

When he finally pushes the book back to you, you glance down at the page, eyes skimming over his handwriting. Jeongin watches closely, nervous for some reason, but when you look up at him again, there’s something softer in your expression. Something that tugs at the deepest part of him.

“Thank you,” you murmur, tracing the edge of the book.

He nods, clearing his throat. “Yeah.”

And just like that, the café, the people, the outside world—it all fades into the background. For this moment, it’s just the two of you. Just coffee, a book, and something unspoken lingering between you.

-

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting streaks of gold and orange across the horizon as Jeongin walks beside you. The air is crisp, filled with the quiet hum of the city winding down, the occasional laughter of children playing in the distance, the rustle of leaves beneath your feet.

For a while, neither of you say anything. It’s a comfortable silence, one that Jeongin has grown to cherish. But then, you sigh, gaze flickering toward the sky as if searching for something.

“A lot happened in the last four months,” you murmur.

Jeongin turns his head slightly, giving you his full attention. “Yeah?”

You nod. “I graduated.”

His lips curl into a smile. “I knew you would. Congratulations on that!”

You let out a quiet laugh, but there’s something tired in the way you do it. “Thank you. I also got an internship at a magazine.”

“That’s great,” Jeongin says, genuine. “You always wanted that, right?”

“I did,” you admit. “It’s been… busy, but I’m learning a lot.”

There’s something unspoken in the way you say it, and Jeongin waits, knowing there’s more.

You take a deep breath before continuing, “I moved out of my parents’ house.”

That catches him off guard. He blinks, processing your words. “You did?”

You nod again, but this time, your expression shifts—like you’re remembering something heavy, something that weighs on you. “My mother refused the idea. We fought about it. She said I was being selfish, that I didn’t think about the family.” You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. “It got bad. And now… we’re not really on good terms.”

Jeongin listens intently as you speak, taking in every word, every hesitation, every flicker of emotion that crosses your face. But what truly catches his attention is your hand—the way it drifts to your thigh, fingers curling into the fabric of your skirt, pressing down, gripping tighter with every mention of your mother. He knows that kind of pain, the kind that doesn’t just exist in your heart but demands to be felt in your body, as if hurting yourself physically could somehow lessen the ache inside.

“I don’t really have anyone now,” you say softly.

And maybe you don’t even realize you’re doing it, but he sees the way your nails press into your skin, the way you try to keep your voice even when it trembles at the edges.

Before he can think twice, he reaches out, gently prying your fingers away and taking your hand in his. His grip is firm but warm, grounding. Your breath hitches slightly, eyes darting to where his fingers intertwine with yours.

"You’re not alone," Jeongin says softly, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

You look up at him, startled, as if hearing those words out loud shakes something loose inside you.

"Sometimes we have to leave things behind, even people we love, to become who we’re meant to be," he continues. "And it hurts. But that doesn’t mean you have to carry it all by yourself."

Your fingers twitch in his grasp, but you don’t pull away. Instead, after a moment, you squeeze his hand back, just barely—but enough for Jeongin to feel it.

He exhales, a quiet relief settling over him.

It’s such a simple thing. Just holding hands. And yet, standing here, feeling your warmth, feeling the way your fingers fit so perfectly between his—he knows this isn’t simple at all.

Holding your hand isn’t just about stopping you from hurting yourself. It’s a silent promise, a reassurance that even in the spaces where the past still lingers, where the pain still throbs—you’re not alone.

And he likes it. He likes the way it feels, how easy it is, how right it seems. He likes that everyone around can see that you’re with him and he’s with you, like any other couple walking through the park. Just two people enjoying the sunset together.

Forgetting, just for a moment, that there’s anything complicated about this at all.

-

As Jeongin walks you home, the city hums around you—the occasional car passing by, the distant chatter of pedestrians, the soft glow of streetlights casting elongated shadows against the pavement. But none of it registers, not really. Not when you're right beside him, your fingers occasionally brushing against his as you walk.

When you finally reach your apartment building, you stop at the entrance and turn to face him. The warm glow of the lights above the door softens your features, making you look even more beautiful, and Jeongin grips the edge of his sleeve to stop himself from reaching for you outright.

"Thank you for today," you say softly, your voice carrying a sincerity that makes something in his chest tighten. "I had a nice time."

He holds your gaze, his fingers twitching at his sides. His first instinct is to say something, anything, but the words don't come. Instead, his hand finds yours again, holding it between both of his, as if reluctant to let go.

A moment passes in silence.

Then, you ask, "Do you… want to come upstairs?"

Jeongin knows what will happen if he says yes. If he follows you up, if he steps into your apartment, if you’re alone together behind a locked door. His body wants to say yes. His heart wants to say yes. But his mind tells him to stop.

Not yet.

He swallows the urge and offers you a small, apologetic smile. "Maybe some other time."

You nod in understanding, though there's the smallest flicker of disappointment in your eyes. But it disappears as quickly as it came when you gather the courage to ask, "Is it too soon to ask when I can see you again?"

Jeongin exhales a soft laugh, warmth blooming in his chest at your shyness. "The church is giving out free ice cream this Sunday," he tells you. "You should come."

You smile. "I will."

He wants to hold you, to pull you against his chest and feel your warmth, not even in a way that would lead to something more—just to embrace you, to exist in this moment together. But it's too public, too risky.

So instead, he swallows the urge and nods toward the entrance. "You should head in."

You hesitate, as if reluctant to leave him. But then you nod, whisper a soft, "Goodnight," and turn toward the door.

He watches you take a few steps away, pausing at the entrance, glancing over your shoulder at him one last time before finally stepping inside.

As the door closes behind you, Jeongin lets out a deep breath, a realization settling heavily in his chest.

He just let you go. And he doesn’t want to.

Before he can stop himself, he moves. His feet carry him forward, past the entrance and up the stairs, two at a time.

When you hear his hurried footsteps, you stop on the landing and turn around, eyes widening slightly when you see him coming up to meet you. He slows as he reaches you, stopping one step lower so that, for once, you're at the same height.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then, Jeongin reaches out, his hand cradling your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek. He kisses you. Softly, gently—so different from the way he kissed you last night. There’s no urgency, no desperation, just a quiet reverence, a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. He kisses you like he’s memorizing the feel of you, like he’s terrified he’ll never get to do this again.

And then he pulls away, though not entirely. His lips linger close, his breath still warm against yours, as if he isn’t quite ready to break the moment.

Finally, he steps back, his lips curving into a small smile. "Goodnight," he whispers.

And then, before he can change his mind, he turns and makes his way back down the stairs.

As he steps onto the street, he exhales slowly, his fingers brushing over his lips, still tingling from your kiss.

-

The church is filled with soft murmurs, the rustle of pages turning in hymnbooks, the occasional cough echoing against the high ceilings. Stained glass windows filter the morning light into fractured colors, casting hues of red, blue, and gold onto the congregation. It should feel like any other Sunday, another routine sermon, another familiar rhythm of prayers and scripture.

But Jeongin knows this Sunday is different.

Because you’re here.

He suppresses the smile threatening to curl at his lips, instead lowering his gaze to the pages of his Bible, feigning concentration. But no matter how hard he tries to focus, his mind keeps drifting—to the soft lilt of your voice, the way you looked at him two nights ago on the stairs, the feeling of your lips against his.

The knowledge that you’re sitting among the parishioners, listening to his sermon, sends a strange warmth coursing through his veins. It’s an awareness that settles deep within him, a silent anticipation that he tries desperately to suppress. He shouldn’t be this excited to see you.

And yet, as he stands at the pulpit, addressing the congregation, his eyes instinctively scan the pews until they land on you.

You’re near the middle, sitting quietly among the others, your hands folded neatly in your lap. Your head is bowed slightly, your eyes fixed on him with an attentiveness that makes his pulse stutter.

For a fleeting moment, the rest of the church fades away.

It’s just you. Just him.

Then, realizing he’s lingering too long, Jeongin quickly looks away, clearing his throat before continuing his sermon.

He reminds himself to keep his voice steady, to not let the words tremble with the weight of knowing you’re watching him. But even as he speaks about faith and devotion, about God’s plan and the strength to follow it, he wonders—if he were to step down from the pulpit, if he were to walk through the pews and take your hand in his… would that be straying from God’s path?

Or was it possible… that you were part of it?

The thought lingers, even as he bows his head in prayer, even as the choir sings its final hymn.

And when the mass ends and people begin to file out, Jeongin finds himself searching for you again, anticipation thrumming beneath his skin.

Because this Sunday, for the first time in a long time, he’s not just waiting for the service to be over.

He’s waiting for you.

-

The late morning sun casts a warm glow over the churchyard, the air filled with the laughter of children as they eagerly crowd around the ice cream booth. Their voices blend together, bright and full of excitement, their small hands reaching out for the free treats.

Jeongin spots you standing a few feet away from the scene, watching with a faint smile, your hands tucked into the sleeves of your cardigan. He approaches, keeping a safe distance between you, aware of the parishioners mingling nearby.

“You’re not joining them?” he asks, tilting his head toward the booth.

You shake your head, amusement flickering in your eyes. “I don’t want to get hurt.”

He laughs at that, the sound coming naturally, effortlessly. “You’re lucky you’re with me, then. I can get you one without queuing.”

Before you can protest, he turns on his heel and heads toward the booth. The kids part easily for him, greeting him with bright smiles and playful chatter, and within moments, he returns with a small cup of ice cream in hand.

“Here.” He hands it to you, and for the briefest moment, your fingers brush against his as you take it from him.

It’s nothing—just a fleeting touch, a second of contact. And yet, the sensation lingers, a jolt of electricity shooting through him. He quickly looks away, willing himself to act normal, but it’s difficult when you look so beautiful today. When all he wants to do is hold you, pull you closer, press a kiss to the corner of your mouth just to see you smile like that again.

Instead, the two of you stand there in silence, side by side, neither of you quite knowing how to act.

Then, you clear your throat, breaking the quiet. “I, um… I won’t be able to see you for a couple of days.”

Jeongin blinks, glancing at you. “Oh?”

You nod, stirring your ice cream with the small plastic spoon. “I have a work trip—just two days. I’ll be back soon.”

A teasing smirk tugs at his lips. “I thought you were going to ask when you can see me again.”

You laugh softly, a little shy, a little flustered. “Well… maybe I was.”

He’s about to respond, to say something he shouldn’t, when a voice calls his name.

“Father Yang!”

He turns to see a parishioner approaching, one that he recognizes has been a generous donor to the church, smiling warmly as he makes his way over.

And just like that, the moment is gone.

You step back almost instantly, gripping your cup of ice cream a little tighter. “I should go,” you say quickly, nodding toward Jeongin before offering the other man a polite smile. “Thank you for the ice cream.”

Before he can say anything, before he can even think, you turn and walk away, disappearing into the crowd.

Jeongin exhales slowly, watching you go, his fingers curling into his palm as he swallows the urge to follow.

-

Jeongin tries to focus. He really does.

The late afternoon sun filters through the church windows, casting golden light across the wooden pews, the air thick with the lingering scent of incense. The afternoon mass had gone smoothly, the hymns sung beautifully, the prayers spoken with quiet devotion. But even as he stood at the altar, delivering his sermon, his mind wandered elsewhere—to you.

You, with your soft voice and bright eyes.

You, with your laughter that still echoed in his ears.

You, walking away from him after mass, leaving him with nothing but the ghost of your touch and the lingering scent of your perfume.

He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face as he steps outside, hoping that the cool air will clear his mind. He has some free time before the Bible studies, and a part of him hopes that the distraction will be enough to keep his thoughts at bay.

As if you sense that he's drifting away from you, his phone buzzes inside hus pocket. He pulls it out and sure enough, your name lights up his screen, a simple message waiting for him:

Can I call you?

Jeongin's breath catches, his thumb hovering over the screen. He looks around the church, empty except for a few parishioners coming into the church to pray in the peaceful silence.

With that, he turns on his heel, making his way toward his office. His pace quickens with every step, anticipation buzzing beneath his skin.

Jeongin shuts the door behind him, leaning against the solid wood as he exhales. His phone is still buzzing in his palm, your name glowing on the screen. He hesitates only for a second before accepting the call, bringing it to his ear.

“Hello?”

There’s silence for a brief moment, just the soft sound of your breath filtering through the line. Then—

“I’m so wet.”

Jeongin stiffens. His grip on the phone tightens. “What?”

A quiet laugh escapes you, breathy and teasing, but there’s a slight tremble beneath it. “I started thinking about you… and I just—” You sigh, the sound dragging against his nerves like a slow burn. “I couldn’t help myself.”

Jeongin swallows, his throat suddenly dry. His free hand flexes at his side before gripping the edge of his desk. “Where are you?” His voice is lower than he expected.

“My hotel room,” you murmur. “Lying on my bed… naked, touching myself.”

A sharp breath leaves him, and he clenches his jaw. His mind floods with images he shouldn’t entertain, things he shouldn’t want, yet his body betrays him, heat pooling low in his stomach. He exhales through his nose, tilting his head back slightly.

“What are you thinking about?” His voice comes out rough, unsteady.

“You,” you admit without hesitation. “Your hands, your lips… how you feel against me. I want you, Jeongin.”

His breath shudders as his restraint frays. His fingers move almost unconsciously, yanking open the front of his dark slacks. The pressure has been building since the moment you spoke, his body responding before he could stop it.

He shifts against the desk, eyes fluttering shut. “Tell me more.”

You do.

“My legs are spreading open and it makes me think of you kneeling between them.”

Jeongin exhales sharply, his fingers tightening around the phone as your voice filters through the speaker. The sound of your breath, the quiet rustle of fabric—he can picture it too vividly.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, his voice low, rough around the edges. His free hand moves to palm over himself, feeling the ache growing unbearable. “What are you doing now?”

A shaky sigh comes from your end. “I’m spreading my legs wider,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m running my fingers down—” You cut off with a soft, unsteady breath. “It’s so wet, Jeongin. I need you inside me.”

His name leaving your lips like that sends a sharp pulse of heat through him. He groans under his breath, finally giving in as he wraps a hand around himself, stroking slowly.

“Keep going,” he tells you, his voice strained.

“I’m making a mess on my bed and I wish... wish it was your cock instead of my fingers.”

You describe everything in vivid detail, every touch, every movement, every filthy thought that runs through your mind. And Jeongin—he can’t help it. His fingers tighten, his strokes becoming more deliberate, matching the rhythm of your breathless moans.

“I want you in my hand, in my mouth, inside me... I want you all over me.”

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows this is wrong. But right now, with the way you sound, the way you’re whispering his name like a prayer—he’s too far gone to care.

Jeongin’s grip on the phone tightens when his screen lights up with a notification—your name, followed by a video attachment. His breath catches in his throat.

He knows he shouldn’t open it. He knows this is crossing another line. But with your breathless voice still in his ear, whispering filthy things, he doesn’t even hesitate.

The video loads, and then he sees you—naked, spread out on the bed, fingers disappearing between your legs, your lips parted in a soft moan as you arch slightly against the mattress.

Jeongin exhales sharply, his jaw clenching.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, his hand tightening around himself.

On the other end of the line, you let out a breathy giggle. “Do you like it?”

His eyes stay glued to the screen, his chest rising and falling heavily. “You’re a dirty girl,” he rasps. “Filthy.”

You hum at that, clearly pleased by his reaction. “Only for you.”

His fingers flex against the phone. “If you were here right now,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “I’d have you bent over this desk.”

You let out a soft, needy whimper.

“I’d have spanked you,” he continues, his tone dark with promise. “For being so shameless. For teasing me like this.”

Your breath stutters, and Jeongin feels a twisted sense of satisfaction knowing how much his words affect you.

“Would you like that?” he taunts. “Would you take it, like a good girl?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes to push him over the edge.

His movements grow erratic, his head tilting back as pleasure crashes through him. He groans lowly, your name slipping past his lips as he comes undone.

Silence stretches between you after, filled only by the sound of your quiet breaths.

Jeongin swallows hard, still gripping his phone like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the moment. He shouldn’t have done that. He knows it. But right now, he can’t bring himself to regret it.

Finally, he exhales a small chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re dangerous.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “And yet, you can’t resist me.”

He rubs a hand over his face, a helpless smile tugging at his lips. “No,” he admits. “I can’t.”

The tension coils tighter inside him, his breathing uneven as he leans heavily against the desk. His grip on the phone trembles slightly, his fingers flexing against the smooth surface.

“Jeongin,” you whimper, and he swears he can feel it—feel you—even though you’re miles away.

His jaw clenches, his movements turning almost desperate. “I wish I was there,” he admits, his voice thick with need. “I wish I could touch you myself.”

“Me too,” you whisper. “I need you.”

That’s all it takes.

His restraint snaps like a thread pulled too tight, and with a low, guttural sound, he comes undone—his mind drowning in thoughts of you, his body giving in to the pleasure you so easily draw from him.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of your unsteady breaths and his own. Then, silence.

Jeongin swallows, forcing his breathing to steady. He runs a hand through his hair, his heart still hammering against his ribs. He shouldn’t have done that. He knows it. But he doesn’t regret a single second of it.

Finally, he clears his throat, bringing the phone back to his ear. “Are you okay?”

You let out a quiet, breathy laugh. “Yeah. Are you?”

He exhales a small chuckle, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know.”

You hum, a warm, content sound. “I miss you.”

Jeongin closes his eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips despite everything.

“I miss you too.”

The moment the high fades, reality crashes back in like a tidal wave.

Jeongin blinks, chest still rising and falling, as his eyes dart to his desk—where he’s just made an absolute mess. His stomach twists in a mix of guilt and disbelief.

Here. In his office.

His hands move on instinct, grabbing tissues from the drawer, hurriedly wiping away any evidence of what just happened. His mind races as he works, as if cleaning the desk can somehow cleanse him of the sin lingering in his veins.

But it’s not just about the act itself—it’s the way he felt during it. The way he surrendered so easily, the way he let your voice, your breathy moans, your whispered confessions unravel him entirely.

And worst of all? The way he still wants more.

His phone buzzes again.

Did you make a mess?

Jeongin swallows, discarding the last of the tissues before picking up his phone again. His fingers hover over the screen for a moment before he types back:

Yes and you're in big trouble.

Your reply comes almost instantly.

If I were there, I'd lick every drop off you.

A breath of laughter escapes him—soft, barely there. He leans back against the desk, running a hand through his hair, and sighs.

If you were here, it all would have gone into your tight little cunt.

A second later, his phone buzzes with your response.

Yes, please.

-

Jeongin tells himself it’s just a matter of hours now. Less than a day until he sees you again. He only has to wait.

And yet, someone interrupting his focus as he helps set up the hall for tonight’s lecture, one hand carrying a stack of hymn books he’s arranging.

"Jeongin!"

He looks up and immediately recognizes the familiar figure approaching him—Father Hwang. A smile tugs at his lips as he steps forward. "Sam," he greets, using the name he's always called him by. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm the guest lecturer for tonight," Sam says with a grin, adjusting the strap of his satchel over his shoulder. "Figured I’d get here early and catch up with you."

Jeongin nods, welcoming the distraction as they fall into step together.

“How have you been?” Sam asks, glancing at him curiously. “Still writing?”

Jeongin lets out a small chuckle. “Yeah. My latest book came out a few months ago.”

“I heard.” Sam smirks. “A detective novel, right?”

Jeongin nods. “It’s doing well, I think. I haven’t really been keeping track.”

“Well, my sister’s a fan. She told me I should ask you for an autograph while I’m here.”

Jeongin laughs at that. “I didn’t know she read my books.”

“Oh, she does. She even said she has a theory about your next one,” Sam says, nudging him playfully. “She thinks the main detective and the love interest are finally going to get together.”

Jeongin swallows, his smile faltering for a split second. Love interest. The word alone makes something in his chest tighten.

Sam notices the change in his expression. “You okay?”

Jeongin forces a small smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Sam hums, clearly unconvinced but doesn’t push further. Instead, he changes the subject. “How’s life here? The church? Everything going well?”

Jeongin nods, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Yeah. Everything’s… normal.”

Sam raises an eyebrow at his choice of words. “Normal?”

Jeongin hesitates. “I guess.”

Sam studies him for a moment before shaking his head with a knowing smile. “You know, I always admired how devoted you are to this life. Even when we were in seminary, you were so sure about your path. It was never a question for you.”

Jeongin opens his mouth to respond, but the words catch in his throat. Because for the first time in years, he isn’t sure if that’s still true.

Before he can dwell on the thought, his phone buzzes in his pocket. At first, he ignores it, keeping his attention on Sam. But then it vibrates again.

He hesitates, already knowing who it is before he even pulls out his phone.

A part of him feels guilty—he hasn’t seen Sam in months, and cutting their conversation short would be rude. But at the same time… he wants to hear your voice. To talk to you, even if just for a few minutes.

Sam, perceptive as ever, glances at Jeongin’s phone and chuckles. “You should get that.”

Jeongin looks up, startled. “I—”

Sam waves him off with an easy smile. “Go on. I need go get ready anyway.”

Jeongin hesitates for only a moment before nodding. “Thanks, Sam. I’ll catch up with you later.”

He pulls out his phone, unlocking the screen with an ease that speaks to how often he checks his messages these days.

I'm here.

Two words. That’s all it takes to send his pulse into a frenzy.

Here?

Panic grips him before he can stop it. The church is busy tonight—people are arriving early, chatting, gathering in the halls. What if someone sees you? What if someone knows?

He presses the call button before his thoughts can spiral further. The moment you pick up, he’s already walking, leaving behind his task without a second thought.

“Where are you?” His voice is hushed, urgent.

“In the hallway,” you answer.

Jeongin doesn’t hesitate. His feet move faster, shifting from a brisk walk to an outright run as he pushes past the heavy wooden doors and into the dimly lit hall. His breath catches the second he sees you.

Standing beneath the glow of flickering candles, you look almost unreal—soft, waiting, your expression easing into a smile the moment your eyes meet his. Relief crosses your face, as if you had been holding your breath this whole time.

He doesn’t stop to think. He reaches for you, his hands finding yours, gripping them tightly. “Why are you here?” His voice is barely above a whisper, but the question carries weight.

You squeeze his hands, your fingers curling around his and a grin painted your face. “I just couldn’t wait to see you again.”

His heart stumbles in his chest. He shouldn’t feel this way—shouldn’t feel this kind of elation just from your words, just from the way you look at him like he’s someone you’ve longed for.

But he does.

He shifts closer, his gaze dropping to your lips, ready—so ready—to taste you again. But just as he tilts his head, footsteps echo down the hall, followed by murmured voices.

His stomach lurches.

Without thinking, he grabs your wrist and pulls you toward the church doors. You don’t resist, letting him lead you past the altar and toward the confessionals at the back. He tugs open the wooden door of one of the booths, glancing around quickly before whispering, “Get inside.”

You don’t ask why. You just obey, slipping into the tight space, the scent of aged wood and candle wax surrounding you.

Jeongin follows a second later, shutting the door behind him. The moment the latch clicks into place, his restraint crumbles. His hands cup your face. His lips find yours.

The kiss is urgent, reckless—nothing like the gentle press he gave you last night on the stairs. This is raw, a collision of breath and need, the kind of kiss that speaks of stolen moments and unspoken desires.

You sigh against him, melting into his touch, and Jeongin thinks—God forgive me, I don’t want to stop.

-

The confessional is small, barely enough space for two people, but in this moment, Jeongin uses that to his advantage. Your back is pressed against the wooden wall, breath uneven, lips swollen from his kiss. His hands tremble where they rest on your waist, the weight of what he’s about to do pressing down on him, but it’s nothing compared to the fire burning in his veins.

"You really couldn’t wait, could you?" His voice is low, just above a whisper, yet it carries the sharp edge of control. "Had to come find me here, of all places?"

You shake your head, but your body betrays you, pressing closer as if drawn by something stronger than logic.

Jeongin exhales, his hand trailing lower, fingertips teasing the hem of your skirt. He knows he shouldn’t. He knows where you are, knows the kind of sin he’s inviting.

And yet—

His fingers slip beneath the fabric, his hand easily finds the heat pooling between your legs and the sharp breath you take in nearly makes him curse. You’re warm, soft, and so wet, so... ready for him. The realization sends a shudder through him.

"Bad girl," he breathes against your ear. "So desperate you made me do this here."

You whimper, a sound too loud for a place like this. He doesn’t even think—his free hand is on you instantly, fingers slipping between your lips, pressing down against your tongue to stifle your noises.

"Shh," he warns, dark amusement lacing his voice. "Or do you want someone to hear how filthy you are right now?"

Your breath hitches. He smirks.

His fingers move deeper, slow and deliberate, feeling the way your body reacts to him, the way you tense and then soften, surrendering to his touch. He leans in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"You’d like that, wouldn’t you?" His voice is barely audible, a ghost of a sound against your skin. "Want someone to walk in and see what I’m doing to you? See how you let me ruin you in the house of God?"

Jeongin works on your clit in earnest now, circling it hard and fast, loving the way you’re thrusting against his hand.

You whimper around his fingers, your body trembling as you struggle to keep quiet. The thought alone makes heat coil low in his stomach, his own restraint hanging by a thread.

"I could do this all day."

But Jeongin isn't ready to let go just yet.

Not when you’re this vulnerable beneath him. Not when you’re this beautiful in your surrender.

The tension inside you snaps, waves of pleasure rolling through you under his relentless touch. He feels it—the way you shudder, the way your fingers clutch desperately at his wrist as if to anchor yourself. He doesn’t stop, not yet, not until he’s sure he’s wrung every last bit of pleasure from you.

When you finally go limp against him, he exhales a shaky breath, wrapping an arm around you to hold you up. His lips find your temple, then your cheek, soft kisses pressing into your skin as you come down from your high.

“You did so well,” he murmurs, his voice thick with something unspoken. His fingers—now wet with your release—trail up to your hip, lingering there before he finally pulls away.

You sigh, eyes fluttering open to meet his. There’s warmth there, something tender despite everything that just transpired between these walls.

Jeongin swallows, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he tells you, voice softer now. “Until then…” He smirks faintly, tilting your chin up. “Be a good girl and go home.”

You nod, though your fingers curl slightly in the fabric of his sleeve, reluctant to step away. “I can’t wait for tomorrow.”

The words are barely out of your mouth before he’s kissing you again—slow, deep, as if he’s memorizing the shape of your lips against his. He lingers, drinking you in, letting himself have this moment before he has to let you go.

Eventually, he does.

With one last look, you slip out of the confessional, smoothing down your skirt, composing yourself. Jeongin stays behind, leaning against the wooden wall as he listens to the soft echo of your footsteps fading into the church hall.

As Jeongin takes his seat at the front of the lecture hall, he clasps his hands together, willing himself to focus. But then—he smells it. The faint, intoxicating scent of you lingers on his fingers, a ghost of what just happened in the confessional booth. He flexes his hand, bringing it closer to his lap, but it’s no use. The memory of you is branded onto his skin.

And then, there’s the smudge of color on his other fingers—a trace of your lipstick. It’s subtle, just a faint stain, but it’s enough to make his stomach tighten.

He should feel guilty. He should be ashamed. Instead, all he can think about is tomorrow.

-

Jeongin shifts the plastic bag in his grip, glancing at the number on your apartment door. His heart pounds in his chest, a steady, nervous rhythm that refuses to slow down. This shouldn’t be a big deal. He’s just bringing dinner. Just spending time with you. But something about standing here, outside of a place that is yours, away from the church, away from everything that defines him as Father Yang, unsettles him.

He raises a hand and knocks. The sound is firm but betrays the slight tremble in his fingers.

It only takes a moment before the door swings open, and then—there you are.

You’re smiling, bright and warm, like you’ve been waiting for him all day. And before he can say anything, you slip into him, wrapping your arms around his waist in a hug so natural, so easy, that his entire body relaxes before his mind can catch up. Your lips brush against his cheek, soft and fleeting, but it leaves warmth spreading across his skin.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” you say softly, looking up at him.

And just like that, the tension in his chest vanishes. He forgets about the nerves, forgets about the careful restraint he had tried to build on his way here. It's just you. Just him. Just this moment.

His hand comes up to your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek as he tilts his head down. He doesn’t think—he just moves, closing the space between you and pressing his lips against yours in a soft, unhurried kiss.

And somehow, this feels right. Natural. Like he’s done this before—coming home to you, being welcomed into your warmth.

You stay like that for a moment, lips barely apart, breathing in each other’s air, until you pull away with a gentle tug on his wrist.

“Come in,” you say, still smiling.

The food is simple but warm, filling the space between you with something comforting. Jeongin hadn’t realized how much he needed this—an ordinary meal, shared with someone who looks at him like he’s more than just Father Yang, more than just a priest trying to keep himself together.

After dinner, you stand and pick up the wine bottle, pouring him a glass with a teasing smile. “It’s not communion wine, but I hope you like it.”

Jeongin huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he takes the glass. He follows you to the sofa, sitting beside you, still holding the wine as if unsure what to do with it.

“You look like you need it,” you add, tilting your head. “You’re so tense.”

Jeongin exhales through his nose, amused. He lifts the glass and takes a small sip, the rich taste spreading over his tongue. When he lowers the glass, he catches you watching him, your gaze steady and warm.

You reach out, your fingers brushing against his arm as you speak softly, “We don’t have to do anything. I just want to be with you. Get to know you better.”

Something in Jeongin eases at that. The tight coil of uncertainty unwinds, and he nods, taking another sip of his wine before glancing at you. “What do you want to know?”

At that, your eyes light up, and you shift closer, resting your elbow on the back of the sofa as you begin.

“What’s your coffee order?”

He blinks at the unexpected question, then chuckles. “Ice Americano. Extra shot.”

You hum thoughtfully, nodding. “What’s your favorite movie?”

“Uh…” Jeongin tilts his head, pretending to think. “Do I lose points if I say I don’t watch many movies?”

You gasp dramatically. “Unbelievable. We have to fix that.”

Jeongin laughs, fully relaxing into the cushions. The questions continue—his favorite color, his favorite season, if he has any siblings. With each answer, he feels more like himself—Jeongin, not just Father Yang. The more you learn about him, the more real he becomes, and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel trapped in his own skin.

And then, he notices the way your eyelids grow heavy, the way your fingers curl loosely around the fabric of his sleeve as you fight off sleep. He watches you for a moment, the way your breathing slows, and then he brushes the hair away from your face as he murmurs, “It’s time for you to go to bed.”

You blink up at him sleepily, then reach for his hand, holding it gently between your fingers. “Will you stay?” Your voice is soft, hesitant. “Just until I fall asleep?”

Jeongin swallows, his heart skipping. He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But the way you look at him, the quiet plea in your voice—it weakens him.

He nods. “Okay.”

You smile at that, tugging him toward the bed. Soon, he’s lying beside you, the two of you facing each other in the dim glow of your bedside lamp. The warmth of your body seeps into his, and he’s surrounded by the scent of you—clinging to the sheets, to the pillow, to the very air he breathes. It’s intoxicating, and yet, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

His arm is wrapped around you, holding you close as your head rests against his chest. He feels the steady rise and fall of your breaths. So quiet, peaceful, serene.

Then, in the quiet, you speak.

"You might think I don’t have to worry about anything because I have money," you whisper, voice barely above a breath. "But that’s not true. I’m scared. I feel so alone."

Jeongin’s heart clenches at your words. He tightens his hold on you, his fingers tracing slow, soothing circles against your back. He understands. God, does he understand.

"I know what that’s like," he murmurs, his voice raw with something he rarely speaks of. "When I was struggling with my drinking… people turned their backs on me too. I had to deal with it alone, with no one to help me climb out of it."

You shift slightly, looking up at him with soft, searching eyes. "How did you do it?"

Jeongin exhales, his grip on you tightening like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. "I just kept going. I clung to the belief that I could be better. That I could be more than my mistakes." He pauses. "But it was lonely. So lonely."

You reach up, your fingers grazing his cheek, grounding him in the present. "You’re not alone anymore."

His chest aches at your words, at the quiet sincerity in your voice.

"And neither are you," he whispers.

He tilts your chin up gently and presses a soft kiss to your lips—not out of desire, but out of understanding, of shared pain and quiet comfort. Then, he pulls you even closer, pressing his lips to the top of your head.

And in the dark, as he whispers quiet prayers against your skin, Jeongin feels it—this thing between you, slowly consuming him, pulling him under. Love.

And for once, he isn’t afraid of it.

-

The church is silent except for the flickering of candles and the distant creak of old wooden pews. Jeongin kneels before the altar, hands clasped together, eyes closed. The scent of burning wax fills his lungs as he exhales a breath that feels heavier than usual.

"Is this what You want from me?"

His whispered prayer disappears into the vast, hollow space of the church. He has never questioned his path before—not once since he took his vows. But now, every moment with you tugs at the very fabric of his being, unraveling convictions he once thought were unshakable.

You are not a temptation; you are warmth. Peace. Love. And yet, desire coils inside him like something he’s afraid to name.

"If I love her, does that mean I am failing You?"

Silence answers him, as it always does. He wishes for clarity, a sign, something to confirm whether this love is a blessing or a mistake. But all he has is the weight of it, pressing against his ribs like a second heartbeat.

The vibration of his phone in his pocket jolts him out of his thoughts. He blinks, the golden glow of the altar candles sharpening into focus as he pulls out his phone.

It’s a text from you.

What should I do? My mother wants to meet me tomorrow.

He can feel the nerves in that short message, the anxiety woven between each letter. He knows how much this weighs on you, how every interaction with your parents leaves unseen bruises on your heart.

His fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before he types out his response.

Come to the church tonight.

He presses send. He will see you soon. And maybe, just maybe, being with you will quiet the storm inside him—if only for a little while.

The church is empty when Jeongin steps inside, the quiet humming around him like a sacred lullaby. But before he gets to you, he stops by his office, reaching into his desk drawer to retrieve something—his fingers brushing over cool beads before he carefully slips them into his pocket.

When he pushes through the wooden doors, his breath catches at the sight before him.

You’re not sitting in the pews, nor waiting by the entrance. You’re standing in front of the altar, bathed in the soft glow of flickering candlelight. Your head is tilted upward, eyes fixed on the crucifix, and in this moment, Jeongin swears you are in a state of divinity—here, now, standing in the presence of God.

He doesn’t feel like an intruder as he steps closer. If anything, it feels like he belongs in this moment too.

Slowly, he walks up behind you, his movements careful, reverent. And when he reaches you, he doesn’t stop. He lets his chest meet your back, his arms slip around your waist, his head rest beside yours.

You don’t flinch, don’t pull away. Instead, you lean into him. And then, in a hushed voice, you ask, “Do you feel it?”

Jeongin’s eyes flick to the crucifix before closing for a brief second. “Yes.”

Your voice is a whisper now. “Is this how you always feel when you pray?”

His lips curve into a small smile. “Not always but sometimes.”

And then, silence. Not the kind that feels empty, but the kind that feels full—of something holy, something sacred. The two of you just stay like that, breathing in the stillness, existing in the same presence. As if God Himself is here, witnessing this moment, embracing both of you as His children.

After a while, Jeongin turns his head slightly, and you do the same. Your gazes lock, an unspoken understanding passing between you. And then, as if guided by something beyond himself, Jeongin leans in.

The kiss is soft, slow—gentle in a way that doesn’t feel like it violates the sanctity of this place, but instead, becomes a part of it. Like this, too, is a prayer.

When he pulls away, he lingers, his forehead nearly touching yours. A breath, a heartbeat. Then, he slowly steps back, standing in front of you.

“I have something for you,” he says.

Curiosity sparks in your eyes. You watch as he reaches into his pocket, fingers closing around something before he carefully pulls it out. A rosary.

Taking your hand, he wraps the beads around your fingers, binding them there before enclosing your hand in both of his.

You stare at it, wonder and awe flickering in your expression. “It’s beautiful.”

Jeongin smiles softly. “This was the first rosary I received when I decided to become a priest.” His voice lowers, turning earnest. “And I want you to have it.”

Your smile falters slightly, hesitation flickering in your eyes. “Are you sure? Is it really okay for me to take it?”

Jeongin doesn’t waver. He nods, his grip on your hand firm, warm. “I want you to have it.” A pause. “Whenever you get the urge to hurt yourself, I hope you’ll hold this rosary instead.”

Your breath hitches. And then, something shifts in your expression—a different kind of smile forming on your lips. Sad, yet thankful. A quiet acceptance.

Jeongin gently squeezes your hand. “Promise me you’ll always keep it with you.”

You nod, voice barely above a whisper. “I will. I’ll keep it close at all times.”

Relief washes over him. A sense of peace settles in his chest. With his hand still wrapped around yours, the rosary binding you together, he leans in once more—this time, pressing a chaste kiss against your lips.

A kiss that seals this sacred moment.

-

The next night, Jeongin finds himself standing in front of your door once again.

Unlike the previous night, there's no hesitation when he lifts his hand to knock. Maybe it's because he spent the entire day thinking about you, picturing the way you smiled when he gave you the rosary, the way your fingers curled around it like something precious. Maybe it's because the moment he finished evening mass, he felt a pull—one that led him straight to you.

The door opens, and there you are, standing before him.

Your eyes light up the second you see him, and without hesitation, you step forward, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing yourself against him in a hug that feels warm, familiar.

"You came," you murmur against his shoulder.

Jeongin exhales, his arms coming up to hold you just as tightly. "Of course."

For a while, neither of you moves. You stay there, wrapped up in each other, as if this is the only place either of you is supposed to be. And maybe, in some way, it is.

Eventually, you pull back just enough to look at him. Your smile is soft, full of something unspoken. "Come in."

Jeongin follows you inside, shutting the door behind him. The air in your apartment is warm, scented faintly with something floral—something distinctly you. He catches sight of the rosary on your coffee table, neatly placed as if it’s waiting for you to pick it up at any moment.

Something settles in him at the sight.

You glance over your shoulder. "I made tea," you say, leading him toward the living room. "I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry, but I have some food too."

Jeongin shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Tea sounds perfect."

You pour him a cup before settling onto the couch beside him, close enough that your knee brushes against his. For a while, you both sit in comfortable silence, sipping tea, letting the presence of each other be enough.

Then, quietly, you say, "Thank you for last night."

Jeongin looks at you. "You don’t have to thank me."

You smile, but there’s something deeper in your expression—something vulnerable. You lift your wrist, letting the rosary dangle between your fingers. "I’ve been holding it. Just like you told me to."

Warmth spreads through Jeongin’s chest.

He reaches over, gently brushing his fingers against yours, against the beads. "I’m glad," he murmurs.

Not that he doesn’t trust you but Jeongin feels the need to check on it himself. He leans back against the couch, his gaze steady as he studies you. Then, softly, he says, "Come here."

You blink at him, uncertain. "Here?"

He nods, patting his lap. "I want to make sure you held in like you said."

A flicker of hesitation crosses your face, but eventually, you move, shifting carefully until you're perched sideways on his lap. His arm wraps around your waist, keeping you steady, his other hand resting gently on your thigh.

He looks at you for a long moment before his fingers move, reaching for the hem of your dress. Slowly, deliberately, he lifts it just enough to reveal your thigh, his eyes scanning for any fresh marks. When he finds none, he exhales, something softening in his expression.

"You really didn't," he murmurs, as if he can't quite believe it.

You meet his gaze, nodding. "I promised, didn't I?"

A slow smile spreads across his lips—pride, warmth, something deeper flickering in his eyes. His hand moves up, brushing your hair back, his touch lingering at the nape of your neck. "You did so well," he says, his voice low, affectionate. "I'm proud of you."

Before you can respond, he leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips. His mouth is warm, gentle but firm, like he's savoring the taste of you. When he pulls away, his lips graze your cheek, his breath fanning against your skin.

"Good girl," he whispers.

Heat pools in your stomach at the way he says it, his voice filled with quiet reverence, with something possessive and sweet all at once.

Then he dips his head, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. His voice is barely more than a murmur, but it sends a shiver down your spine.

His fingers trace slow, idle circles on your thigh, featherlight and teasing, his touch both soothing and electrifying. Then, he asks, "And do you know what happens to good girls?"

A bashful smile tugs at your lips as you glance at him. "What?"

Jeongin smirks, his fingers tracing slow, teasing circles against your thigh. "Good girls get rewarded."

His eyes glint with something mischievous as he watches your reaction, and you feel your breath hitch, anticipation curling in your stomach.

“You did so well,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your temple. “Keeping your promise… being such a good girl for me.”

His praise makes you melt, makes you pliant in his arms, and he feels it—the way your body leans into him, the way your breathing hitches ever so slightly.

His hand drifts higher, slipping beneath the hem of your dress, fingertips skimming over your skin, testing. He hums when he feels the heat of you, the way your thighs press together instinctively.

“You don’t even realize, do you?” he muses, his voice like velvet against your ear. “How easy it is for me to tell when you need me.”

His fingers tease at the edge of your underwear, a featherlight touch that makes you shiver. Your breath stutters, and he smiles against your skin.

“Say it,” he coaxes, his voice both gentle and commanding. “Tell me what you need.”

Your answer comes out in a whisper, barely there, but it’s enough. “Please. I want to come,”

It’s all he needs before his fingers push aside the last barrier, dipping into warmth, finding you already soft and wet, ready for him.

A pleased hum rumbles in his chest. “Of course,” he murmurs. “Always so good for me.”

He doesn't need to look to know how to please you. His fingers part your folds, allowing him to touch your bundle of nerves, applying gentle pressures on it as he rubs on it.

His touch is slow, deliberate, savoring the way you react—how your fingers clutch at his shirt, how your body trembles in his hold. He keeps you close, his other hand firm on your waist, steadying you as he works you open, coaxing pleasure from you with careful precision.

His mouth on your neck, placing hot, wet kisses on the sensitive spot on your neck, teeth faintly scraping the skin just to edge you. He watches you, drinking in every little sound, every flutter of your lashes, every way you shift against him. His lips graze your ear again, his voice thick with something indulgent, something dangerous.

“Just like that,” he praises. “Let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good.”

And he does. With how drenched you are, he can easily slips his two fingers inside you, pumping them in and out of you. He moves with patience, with reverence, as if he’s unraveling something sacred, something only meant for him. As if this moment—just the two of you tangled together, bodies pressed close, his name slipping past your lips in a breathless whisper—is all that has ever mattered.

You make a tiny cry that is muffled by his kiss, squirming under his touch for a long minute before finally come down, sagging against him. He keeps his hand there, tenderly palming you for a minute or two longer, loving the way it

look drenched in your essence, loving the way it feels, and then reluctantly withdraw.

Jeongin watches you, eyes dark with something unreadable yet intoxicating. His fingers, still coated in the evidence of your pleasure, hover just before your lips. He doesn’t have to say a word—your lips part instinctively, your tongue flicking out, tasting yourself as you take him in.

His breath catches. His free hand tightens on your waist.

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs, his voice rich with satisfaction. “Always so eager for me.”

You swirl your tongue around his fingers, sucking lightly, and Jeongin groans low in his throat. His thumb brushes over your cheek, a tender contrast to the heat pooling between the two of you. When he finally pulls his fingers away, he presses a sweet, lingering kiss to your forehead, grounding you, letting you settle in the aftermath.

But then, softly, he asks, “What else do you want, mmh?”

You don’t answer right away, just blink up at him, lips still slightly parted, your breath uneven. “More.”

There’s a pause—a moment suspended in the space between you. Then, without a word, your hand drifts downward, slow and deliberate, until your fingers press against the growing strain in his jeans.

Jeongin’s breath stutters. His grip on your waist tightens.

“More what?” he asks, teasing, his voice huskier now, laced with something heady.

You still don’t answer, just press your palm a little firmer, feeling him twitch beneath the fabric.

Jeongin exhales sharply through his nose, tilting his head slightly, watching you with something dangerously close to reverence. He hums, almost amused, almost resigned.

“Greedy,” he murmurs, the word dripping with fondness. Then, his lips ghost over your jaw, just barely touching. “But I suppose my good girl deserves it, doesn’t she?”

Jeongin shifts beneath you, his strong arms guiding you gently as he lays you down against the cushions. The leather is cool against your heated skin, but all you can focus on is him—the weight of his body as he hovers over you, the warmth of his breath fanning across your lips before he captures you in another slow, intoxicating kiss.

His hands roam your sides, mapping every curve, every dip, before he pulls away just enough to tug his sweater over his head. The dim lighting casts shadows over his toned torso, the sharp ridges of his muscles shifting as he moves. Instead of pulling you back into a kiss, he takes your hands in his and presses them against his bare skin.

“Go on,” he murmurs, watching you with half-lidded eyes. “Touch me.”

You do—fingertips tracing the firm lines of his abdomen, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. Your breath catches, and when you meet his gaze, he smirks, clearly pleased by your reaction.

“Do you like that?” he asks, his voice dipping lower.

You nod, swallowing hard.

He rewards you with another kiss, deeper this time, before he begins a slow descent down your body. His lips brush over your collarbone, then lower, each kiss leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. His hands slip beneath your dress, pushing the fabric up inch by inch, exposing more of your skin to him. The anticipation coils in your stomach as he moves lower, closer. He gently bites your inner thigh and earned him a sharp gasp from you, then he stops.

You whimper in protest, earning a quiet chuckle from him. He tilts his head, teasing. “Wouldn’t this feel better in bed?”

Before you can argue, he presses a firm hand to your waist, keeping you in place as he effortlessly scoops you up in his arms. Your legs instinctively wrap around him as he carries you, the strength in his hold undeniable. He walks with purpose, each step deliberate, and when he reaches your bedroom, he gently sets you down on the mattress, hovering over you once again.

He smirks, brushing his thumb over your swollen lips. “Now,” he murmurs, eyes dark with intent. “Where were we?”

-

The air between you crackles with tension, thick and charged, as Jeongin hovers behind you. Both of you are naked, he's standing at the end of the bed while you're on the bed, on all fours.

His big hand glides over the curve of your ass before squeezes on the flesh, his thumb hovers over your entrance, slippery wet, ready to take him.

“Be a good girl and hold still,” he instructs, his voice is heavy with want.

His hands ghost over your hips, firm yet patient, waiting for you to obey him. But you don’t. Instead, you push back just slightly, teasing, challenging—just enough to test his patience.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he murmurs, voice dark with amusement.

You hum in response, feigning innocence, but he sees right through it. A slow smirk tugs at his lips as his fingers tighten on your hips, holding you still as he aims his cock toward your entrance. Then, without warning, he drags you back toward him, your breath catching as his warmth presses flush against you.

“You really want to be difficult tonight?” he muses, leaning in until his lips are right by your ear. “Fine. Let’s see how long you can last.”

The next moment, he begins thrusting, slow and deliberate, driving you to the edge with every controlled motion. You bite your lip, refusing to give in so easily, but he notices—of course he does. He always does.

“You’re holding back,” he taunts, his hand sliding up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades until your chest meets the mattress. “That’s cute.”

Then he pulls away and you mewl at the suddenloss of contact. Then he slips it into you again, all at once and proceeds to thrust into you, hard. A choked sound escapes you before you can stop it, and he chuckles, low and pleased.

“There it is,” he murmurs.

You try to push up again, just to regain some control, but his hand presses firmly against your lower back, keeping you in place.

“Not so fast,” he says. “You wanted to be a brat, didn’t you?” His fingers trail down, teasing, punishing in the slowest way possible. “Now take it like one.”

The fight within you starts to crumble, your body betraying you, giving in to him. He feels it—the way you’re starting to submit, your stubborn defiance slipping away with every passing second.

“That’s a good girl,” he praises, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Now, let’s see if you can behave.”

And with that, he makes sure you do.

Jeongin doesn't ease up—not yet. He keeps you exactly where he wants you, every slow, controlled movement drawing out the pleasure until you’re trembling beneath him. His hand slides up your arm, over your shoulder, then tangles into your hair, giving a gentle but firm tug that sends a shiver down your spine.

“You still with me?” he asks, his voice teasing, laced with dominance.

You nod breathlessly, but that’s not enough for him. His fingers tighten just slightly in your hair, tilting your head back so your cheek is almost against his lips.

“Use your words,” he commands softly.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice shaky but obedient.

A pleased hum rumbles in his chest as he presses an open-mouthed kiss against the side of your neck. “That’s my girl.”

Your hands grip the sheets beneath you, knuckles going pale as he keeps pushing you further, his pace calculated, his touch relentless. Every time you try to regain control, he meets your rebellion with something stronger—something that pulls you right back under him.

“You thought you could win, huh?” His voice is a slow drag, intoxicating. “But look at you now…” His hand slides over your hip, his fingers curling, gripping—owning. “Completely at my mercy.”

You let out a broken sound, and Jeongin chuckles, low and satisfied.

“Are you done fighting me now?” he asks.

You hesitate for half a second, the last trace of defiance flickering in your eyes as you look over your shoulder at him. And then he moves just right, tipping you over that fine line between resistance and surrender, and the fight in you shatters.

Your answer comes in the form of a whimper, your body melting under his touch. That’s all he needs. He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “Good girl.”

And this time, you don’t push back. You let him have you, completely.

Three more of his hard, deep thrusts into you and you come undone before him, your body collapsing onto the bed. He can feel his release is close as well, he leans down, his mouth hovering close to your ear as he asks, “Where do you want it, mmh?”

You're clearly too disoriented to respond so he buries his head in your neck and places a slobbering kisses there. “Should I come all over your back and claiming you as mine, mmh?”

You turn your head slightly to the side and nod. He smirks at that, his hips keeping the pace going as he grips yours, taking himself to his high almost immediately.

Jeongin pulls out just in time, his seed spurting out and painting pearly white streaks on your back. He slips it back in, wanting to feel you pulsating, quivering around him as you both come down from your highs.

He looks down at his claim on you and smiles in pride. “You're all mine now,” he sighs, before lowering himself on you and roughly kisses your open mouth, “All mine.”

-

Jeongin hums as he wipes a warm cloth across your back, his touch now gentle, a stark contrast to the way he’d handled you earlier. His other hand strokes soothing circles on your arm as he takes care of the mess he left on your skin. Once satisfied, he sets the cloth aside and climbs back into bed beside you, immediately wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close.

His lips find your forehead first, then your temple, then your cheek—sweet, lingering kisses that make your heart swell. His fingers brush your hair away from your face, tucking the strands behind your ear before his lips meet yours in a slow, affectionate kiss.

You sigh into him, utterly content, and then, out of nowhere, you ask, “What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?”

Jeongin pulls back slightly, blinking in amusement. A small chuckle escapes him. “That’s the first thing you want to ask me right now?”

You nod, watching him expectantly.

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head before answering. “Vanilla.”

“Vanilla?” You raise an eyebrow, as if unimpressed.

He grins. “It’s a classic. You can never go wrong with it.”

You hum in thought before moving on to your next question. “Okay, favorite book?”

“That’s tough,” Jeongin admits, running his fingers absentmindedly over the curve of your shoulder. “But I think it would have to be The Little Prince.”

Your expression softens. “That’s a good one.”

He nods, smiling. “It is.”

Your next question makes him pause. “How many languages can you speak?”

Jeongin tilts his head, thinking for a moment. “Korean, English, a little bit of French... and Latin.”

That catches your interest. “Latin?”

He smirks at your intrigue. “Yeah.”

“Say something in Latin,” you request, eyes glimmering with curiosity.

He chuckles and takes a second to think. Instead of a single word, he decides to share one of his favorite proverbs. “Ubi amor, ibi fides.”

You blink, waiting for him to translate. “And that means…?”

“Where there’s love, there’s faith,” he explains softly.

You let the words settle between you, their weight sinking in.

Jeongin continues, his voice calm, thoughtful. “Love originates from God, which means when we love, we reflect God himself. Love and faith go hand in hand.”

You watch him, admiration clear in your eyes, and Jeongin can’t help but smile. He brushes his lips against your forehead, murmuring, “You’re proof of that for me.”

A warm silence fills the room, and Jeongin just holds you, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Jeongin keeps his gaze on you, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns along your arm as he lets the weight of his own words settle between you.

"Ubi amor, ibi fides," he repeats, this time softer, like he's tasting the meaning all over again. “Faith isn’t just about believing in something unseen—it’s about trust. About surrendering to something bigger than yourself. And love… love is the same.”

You stay quiet, listening, the warmth in your eyes urging him to continue.

“When you love someone, you place your trust in them. You put faith in them—faith that they won’t hurt you, that they’ll cherish you, that they’ll choose you just as you choose them. Love and faith, they aren’t separate. They exist together.”

A beat of silence passes, and then, you smile. It’s small, gentle, but it holds so much—understanding, appreciation, something deeper that makes Jeongin’s chest ache in the best way.

“That’s beautiful,” you whisper, voice barely above a breath.

Jeongin’s lips quirk up, his heart warming at the way you look at him. He leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then to the tip of your nose, and finally, to your lips—slow and tender, like a silent prayer.

Ubi amor, ibi fides. That’s why, to him, loving you doesn’t feel like he's turning away from God. It feels like he's turning toward Him.

-

Jeongin hadn’t expected to see Sam so early in the morning, much less kneeling at the altar, his hands clasped together in deep prayer. The solemnity of the scene makes Jeongin hesitate for a moment before he quietly takes a seat in the pew behind him, deciding to wait. The church is silent aside from the occasional flicker of candlelight and the distant creak of wood as the old building settles.

When Sam finally finishes, he makes the sign of the cross and pushes himself up, turning toward Jeongin with a calm but knowing expression. He slides into the pew beside him, settling in with a sigh before speaking.

"Do you have something to confess to me, Jeongin?"

Jeongin blinks, caught off guard. "Confess?"

Sam tilts his head slightly, studying him. "I saw you."

Jeongin’s breath catches. His heartbeat stumbles before picking up pace, his mind racing to decipher Sam’s meaning.

"Saw me…?" he echoes, feigning ignorance.

But Sam only offers him a small, almost amused smile. "That night. Inside the church." He turns his head slightly, watching Jeongin's reaction. "I saw you kissing her."

Jeongin’s stomach drops. The memory of that night floods back—the hush of the church, the warmth of your body pressed against his, the way your lips felt against his in the dim candlelight. He had been careful, or so he thought. But Sam had seen.

Jeongin swallows, his fingers curling slightly against his knees. "...How much did you see?"

"Enough." Sam exhales, leaning back against the pew. "Enough to know that it wasn’t just some passing moment of weakness." He turns his gaze forward, eyes fixed on the altar as if waiting for some divine intervention. "It’s more than that, isn’t it?"

Jeongin doesn’t answer immediately. He looks down, staring at his hands as if the answer could be found in the lines of his palms. He could deny it. He could try to brush it off as a mistake, a lapse in judgment.

But he knows that would be a lie.

So instead, he closes his eyes briefly, exhales, and admits the truth. “Yes.”

Jeongin keeps his gaze lowered as he exhales slowly. "Yes," he repeats, quieter this time. "It’s more than that."

Sam doesn’t react immediately. He simply hums, nodding slightly as if he already knew the answer. Then, after a pause, he says, "Are you here to confess, then?"

Jeongin finally looks up at him, his brow furrowed. "Would it matter?"

Sam tilts his head, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Not really."

That catches Jeongin off guard. "What do you mean?"

Sam leans forward, resting his arms on the back of the pew in front of them. "I mean, there’s no use in confessing if you don’t intend to stop."

Jeongin’s mouth parts slightly, but no words come out. He suddenly feels exposed, as if Sam has reached straight into his soul and pulled out the conflict that he’s been trying so hard to ignore.

"Are you going to stop seeing her?" Sam asks, voice even.

Jeongin opens his mouth, but hesitation clings to his tongue. He should say yes. That would be the right thing to do. The expected thing. But the words won’t come.

Sam watches him carefully, his silence speaking louder than any confession. With a small sigh, he shakes his head. "Then there’s no use in absolving you."

Jeongin tenses. "Sam—"

"You’re not sorry, Jeongin. At least, not in the way confession requires you to be." Sam turns to look at him directly. "You’re not asking for forgiveness. You’re asking for permission."

Jeongin’s throat tightens. He wants to deny it. He wants to argue. But deep down, he knows Sam is right. He’s not looking to be absolved. He’s looking for reassurance. Validation. Someone to tell him that this—you—isn’t a mistake.

Sam lets out a sigh, leaning back against the pew. “Jeongin, I’ve known you for years. You’re not the type to act on impulse. So tell me, is it something more?”

Jeongin lowers his gaze, his fingers curling together. “It’s more,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “I tried to fight it, but I can’t. Being with her… it doesn’t feel like a sin. It feels right.”

Sam hums in thought before turning to look at Jeongin fully. “Then you have to ask yourself, what do you want?”

Jeongin remains silent, his mind tangled in conflicting emotions.

Sam sighs again but offers a reassuring smile. “I won’t tell anyone. Not yet. You need to figure this out on your own, without the weight of judgment hanging over you.”

Jeongin lifts his eyes, gratitude flickering in them. “Thank you, Sam.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Sam replies. “But know this—there’s no shame in choosing love. The only shame is in living a life of regret.”

Jeongin feels the weight of those words settle deep in his chest. He nods, even though his decision isn’t fully made yet. But one thing is certain—he doesn’t think any amount of penance could make him stop wanting you.

-

The church is quiet, save for the faint crackling of candles and Jeongin’s own restless breathing. He sits in the pew, his hands clasped together, fingers digging into each other as if grounding himself. Sam’s words replay in his mind—The only shame is in living a life of regret.

But what if choosing you meant turning his back on everything he had built? What if staying meant turning his back on you?

His chest tightens.

Jeongin exhales shakily and reaches for his phone. His fingers hover over your name before he finally presses the call button.

It barely rings twice before you pick up. “Jeongin?” Your voice is soft, warm, familiar.

He shuts his eyes for a moment, hating what he’s about to say. “I… I can’t see you for a while.”

There’s silence on your end. Then, “Why?”

Jeongin clenches his jaw, his grip on the phone tightening. “I just—” His voice falters. He takes a breath, steadies himself. “I need time to think.”

Another pause. Then you ask, quieter this time, “Think about what?”

His heart aches at the way your voice trembles, but he forces himself to stay firm. “About us.”

The word hangs in the air, suffocating.

When you finally speak, there’s hurt in your voice, but no anger. Just quiet understanding. “Okay.”

It makes his chest ache even more. He almost wishes you would be upset, would demand answers—but instead, you accept it. Just like that.

“I’ll wait,” you add after a moment.

Jeongin swallows the lump in his throat. He nods, even though you can’t see him. “Thank you.”

Then he hangs up, staring at the screen as if it holds the answers he’s looking for.

But it doesn’t.

And for the first time in a long time, Jeongin feels completely lost.

He has always believed in God's plan. In His guidance, His timing. But for the first time, Jeongin feels completely lost.

His heart aches with the weight of his own decision—to put space between you and him. To think. To figure out if he's making the right choice or if he's simply running away from the inevitable. The words he said to you over the phone—"I can't see you for a while."—echo in his head, and he wonders if they hurt you as much as they hurt him to say.

Jeongin exhales sharply, his fingers pressing into his forehead.

He misses you already.

Misses the way you look at him, the way your touch grounds him, the way you make him feel like more than just Father Yang. Like he’s Jeongin, a man with desires, fears, and a heart that longs for something more than a life bound by vows he’s no longer sure he can keep.

But what does that say about him?

What does that say about his faith?

His grip tightens. He feels selfish. Faith is supposed to be about surrender, about putting God above all else. But if love, true love, comes from God—then why does it feel like he’s betraying both?

A sharp breath leaves him as he forces himself to sit back against the pew.

Maybe space will give him clarity. Maybe distance will tell him if what he feels for you is temptation or something deeper, something worth changing his entire life for.

Or maybe...

Maybe he’s already made his choice, and he’s just too afraid to admit it.

-

The scent of burning wax and aged wood lingers in the air as Jeongin listens to the soft-spoken confessions of the parishioners before him. One by one, they enter the booth, voices hushed, burdened with sins that they seek to be absolved from.

A woman confesses to speaking harshly to her husband. A man admits to faltering in his faith. Another prays for forgiveness for the resentment he holds in his heart. Jeongin listens, guiding them with gentle words, offering penance and solace in the name of God.

Then silence.

He waits for the next person, expecting another familiar voice, another routine confession. But when the door creaks open and the last parishioner steps inside, his breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t need to see your face to know it’s you.

The moment you settle in, the moment your quiet, trembling breath slips through the lattice screen, he feels it. A shift in the air, a tightening in his chest—something unspoken, yet undeniably there.

And then your voice comes, barely above a whisper.

The wooden divider separates you from him, but the air between you is thick—heavy with unspoken words, raw emotions, and the weight of everything left unresolved.

Jeongin sits on the other side, his fingers curled tightly around his rosary, knuckles white. He hadn’t expected to hear your voice through the lattice screen tonight.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Your voice is quiet, trembling, but laced with something deeper—pain, desperation. “It’s been… some time since my last confession.”

Jeongin swallows, his heart hammering in his chest. “What is it that burdens your heart?” His voice is steady, but his hands shake.

You exhale shakily. “I don’t know if this is a sin, Father, but… I love someone.”

His breath catches.

“And I miss him,” you continue, your voice cracking slightly. “I’ve been praying every night, asking God to bring him back to me. I kneel beside my bed, clasp my hands, and beg Him to let me have him again.” A bitter laugh escapes you. “But nothing changes. He’s still gone. And I don’t know if that means God is telling me to move on… or if that means he never wanted to come back.”

Jeongin shuts his eyes, his grip on the rosary tightening as a deep ache spreads through his chest.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper. “How long am I supposed to wait? How long until the emptiness goes away?” You inhale shakily. “Because the truth is… I feel more alone than before.”

Silence stretches between you.

Jeongin’s throat tightens, words clawing at him, begging to be spoken—but he can’t. He can only press his fingers to his lips, as if to hold back the confession that wants to spill out of him.

That he misses you too. That every night, he fights the urge to pick up his phone, to hear your voice, to run to you and never look back. That he doesn’t know how to be whole without you anymore.

But he stays silent. Because if he speaks, if he admits what his heart already knows… he’s afraid he’ll never be able to let you go.

You wait, but no answer comes.

And that’s your answer.

You let out a small, broken sigh before whispering, “Thank you for listening, Father.”

Then you rise, footsteps retreating, the door creaking as you step out of the booth.

Jeongin doesn’t move. He just sits there, staring blankly at the wooden divider, feeling more lost than ever.

-

The next day, Jeongin commute for almost an hour to get to St. Augustine church, where Sam is assigned in. The church is quieter than he expected. Even as he steps inside, the echo of his own footsteps feels almost intrusive.

He makes his way toward the pews, taking a seat in the dim light of the sanctuary. The flickering candles cast long shadows, their glow barely reaching the vaulted ceilings. Jeongin folds his hands in his lap, staring ahead at the crucifix mounted above the altar.

He waits.

Through the silence, he hears faint murmurs from the other end of the church. Sam must still be finishing his Bible study. Jeongin doesn't mind. If anything, the stillness gives him a moment to steady himself—to gather what little resolve he has left.

It isn’t long before he hears footsteps approaching.

Sam doesn’t say anything at first, only making his way to the pew beside Jeongin and settling in next to him. They sit there in silence, the weight of unspoken words thick in the air.

Then, finally, Sam exhales.

“You didn’t come here for confession,” he says, his voice calm yet knowing. “That must mean you’ve already made up your mind.”

Jeongin keeps his eyes ahead, staring at the altar, his fingers loosely intertwined in his lap. He hears the certainty in Sam’s voice, the quiet understanding behind his words.

For a moment, he doesn’t respond. Because Sam is right. He didn’t come here to confess. He came because he already knows what he wants—what he has to do.

Jeongin inhales slowly. “I thought it would be harder,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “Making the choice.”

Sam hums, tilting his head slightly as he studies him. “And yet, you look like it’s tearing you apart.”

Jeongin’s lips press together. Sam has always been able to see through him.

He exhales, his hands tightening slightly. “I love her,” he says at last, the words raw, unfiltered. The moment they leave his lips, a wave of something crashes over him. Relief, maybe. Or certainty. “And if love is supposed to reflect God, then why does it feel like I’m betraying Him?”

Sam is quiet for a moment before he speaks again. “Because you were taught to believe that loving someone this way is a betrayal.”

Jeongin swallows.

“Did you ever want to be a priest?” Sam asks, not unkindly. “Or did you just think you had to be one?”

Jeongin turns his head, meeting Sam’s gaze for the first time. The older man’s expression is unreadable, but his eyes are steady, patient, waiting.

Jeongin wets his lips. “I wanted to serve God,” he says, and it’s the truth. “I still do.”

Sam nods. “Then serve Him.”

Jeongin blinks. “What?”

“You said it yourself,” Sam says. “Love originates from God. Serving Him doesn’t have to mean shutting yourself away from the world.” He pauses. “And it certainly doesn’t mean shutting your heart away from someone He led you to.”

Jeongin breathes in sharply. His mind reels, but somewhere deep in his chest, something settles.

Sam clasps his hands together, leaning back slightly. “You’ve made your decision, Jeongin. You came here to say it out loud.” He tilts his head. “So say it.”

Jeongin looks at him, then exhales.

“I’m leaving the priesthood.”

The words linger in the quiet air of the church, heavier than anything Jeongin has ever spoken before. But this time, for the first time, they don’t feel like a loss. They feel like freedom.

-

Jeongin stands outside your apartment door, his heart pounding, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. This is it. The moment he’s been working toward, the choice he’s finally made. There’s no turning back now—not that he would ever want to. He raises his hand and knocks.

It’s barely a few seconds before the door swings open, as if you had been waiting for him all along.

And then he sees it. The rosary. Wrapped tightly around your fingers, clutched to your chest like a lifeline.

His breath catches.

Your eyes meet his, wide and shimmering, disbelief and relief crashing together in one overwhelming wave of emotion. Your lips part, but no words come out. Instead, tears spill over your cheeks, and before Jeongin can even think, you launch yourself forward, arms wrapping around him in a desperate, shaking embrace.

A choked sound leaves you, something between a sob and a breath of his name, muffled against his shoulder.

Jeongin closes his eyes and holds you tighter. “I’m here,” he murmurs, his voice steady, unwavering. “I’m here now.”

Your fingers dig into the fabric of his coat, like you’re afraid he’ll slip away, like you need proof that he’s real.

He presses his lips to your hair, his grip firm, grounding. “You’re not alone anymore,” he whispers. “You have me.” He swallows, voice thick with emotion. “Always.”

You sob again, but this time, it’s lighter, almost a breath of relief. You nod against his chest, your whole body trembling in his arms.

As Jeongin stands there, holding you in his arms, he realizes that this moment—this fragile, breathtaking moment—is the answer he’s been searching for all along. The weight of uncertainty, of fear and hesitation, slowly unravels, replaced by something steadier, something undeniable.

Love.

Not just the kind he’s always known, the kind that’s bound by duty and sacrifice, but the kind that feels like warmth after the cold, like light breaking through stained glass. The kind that isn’t separate from faith but a part of it, interwoven in every whispered prayer, every unspoken longing.

He cups your jaws with both hands and tilts your head toward him, as he looks into your eyes, he knows—this is where he’s meant to be. Right here. Holding you. Loving you.

Then he kisses you, with every fiber of his being, committing himself into this love but at the same time, breaking away from the doubts and fears that shackles him.

You pull back just enough to look at him, your face streaked with tears, but your lips curve into a small, wobbly smile. He lifts a hand, gently brushing away the dampness on your cheeks with his thumb, his touch lingering, reverent.

“Come inside,” you whisper.

And Jeongin follows, stepping over the threshold not just into your home, but into a future he’s finally ready to embrace.

-

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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are products of my imagination and used in a fictitious manner. Be aware that there are mentions of alcohol addiction and self-harm implicitly.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The confession echoes in the empty church, absorbed by the stillness of flickering candlelight. Yang Jeongin kneels before the altar, his fingers curled together in a desperate grip, as if holding himself together.

"I have broken my vow."

The weight of those words settles heavily on his chest. He exhales slowly, but the guilt does not leave him. The silence stretches, pressing in on him, waiting for him to continue. But how does he put it into words?

How does he confess that, despite all his prayers, despite the years of devotion, he let himself want something—someone—he should never have?

Jeongin closes his eyes. Images flood his mind, unbidden and relentless. A voice, teasing yet thoughtful. Fingers brushing over the pages of his manuscript. The way you looked at him—not as a priest, but as a man. Your touch on him, your warmth around him, your heat pressed against him and that sweet, sweet taste of you that flooded his tongue.

Lowering his head, he lets out a slow, unsteady breath and murmurs—

"Lord, have mercy on me."

But mercy does not come. Not in the silence of the church, not in the warmth of the candlelight, not in the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat that refuses to quiet. He waits, as if expecting some sign, some force greater than himself to strip him of this longing, to pull him back from the edge before he falls again.

Nothing comes.

Jeongin forces his eyes open, staring at the altar before him. The crucifix looms overhead, a reminder, a warning—yet all he can think about is how your hands felt gripping the front of his shirt, how they felt against his skin. The way you pleaded so desperately to please him.

Please, please, please.

A shudder courses through him. He grips the rosary tighter, the beads biting into his skin. He should repent. He should beg for forgiveness. He should erase every trace of you from his thoughts before he condemns himself further.

And yet—

And yet, when he closes his eyes again, all he sees is you.

-

The scent of old paper and polished wood lingers in the air as Jeongin walks through the quiet corridors of St. Peter’s Church, making his way toward his office. The afternoon sun filters through the stained-glass windows, casting fractured colors onto the stone floor. A familiar stillness settles around him, the kind that has become second nature over the years.

He steps inside his office, closing the door behind him. His desk is neatly arranged, save for the stack of handwritten pages resting beside his laptop—his latest manuscript, still unfinished. With a quiet sigh, he glances at the bulletin board pinned to the wall, eyes lingering on the ad he had posted just days ago.

Looking for a part-time assistant. Flexible hours. Must be organized and comfortable with transcribing and editing. Contact: 010-XXXX-XXXX.

A simple request, nothing more. He hadn’t expected much, maybe a few inquiries at best. So when his phone buzzes against the desk, he barely glances at the number before answering.

"Hello?"

There’s a brief hesitation on the other end before a voice—soft, uncertain yet clear—fills the silence.

"Hi, um… I saw the notice about the part-time job? I just wanted to ask if it's still available."

Jeongin leans back in his chair, his fingers idly tapping against the armrest. There's something about the way you speak—the quiet curiosity, the faint edge of hesitation—that makes him pause before responding.

"Ah, yes. It is. Would you be able to come by this afternoon? We can talk more in person."

A beat of silence. Then, "Sure. Where should I go?"

"St. Peter’s Church," he replies smoothly. "Just ask for Father Yang when you arrive."

The pause is longer this time, and Jeongin can almost picture the way your expression must have shifted—surprise, confusion, maybe even disbelief. He waits, letting the weight of it settle.

"Father?" Your voice is quieter now, cautious.

"That’s right." He doesn’t elaborate, simply lets the word linger between you.

But despite your hesitation, you don’t back out. "Alright. I’ll be there."

"Good. I’ll see you then."

The call ends, and Jeongin sets his phone down, exhaling slowly. He isn’t sure why he feels the faintest trace of amusement lingering in his chest. Perhaps it’s the subtle curiosity in your voice or the fact that, even through the phone, he could sense the moment your perception shifted.

Either way, he knows one thing for certain: You don’t quite know what you’ve signed up for.

-

The church is quieter than usual when Jeongin steps toward the altar, dressed in his white and gold vestments. The scent of burning candles and aged wood surrounds him, a constant companion. He speaks with the steadiness that years of practice have given him, his voice echoing through the high ceilings as the congregation listens.

He doesn’t think much of the new presence seated at the back of the church at first. It’s only when he glances up, catching a pair of unfamiliar eyes watching him a little too intently, that something shifts. Recognition flickers.

The service continues, undisturbed, but Jeongin is aware of you now—the slight fidgeting of your hands, the way you shift in your seat, the lingering way your gaze keeps returning to him.

When the mass ends and the last murmurs of prayer fade, Jeongin descends the steps from the altar, moving through the thinning crowd with quiet purpose. He doesn’t need to search.

You’re still there, watching him.

He stops in front of you, tilting his head slightly as his gaze meets yours. There it is—the look he had anticipated. That moment of realization.

"You must be here about the job."

Your lips part slightly, a breath caught in your throat. "You’re Father Yang?"

Jeongin exhales a quiet chuckle, amusement flickering at the edges of his lips. "I am. Were you expecting someone else?"

"I—um—I guess I just didn’t recognize you right away."

"That happens." He doesn’t press further, though he can see the questions forming behind your eyes. Instead, he gestures toward the hallway leading to the back of the church. "Come on. We can talk more in my office."

You hesitate for only a second before following. Jeongin leads the way, his footsteps quiet against the stone floor, the hum of the church fading behind you.

Inside his office, the space is dimly lit by the glow of his desk lamp, the scent of ink and old books settling in the air. Jeongin takes his seat, but before he gestures for you to do the same, his gaze flickers over you—your clothes, the expensive bag resting on your shoulder, the delicate pieces of jewelry on your wrist and neck. Everything about you speaks of wealth, of a life where money is never a concern.

He doesn’t ask. Not yet. But the question lingers in his mind. Why would someone like you be looking for a part-time job at a church? If it’s just about building your resume, there are a hundred easier ways.

Still, he doesn’t voice the thought. Instead, he gestures toward the chair across from him. "Have a seat."

You do, sinking into the chair, only to immediately sit up straighter, as if trying not to appear uncomfortable. It doesn’t help that the setup feels almost interrogative—him behind the desk, composed and collected, while you sit stiffly across from him.

"So," Jeongin starts, leaning forward, hands resting lightly against the desk, "tell me a little about yourself."

You straighten, clearing your throat. "Well, I’m in my last year of college. I major in literature, and I do some freelance work—mostly editing and transcribing—so I thought this might be a good fit."

Jeongin nods but doesn’t drop his scrutiny. "Will this job interfere with your studies?"

You shake your head quickly. "Not at all. If anything, I need something to do other than just studying all the time." A small, sheepish smile. "And honestly, I need the experience for my resume."

That doesn’t explain it. Not entirely. But Jeongin lets it slide, for now. "That’s fair."

A beat of silence. Then he tilts his head. "Do you have experience working with writers?"

"A bit," you admit. "I've helped a few authors organize their drafts and notes. Are you working on a book?"

"I am." He watches your expression closely. "A detective novel."

Your eyebrows lift slightly. "Really?"

Jeongin leans back, lips curling slightly at your reaction. "Something wrong with that?"

"No, not at all," you say quickly. "I just… didn't expect a priest to be writing crime fiction."

"You’re not the first person to say that," he replies smoothly.

You shift slightly, and though you try to hide it, Jeongin can tell you’re still unsure about him. That’s fine. He’s used to being studied, just as he’s used to studying others.

He finally leans forward, folding his hands together. "If you take this job, you'll be assisting me with research, organization, and transcriptions. Some of it will be straightforward, some of it might require a little patience." His voice remains calm, steady. "Is that something you're comfortable with?"

You hesitate for only a moment before nodding, this time more firmly. "Yeah. I can handle that."

Jeongin studies you for a second longer, then gives a small nod. "Good."

You exhale, as if only now realizing you had been holding your breath.

"You can start this Monday."

-

Jeongin doesn’t usually like surprises, but he has to admit—watching you linger by the confession booth is an unexpected sight.

He had only been passing through the church hallways when he spotted you, standing just outside the small wooden structure, your fingers ghosting over the carved frame. Your expression is unreadable, but there’s something pensive in the way you stand there, like you’re considering stepping inside.

His lips quirk slightly. “Thinking about confessing?”

The way you jolt at his voice is almost comical. You turn sharply, eyes widening just a fraction before you compose yourself.

“I was just looking,” you reply, shifting slightly under his gaze.

Jeongin raises a brow, amused. “You sure? I can take your confession right now, if you’d like.”

For a brief second, your face betrays a flicker of flustered hesitation before you shake your head, smiling shyly. “Maybe another time.”

He chuckles softly, the sound echoing lightly in the quiet hall. “I’ll hold you to that.”

He nods toward his office. “Come on. You have work to do.”

He doesn’t wait for you to respond, simply turns on his heel, fully expecting you to follow—which, after a brief pause, you do.

Jeongin watches you carefully as you step into his office, noting how your gaze flickers over the space. It’s a little cluttered but not chaotic, a mix of stacked manuscripts, theological books, and a few scattered notes he keeps meaning to organize. The air smells faintly of old parchment and candle wax.

You don’t seem entirely comfortable here. He wonders if it’s the religious setting or just him.

Settling into his chair, he leans back slightly, hands clasped together. “Your tasks are straightforward,” he begins. “You’ll be editing, transcribing my handwritten notes, proofreading drafts, and organizing my files. Occasionally, you might have to handle emails from my publisher or literary agent.”

You nod, listening intently, but he doesn’t miss the way your eyes flicker toward his desk—toward the mess of papers he has yet to sort. If organization is part of your job, you’ll have your hands full.

“I don’t expect you to know everything right away,” he continues, watching for your reaction. “But I do expect you to be efficient and ask questions when necessary.”

“Understood,” you reply, your tone professional, composed.

He nods in approval before gesturing toward the chair across from him. “Then let’s get started.”

You settle in, pulling out your laptop, and soon enough, the only sound in the office is the rhythmic tapping of keys as you begin working through his notes.

Jeongin doesn’t speak much after that, but he keeps a quiet eye on you as he works through his own writing. The job itself isn’t difficult, but he can sense your unease.

It’s not the workload that unsettles you. It’s him. He’s used to that. Even now, after seeing him lead an entire mass, after watching him step down from the altar with practiced ease, you still seem unsure about him.

Maybe it’s because he’s younger than you expected—sharp-eyed and composed, but not in the soft, gentle way most priests are. Or maybe it’s the way he speaks, calm and deliberate, with none of the detached serenity that people usually associate with men of the cloth.

Or maybe, it’s because despite sitting across from you in full priest attire, he looks more like a professor than a man of God. Someone intellectual, analytical. Someone who doesn’t just preach scripture but dissects it.

He wonders if you even realize you’re staring. Instead of calling you out on it, he lets the silence stretch between you until, finally, he speaks.

“You don’t feel comfortable working here, do you?”

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard for a split second before you quickly shake your head. “What? No, it’s fine—”

He tilts his head slightly, a knowing look in his eyes. “You don’t have to lie.”

You press your lips together, clearly unsure of how to respond.

Jeongin exhales softly, leaning back in his chair. “It makes sense. A church office isn’t exactly the most comfortable workspace.” He twirls a pen absently between his fingers before glancing back at you. “Come to my apartment tomorrow instead. It’s where I do most of my writing anyway. You’ll be more comfortable there.”

You hesitate but then your eyes flicker around the room—the heavy bookshelves, the religious paintings, the ever-present scent of incense and candle wax—and Jeongin knows you’re considering it.

“If that’s what you prefer,” you say carefully.

His lips curl slightly. “It’s what makes the most sense. I’ll text you the address later.”

And just like that, the first day ends with a shift neither of you were expecting.

-

The next afternoon, Jeongin opens the door to find you standing outside his apartment, looking hesitant.

He takes one look at your face and smirks. “Did you expect me to answer the door in full priest attire?”

You blink, clearly caught off guard, and only now seem to realize that he’s not dressed in black clericals. Instead, he’s wearing a loose sweater and sweatpants, looking significantly more casual than the last time you saw him.

“No—I mean, I just…” You trail off, visibly struggling to phrase whatever it is you’re thinking.

Jeongin leans against the doorframe, amused. “I don’t wear that all the time, you know.”

Your reaction is enough to entertain him for the rest of the evening. But after a few more seconds of watching you flounder, he gestures for you to step inside.

His apartment is neat and minimalistic, lacking any unnecessary decor. But the first thing you notice isn’t the furniture.

It’s the wooden altar against the wall.

Your eyes linger on it for a second before you turn to him, brows raised. “So instead of a couch or a coffee table, you took an altar?”

Jeongin chuckles. “It was free.”

You exhale a small laugh, shaking your head as you take in the rest of the space. He watches as you carefully observe everything, adjusting to this new environment.

Finally, he nods toward the desk by the window. “Your workspace is over there.”

You walk over, running your fingers lightly over the surface before glancing back at him. “Where are you going to work if I’m using your desk?”

He shrugs, leaning against the wall. “I’ll be doing other things around the apartment.”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “Like what?”

His lips twitch. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The first time Jeongin sees you, he knows you’ll be trouble.

Not in the way most people would think—there’s nothing outwardly rebellious about you, nothing loud or disruptive. No, your trouble is quieter, buried beneath the surface, where only those who bother to look closely can see it.

And Jeongin always looks closely.

You’re smart—he can tell from the way you speak, how you choose your words carefully, never giving more than what’s necessary. You’re meticulous, precise in your work, never making mistakes. A model assistant.

But Jeongin doesn’t trust things that are too perfect.

And you—you are undeniably beautiful. It’s a beauty so pure that it almost feels sacred, like stained glass catching sunlight or the flicker of a candle in a silent chapel. And yet, instead of making him want to protect it, it makes something inside him stir.

A need—subtle but insistent—to ruin it. To stain it. Just to see what would happen. And that is dangerous.

He’s spent years learning restraint, carving discipline into himself until it feels like second nature. But you… You tempt him just enough to make him wonder what you’re hiding.

Because there’s something—a flicker of secrecy behind your composed expression, a hesitation in your voice when you speak of your life. He sees it in the way your fingers press into your thighs under the table, in the way your smile never quite reaches your eyes.

Jeongin likes writing mysteries because he enjoys uncovering things—secrets, motives, the hidden truths people don’t want to admit. And next, it’s going to be you.

"Father?"

Your soft, melodic voice cuts through his thoughts, snapping him back to reality and God, he likes it when you call him that. Too much. The way you say it—gentle, reverent, like it means something—only makes it worse. He wonders, briefly, if you’ll ever say it in a different tone. Maybe a little rougher, maybe breathless—maybe—

"Father," you call again, stepping closer. Your hands are clasped neatly in front of you, a picture of innocence, of obedience.

Jeongin looks down at the manuscript in his hands, gripping it just a little tighter to keep his thoughts from straying too far.

"Do you mind if I leave early today?" you ask, tilting your head ever so slightly.

"Yes," he says immediately. Maybe too quickly. But he knows—knows it’s dangerous to be around you for too long.

You smile, grateful. "Thank you, but—there’s one more thing.”

Jeongin lifts his eyes, wary. "What is it?"

"Can I use your bathroom to change?"

Another easy request. Another easy yes. You excuse yourself, taking your bag with you, and disappear behind the door.

And Jeongin—he should go back to work. He should focus on something else. But he can’t. Because the only thing on his mind now is you. You, just beyond that door. Undressing.

He swallows hard, gripping the manuscript even tighter, but it’s useless. His thoughts are already running wild—imagining the soft rustle of fabric as you pull that dress over your head, imagining the bare expanse of your skin, the places he’s never seen, the places you keep hidden—

His breath catches and then his eyes dart to the crucifix on the wall. The sight of it stings, as if God Himself is watching, and Jeongin quickly reaches for the cross necklace hanging around his neck. His fingers tighten around it as he closes his eyes, whispering a quiet prayer.

But what is he even praying for? Not to stop—because he can’t stop. Not for forgiveness—because he doesn’t deserve it.

All he can do is stand there, gripping onto the fragile thread of his self-control, until the soft click of the bathroom door opening pulls him back to the present.

He turns swiftly—only to see you already pulling on your coat, concealing whatever outfit you’ve changed into. A small mercy, perhaps. But then he notices the deep red painted onto your lips. The scent of your perfume drifts through the air, warm and heady, curling around him like temptation itself.

You smile at him, utterly unaware of the war waging inside him. "Good night, Father. See you tomorrow."

And then you’re gone.

Jeongin exhales, slow and heavy, his gaze lingering on the closed door. He thought—hoped—that once you left, his mind would quiet. That he’d be able to breathe again.

But it’s harder now because your scent lingers in the room and so does everything else.

-

Jeongin does what he always does when temptation coils too tightly around his ribs—he leaves. He steps out into the night and the next thing he knows, it’s late, and he’s walking down an unfamiliar street, bathed in the glow of neon lights and passing headlights.

A group of girls passes by, giggling and chatting, their perfume lingering in the air. Jeongin keeps his head down, uninterested. But then—

"Father."

The word freezes him in place. Slowly, he turns around and there you are. For a moment, he isn’t even sure it’s you. The girl standing before him isn’t the same one he saw earlier in his apartment—poised, polished, careful in every movement. No, this version of you is different.

Your dress is short—too short—exposing far too much of your legs, hugging every curve of your body in ways that make his throat dry. The dim glow of the streetlights does nothing to hide the fact that you’re not wearing a bra, your nipples subtly pressing against the thin fabric. And your lips—painted that same deep red, like a mark of sin itself.

You smile at him, a little shy now, suddenly aware of yourself under his gaze. You clutch your coat tighter around your body, a small attempt at modesty, though it does nothing to undo what he’s already seen.

"I’m surprised to see you here," you say, voice light, but there’s something else beneath it—an uncertainty, a hesitance.

Jeongin exhales slowly, pulling his thoughts together. "I’m just as surprised," he admits.

A brief silence settles between you. Then, Jeongin asks, "Where are you going?"

You glance over your shoulder toward the club entrance, where bluish neon lights spill onto the pavement, casting strange shadows on the ground. Your lips part as if to answer, but the words trail off, and instead, you gesture vaguely in the direction of the pulsing music.

You don’t say it outright, but Jeongin can tell—it’s not something you want to talk about with him. So he nods in understanding.

You hesitate then, shifting slightly on your feet before drawing in a small breath. "Do you want to—" You stop yourself mid-sentence, breaking into a nervous laugh as you shake your head. "Never mind."

He knows what you were about to ask. "It’s too late for me anyway," Jeongin says instead, his voice careful, measured. "I have morning mass tomorrow."

At that, your brows lift slightly, as if the reminder of his priesthood catches you off guard. He watches your expression closely, waiting for the moment it clicks again—that no matter how different he may look outside of his collar, no matter how casual he may seem standing before you now, he is still Father Yang Jeongin.

"Don’t let me get in the way," he says after a beat. "Have fun."

You pause, your eyes lingering on him for just a second too long, something unreadable flickering in them. Then, without another word, you step away, rejoining your friends.

Before you get too far, Jeongin speaks once more. "Stay safe."

You pause, and when you respond, your voice is softer, more subdued. "Yes, Father."

And Jeongin—he stands there, watching. Watching the sway of your hips, the way the hem of your dress flutters with each step, the way the scent of your perfume lingers in the air long after you’re gone.

-

Jeongin doesn’t remember how it starts. One moment, he’s standing in the dim light of his apartment, and the next, you’re in front of him, close enough that he can count every slow rise and fall of your chest.

You look different—softer, unguarded, your lips stained that same dangerous red. Your dress clings to you, delicate fabric that threatens to slip off your shoulders with the slightest movement.

"Father," you whisper, and the way you say it makes something inside him snap.

His fingers twitch at his sides. Don’t touch her.

But then your hands reach for him first, trailing up his arms, slow and featherlight, until they slide over his shoulders.

"Do you want me to confess?" you murmur, eyes gleaming with something wicked.

Jeongin swallows. His throat is dry, his chest tight. You shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be looking at you like this, thinking of you like this.

And yet, when your fingers brush against his collar, your touch barely there, he doesn’t stop you.

"You tempt me," you whisper, and your breath fans against his lips. "Do I tempt you, Father?"

His hands move before he can think—gripping your hips, pulling you closer until there’s nothing between you but heat. Your body presses against his, and he swears he can feel every curve, every soft inch molding into him.

"Say it," you breathe, tilting your head up. "Say you want me."

His resolve shatters and the moment his lips crash against yours, it’s over.

You melt into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, nails grazing against his scalp in a way that makes him groan against your mouth. His hands roam down, gripping the backs of your thighs, lifting you—he doesn’t know where he’s taking you, only that he needs to feel more, needs to—

His name. You moan his name, not Father, not the careful title he hides behind, but Jeongin—breathy, desperate, yours.

Heat. Softness. The scent of something sweet, intoxicating, wrapping around him like silk. Your delicate fingers trailing over his chest, down, down—

Jeongin jerks awake.

His breathing is uneven, his body flushed with heat despite the cool air in the room. The sheets stick to his damp skin, and when he shifts, discomfort coils in his gut. He doesn’t need to look down to know.

Morning wood.

His jaw clenches as he drags a hand down his face, fingers trembling as he pushes his hair back. The clock on his nightstand glares at him, the numbers glowing an unforgiving 5:32 AM. Morning mass is in less than two hours.

"Shit."

He swallows hard, forcing himself to sit up. His body protests, his muscles taut with the remnants of the dream—the dream he shouldn’t have had.

Not about you. Not about your soft voice whispering Father in that same breathy tone. Not about your fingers digging into his shoulders. Not about the way your lips had parted for him, not in prayer, but in something far more sinful.

Jeongin shuts his eyes tightly. No. No. No.

He inhales sharply and forces the words past his lips. "Lord, have mercy."

But even as he murmurs the prayer, images of you flicker behind his eyelids—your dress, your perfume, the way your eyes lingered on him last night.

His fingers twitch, and before he can entertain another thought, Jeongin throws off the sheets and stumbles to his feet.

The cold shower does little to wash away the lingering heat. And as he stands under the freezing water, hands braced against the tiled wall, Jeongin wonders if this is the beginning of his ruin.

-

Jeongin exhales slowly before unlocking the door. He knows you’ll be standing there, just as you are around this time in the afternoon, but nothing prepares him for the sight of you holding out a coffee cup, your soft smile disarming.

“I got you this, Father,” you say, your voice gentle.

He hesitates only for a moment before reaching for it. And that’s when it happens. Your fingers brush—just the barest, fleeting touch, but it sends a current straight through him. He nearly flinches. Because just like that, the memory of his dream resurfaces, vivid and unforgiving. Your warmth against him, your lips parting in a breathless plea, the softness of your skin beneath his hands—

He pulls the cup away too quickly. The heat seeps through the paper, grounding him back to reality. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice strained.

You tilt your head slightly. “How are you today?”

His grip on the cup tightens. “Fine,” he answers curtly.

Your eyes search his face, as if sensing something beneath the surface. Then, the question that nearly makes him choke on air—

“You look tired. Did you sleep well, Father?”

His breath catches, and for a moment, all he can do is stare at you. Do you know? How could you possibly know? The way you ask it—so casual, so innocent—yet it feels like a cruel trick.

He forces himself to look away. “I—” He swallows hard. “There’s a list of things I need you to work on today.”

He doesn’t answer your question. He can’t. Instead, he talks—quick, efficient, filling the space between you with instructions about editing, transcribing, emails. He needs distance. Needs to push you back into the safe boundaries of professionalism.

“I have a meeting with my parish soon,” he adds, relieved that it’s not an excuse. It’s the truth. The timing couldn’t be better—he needs to leave before he does something irredeemable.

You nod, obedient as ever, listening to every word, those wide, earnest eyes locked onto his. Your lips part slightly, as if you have something to say, but you stay quiet, waiting for his command.

And for a split second—just one—Jeongin feels the undeniable temptation to close the space between you. To reach out, cup your face, and press his lips to yours just to see if they’re as soft as he imagines. He jerks his head away, breaking the thought before it can go any further.

No. He needs to go. Now. He turns, already stepping toward the door when he hears it—

“Father.”

The sound of your voice stops him in his tracks. A rush of heat curls low in his stomach, his mind flashing back to the dream, the way you had said it—whispered, breathless, desperate. He clenches his jaw before looking back at you.

You smile, completely unaware of the effect you have on him. “Please take the coffee with you,” you say, nudging the cup toward him.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. Then, with a stiff nod, he grips the cup tighter, murmurs a quiet thanks, and walks out the door because if he stays any longer, he’s not sure if he’ll be able to resist the fall.

-

The meeting had done its job—Jeongin had managed to push you out of his mind, at least temporarily. Discussions about upcoming church events, budgeting concerns, and youth programs had kept him grounded in reality. By the time he steps onto the street leading back to his apartment, he feels a rare sense of relief.

You would be gone by now. He had been gone for hours. The thought steadies him. No need to walk on a tightrope, no need to police his own thoughts, no need to restrain himself from—

Jeongin freezes mid-step. Through the faintly lit window of his apartment, he sees a silhouette. His stomach drops. He fumbles for his keys, unlocking the door in a rush, and steps inside.

And there you are.

Sitting on his sofa, one leg tucked under the other, completely at ease, flipping through the pages of one of his novels. You glance over your shoulder at him, smile like you belong here.

“Welcome back, Father.”

The words make his breath hitch. It takes him a second too long to remember to respond.

“What… Why are you still here?” The question comes out more forceful than intended, his surprise laced with something dangerously close to panic.

You blink, tilting your head slightly as if his reaction is odd. “I've finished what you asked me to do,” you say simply, lifting the book. “And then I got curious.”

Curious.

Jeongin exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face. He doesn’t know whether to be frustrated or amused.

“Are you enjoying it?” he asks, his voice more measured now.

Your lips curve, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “It’s different from what I expected,” you admit. “Darker.”

You skim a finger down the page, absentmindedly tracing over the words, and he wonders if you have any idea how that simple action makes his stomach twist.

“You write about sinners a lot, Father,” you muse, flipping to the next chapter. “Do you relate to them?”

Your voice is light, teasing, but something about the question unsettles him. You don’t look up right away, waiting, as if you truly expect an answer.

Jeongin forces himself to exhale, to shove down the flicker of heat curling in his chest.

“You should go home.”

The words come out firmer than he intends, but it’s the only way he can maintain control of the situation. You shouldn’t be here. Not after he had spent the entire day trying to cleanse his thoughts of you. Not when the way you’re sitting there, curled up on his sofa, reminds him far too much of—

You move. Closing the book with a soft thud, set it on the coffee table and rise to your feet. There’s something hesitant in the way you approach him, something almost uncertain, and Jeongin braces himself for whatever you’re about to say.

Then, softly, you ask, “Father… can I make a confession?”

Jeongin stills. The words send a jolt down his spine.

The dream. His dream had started like this. You, standing before him, hands clasped in front of you, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes. Except in his dream, your voice had been breathless, heavy with something unspoken. And when he had stepped closer—

No. Jeongin clenches his jaw, pushing the memory away. This is different. This is real. His fingers curl at his sides, nails digging into his palm as he inhales deeply. He reminds himself of who he is, of what this means, of the line he cannot—will not—cross.

Still, his voice is quieter when he finally speaks. “…Of course.”

-

The air in the apartment feels heavier when you sit beside him on the sofa. The cushions dip slightly under your weight, and for a moment, Jeongin wonders if this is a mistake—if allowing you to stay any longer is only inviting more temptation into his already fragile resolve.

You’re quiet, hands fidgeting in your lap, your posture unsure in a way he’s never seen before. The confidence you usually carry—the soft smiles, the teasing edge in your words—is nowhere to be found.

“I… I don’t really know how to start,” you admit softly, glancing at him through your lashes. “Do I have to say, ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned’ or…?”

Jeongin bites back a smile. “Not exactly,” he says, shaking his head. “You start by making the sign of the cross and saying, ‘In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.’”

A quiet, nervous chuckle escapes your lips, and you lower your head slightly. “Right. Of course. I should’ve known,” you murmur, though there’s no malice—only a kind of shy awkwardness.

You’re not someone who comes to church often. That much is clear.

“Let me ask you something,” Jeongin softens, leaning back slightly as he shifts his approach. “Why do you suddenly want to confess?” he asks, his voice quieter now—gentler, as though he’s worried you’ll shut down if he pushes too hard.

You hesitate before answering. “I… I wanted to talk about something,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “And you seemed like the kind of person I could talk to. Someone who wouldn’t judge.”

The words sit heavy in the space between you. For a second, Jeongin doesn’t trust himself to speak. Because the truth is—he is judging. Not you, but himself.

“I’m not here to condemn you,” he finally says, fighting to maintain the calm steadiness in his tone. “And if you feel comfortable enough to tell me, then there’s no need to be nervous.” He tilts his head slightly, watching the way your fingers twist the hem of your dress. “Maybe you don’t want forgiveness. Maybe you just want to be heard.”

At that, your shoulders loosen a little. The tension in your frame eases, and after a breath, you begin.

“My parents,” you start, “are… difficult. They’re strict. Demanding. Controlling.” You pause, trying to gather your thoughts. “They expect a lot from me. I always have to be the best—the perfect daughter. I do what they ask. I always do. But sometimes…” Your voice wavers, just slightly. “Sometimes, I feel like I can’t breathe.”

Jeongin doesn’t speak. He lets you keep going, his fingers curling against his knees as he listens.

“I know they want the best for me,” you continue, a touch more defensive now, as though you’re trying to convince yourself of it. “But it’s exhausting. The pressure. And the worst part is… I don’t get to enjoy anything. Being young. Being free. It feels like life is just passing me by while other people my age are out there living.”

You lower your gaze, your voice quieting. “That night… when I saw you. That was me blowing off steam.”

Jeongin clenches his jaw, the image flashing back with painful clarity—you, in that dress, with your red lips and bare skin, looking like temptation incarnate under the neon lights.

“I lied to my parents that night,” you confess, and there’s a thread of guilt woven through your tone. “I told them I was staying late for my part-time job. For you.” You glance at him briefly, your expression apologetic. “But I wasn’t. I went out with my friends instead. We drank. We danced. We—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head in frustration. “I know lying is a sin, but it’s the only way I get to do anything for myself.”

He should reprimand you. He should tell you lying is wrong, that deception is a slippery slope—but all Jeongin can focus on is the way your voice softens with something deeper. Something more fragile.

“I know it sounds stupid,” you say quietly, your fingers curling into your palms, “but sometimes, I feel… left behind.”

The words hit harder than they should. You’re not saying it outright, but he can hear what you’re implying. You’ve never had the freedom to explore. To feel things. To know the things others your age do.

He shouldn’t care. But he does. And it shouldn’t affect him. But it does. And yet—nothing tests his self-control like the question that leaves your lips next.

“Is it wrong…” you hesitate, your voice dropping into something softer, almost fragile, “to want to feel admired? To be wanted?”

Jeongin’s heart stutters.

“I like the way it feels,” you continue, eyes cast downward in quiet shame. “When I dress up, when I go out… the way people look at me. It’s like, for once, I’m not my parent's daughter and I'm just... me. I can see it in their eyes—how much they want me. And I—” Your breath catches, your lips trembling just slightly. “I like that.”

He swallows hard, the weight of your words pressing down on every weak part of him. Because God help him—he knows exactly what you mean.

And what’s worse? He wants you the same way. Maybe more.

-

Silence stretches between you, heavy and unspoken. The weight of your confession lingers in the air, and Jeongin feels it pressing down on him—on his chest, his thoughts, the fragile boundary he’s desperately trying to maintain.

You look at him expectantly, searching for something in his expression. Guidance, maybe. Reassurance. Or perhaps, you’re bracing for judgment, for him to tell you that what you feel is wrong. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Instead, he exhales slowly, choosing his words carefully. “I think,” he begins, voice steady, “that you’re searching for something.”

You blink at him, waiting.

“It’s not wrong to want to be seen,” he continues. “To be wanted. We all crave connection in some way.” His fingers curl against his knee, a grounding effort to keep himself composed. “But admiration—lust—it’s fleeting. It won’t fill the emptiness you feel.”

Your lips part slightly, as if to protest, but you hesitate.

Jeongin leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs as he studies you. “You say you feel left behind, but… have you ever stopped to ask yourself what it is you’re truly missing?”

You frown, your brows drawing together.

“Is it the experiences themselves?” he presses gently. “Or is it the idea of them? The pressure to have lived a certain way, to match some invisible expectation of what youth is supposed to be?”

You lower your gaze, silent.

Jeongin sighs. “You’ve spent so long following the rules that now you’re swinging in the opposite direction, trying to grasp onto something—anything—that makes you feel alive.” He pauses. “But if you’re not careful, you might mistake empty attention for something more. And that kind of emptiness… it lingers.”

You exhale softly, your fingers stilling in your lap. “Then… what do I do?”

He hesitates. He could tell you to focus on the people who truly care for you, to find fulfillment in things that aren’t so temporary. He could remind you that your worth isn’t measured by how many eyes are on you, or how much you’re desired.

But saying those things feels… inadequate. Because deep down, he knows, he knows what it’s like to crave something he shouldn’t. To want something he cannot have.

So instead, he settles for something simpler. Something safer.

“Take your time,” he says quietly. “Figure out what it is you truly want, not what you think you should want.” His gaze lingers on you, softer now. “And don’t let anyone else define that for you.”

You stare at him for a long moment, your expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a small, wistful smile tugs at your lips.

“You’re a good man, Father.”

Jeongin stiffens, not because of your words, but because of the way you say them—soft, warm, almost reverent. Like you truly believe it. If only you knew.

He swallows hard, steadying himself as he lifts his hand. His fingers hesitate for the briefest moment before he presses the pad of his thumb to your forehead.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

His voice is firm, even, betraying nothing of the storm within him. But as he traces the cross against your skin, something unfamiliar coils deep in his stomach.

You close your eyes at the touch, exhaling softly. There’s a quiet reverence in the way you bow your head slightly, in the way you let him bless you without hesitation.

But Jeongin—Jeongin feels like he’s the one being undone. Because in this moment, as his fingers linger just a second too long against your warm skin, he realizes something dangerous.

You are the blessing. And you are the temptation. Both, intertwined. A paradox that he cannot afford to unravel.

When he pulls his hand away, you blink up at him, smiling softly. “Thank you, Father.”

Jeongin forces a nod, swallowing past the dryness in his throat.

You need to leave. He wants to tell you. Now.

But you don’t. Not immediately. You linger, watching him with those wide, searching eyes—eyes that make him feel like you can see through him. And maybe you do. Maybe you know.

But then, after a beat too long, you step back, exhaling as you gather your things. “I should go,” you murmur.

Jeongin nods stiffly. “Yes.”

“Goodnight, Father. See you on Monday.” You give him one last look before turning for the door.

And just like before, he watches you leave, the scent of your perfume lingering in the air like a ghost.

When the door clicks shut behind you, Jeongin exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. Then, without thinking, he reaches for the cross around his neck, gripping it tightly as if it could cleanse the thoughts already sinking into him like a poison.

He murmurs a prayer under his breath but deep down, he knows, he knows that no prayer will be enough.

-

The soft click of the door handle echoes through the apartment, and Jeongin hears your voice calling his name. He doesn’t respond right away. His mind is elsewhere—on the broken showerhead, the water that wouldn’t stop spraying, the damp fabric clinging uncomfortably to his skin.

He steps out of the bathroom, running a hand through his wet hair just as he catches sight of you standing there, frozen in place. His white tank top is soaked through, the fabric outlining every muscle, and he can feel water still trailing down his arms, pooling at his collarbone before slipping lower.

“The showerhead’s broken,” he says, shaking his head with a small laugh. Then, with an amused glance, he adds, “Not that you’d be using it anyway.”

Your expression flickers—something unreadable but fleeting. Then you chuckle, a little too quickly, and Jeongin catches the way your gaze briefly drops before you avert your eyes.

Interesting.

He doesn’t comment, but he files that reaction away as he gestures toward his room. “I should go change.”

You nod, already moving toward your desk, but when he reaches his door, he leaves it slightly ajar. Maybe it’s a habit, or maybe it’s something else entirely.

As he pulls the damp shirt over his head, he senses it—a presence lingering, a gaze that wavers but doesn’t entirely look away. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge it, but the thought makes his lips twitch into the faintest smirk.

Still, he takes his time, reaching for a clean shirt, slipping it on with ease before finally stepping back out. When he returns to the main room, he notices the way you suddenly seem very focused on your work.

Amusing.

“Ready to work?” he asks, watching as you straighten up, schooling your features into professionalism.

“Yes. Ready.”

But there’s something different in your voice, a slight hesitation beneath the surface. Jeongin doesn’t comment, only opens his manuscript, shifting his attention to the pages in front of him.

The work is straightforward—revisions, editing, transcriptions—but he catches the way your eyes drift every now and then, lingering on him longer than necessary. He doesn’t acknowledge it, but he notices. He always does.

Then, after a particularly long pause, he glances up just in time to catch you staring at his hands.

More specifically, at the silver ring on his finger.

“It was a gift from my parents,” he says casually, tapping it lightly against the desk.

You blink, startled, before offering a small smile. “It suits you.”

He hums in response, but something about the way you say it lingers. A quiet observation, thoughtful but restrained. Like there’s more you want to ask but won’t.

Instead, you shift the conversation. “Father, what do you do outside of this? Writing and—” A quick glance at the cross hanging from his neck. “Priesthood.”

Jeongin leans back slightly, considering. “I play the piano when I have time,” he says. “And sometimes, I work out.”

At that, he hears the faintest murmur from you. A barely-there comment, but he catches it anyway.

“So that’s why you’re so—”

His gaze sharpens. “What?”

Your eyes widen slightly before you shake your head. “Nothing.”

He watches you for a moment, then smirks but lets it go.

Eventually, the work for the day comes to an end, and Jeongin glances at the time. “I’ll walk you to the bus stop,” he offers. “I have to head to the church for a Bible study anyway.”

You nod, and the two of you step outside. The air is crisp, the sky brushed in hues of orange and pink. As you walk side by side, he asks, “What do you want to do after you graduate?”

“I want to be a writer,” you answer without hesitation.

Jeongin smiles at that. “And what do you want to write?”

A pause. A flicker of something in your expression. Then, you answer carefully, “Something like what you write.”

His smile lingers. “That won’t be too hard for you.”

You shake your head quickly. “No, I— I still have so much to learn.”

Jeongin meets your gaze, something unreadable in his eyes. “Then learn,” he says simply.

For a moment, the space between you feels different—something softer, quieter. But then the bus arrives, breaking the moment.

You flash him one last smile before stepping on. Jeongin watches as you take your seat by the window, your gaze flickering to him one last time before the bus pulls away. Only when you’re out of sight does he finally turn back toward the church.

And yet, long after you’re gone, he still feels the weight of your presence.

-

That morning, Jeongin is composed. Focused. His voice carries through the church with practiced ease, each word of the sermon spoken with reverence. He is leading the mass, guiding the faithful through their prayers, his heart steady in its devotion. But then his eyes sweep over the congregation, and he sees you.

You’re sitting in the third pew, dressed in black, the morning sun filtering through the stained-glass windows casting a golden glow around you. A halo of light. Divine. Tempting.

Everyone else has their heads bowed, lost in prayer. But not you. You’re watching him. And when your eyes meet, you softly smile.

Jeongin hesitates for just a second, long enough for his chest to tighten, for his grip on the open scripture in his hands to falter. It takes everything in him to look away, to steady himself before continuing, to remind himself where he is and what he’s doing. He forces himself not to think about the fact that you’re here, watching him, sitting in his church like you belong.

Thankfully, he makes it through the sermon. Through the prayers. Through the responses. Then comes the Holy Communion.

Jeongin steps down from the altar, his movements precise, the chalice steady in his hands. The congregation forms a line, each person stepping forward in quiet reverence. He should be thinking of the sacrament, of the body of Christ, of his duty to serve.

Instead, his breath catches the moment he sees you in line. There is something exhilarating about knowing that in just a few moments, you will be standing before him. That you will bow your head, open your mouth, and receive the host from his hand.

And that moment is here.

You step forward, slightly bowing your head before raising your gaze to his. Jeongin swallows. You are close enough that he can see the curve of your lips, the flutter of your lashes, the way you look at him—soft and knowing.

He whispers the words automatically, "Body of Christ."

"Amen," you reply.

Then, without breaking eye contact, you part your lips and stick your tongue out just enough to receive the wafer.

Jeongin places it on your tongue, and for the briefest of moments, his fingers hover too close, almost brushing your skin.

Most people close their eyes during this moment, lost in prayer. But not you. You look at him through your lashes, through the quiet sanctity of the church, you keep your gaze on him as your tongue retreats, taking the wafer with it. And then you smile—a soft, fleeting thing—before turning away, kneeling at your pew, your head finally bowed in prayer.

Jeongin lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His clerical collar suddenly feels too tight around his throat.

Once he's done with his duty, Jeongin finds you standing in front of the confession booth, your head slightly tilted, eyes filled with quiet curiosity.

He approaches, hands tucked behind his back, and asks teasingly, “Thinking of making another confession?”

You turn to him, smiling softly, hands clasped in front of you in that familiar, obedient way that stirs something in him.

“Maybe,” you say, your voice light, playful.

Jeongin chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s nice to see you here.”

Your smile lingers. “Maybe I should come here more often.”

It’s meant to be a casual remark, but the way your eyes flicker with something unreadable—something daring—makes Jeongin pause. He can’t let himself dwell on it, not here. So he looks away, searching for something, anything, to ground himself.

“The canteen serves good food on Sundays,” he says instead, forcing normalcy into his voice. “I could get you something to eat.”

You shake your head, the movement small but certain. “That’s kind of you, but I actually came to tell you I won’t be able to work for the next two days. I have family stuff to attend.”

Jeongin nods in understanding. “That’s alright. Enjoy yourself, and I’ll see you when you’re back.”

“Thank you, Father,” you say, voice gentle as you slightly bow your head. Then, as always, you smile before turning to leave.

Jeongin watches as you walk away, the hem of your black dress swaying with each step. He exhales slowly.

Maybe it’s for the best that you’ll be gone for a few days. Maybe he’ll finally be able to clear his head. Maybe...

-

Jeongin is mid-way through typing a response to his agent when the unexpected knocking pulls him away from his screen. He frowns, pushing his chair back, not expecting anyone at this hour. When he opens the door, the sight of you stops him in his tracks.

You stand there, completely soaked, rainwater dripping from the ends of your hair and down your cheeks like tiny pearls. Your dress clings to your skin, outlining every dip and curve of your body. You’re visibly shivering, yet despite it all, you’re smiling, breathless as you mutter an apology.

Jeongin exhales, his grip on the doorknob tightening. You shouldn’t have come.

He steps aside, allowing you in. “You should’ve just gone home.”

Your smile doesn’t falter. “I felt bad for not coming to work.” You rub your arms, attempting to warm yourself. “I thought I should at least get something done.”

The two of you just stand there for a moment. Raindrops patter against the windows, your soft breaths filling the silence. Jeongin knows he should move, do something—anything—to get you out of those wet clothes before you catch a cold.

He clears his throat. “Wait here.”

He turns on his heels, walking to his closet where he pulls out a clean bathrobe, then returns to you, holding it out. “Your clothes need to go in the dryer. You can wear this while you wait.”

You nod, taking it from his hands. “Thank you.”

Jeongin watches as you head toward the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind you. He releases a breath, dragging a hand down his face. You’re undressing in the next room.

He swallows. He turns sharply toward the kitchen to make a cup of tea for you. Focusing on anything other than the thought of you peeling that wet dress off your skin.

The bathroom door clicks open and he hears your footsteps coming. Jeongin barely has a moment to process the sight of you in his bathrobe before you're hesitantly handing him your wet clothes. He takes them without a word, nodding toward the sofa and the cup of tea sitting on the coffee table prepared for you.

“Sit down, have some tea while you wait.”

As he steps away toward the laundry room, he keeps his focus sharp, resisting the urge to think too much about how your scent lingers on the fabric in his hands or that he catches a glimpse of your underwear. He doesn’t even bother untangling the bundle—just shoves it all into the dryer, shuts the door, and presses start. The low hum of the machine fills the small space, grounding him.

When he returns to the living room, you’re no longer sitting but standing by his desk, cradling the cup of tea in your hands.

“You must’ve written a lot while I was gone,” you say, your voice warm, teasing.

Jeongin exhales a quiet chuckle. “I tried. My agent’s been relentlessly threatening me about the deadlines, so I had no choice but to be productive.”

You nod, taking a small sip of your tea. It’s in that moment that Jeongin notices it—a thin trail of red slipping down your thigh, stark against your skin.

His body reacts before his mind catches up. His hands find your hips as he pulls you close, lifting the hem of your bathrobe without a second thought. His first concern is that you hurt yourself—maybe you scraped your skin, maybe you tripped on the way here. His heart is in his throat, eyes scanning for the source of the blood.

Before he can see anything, you let out a sharp gasp and jerk back, pressing your hand against the fabric to stop him.

Jeongin lifts his gaze to yours, searching. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly, too quickly.

His brows knit together, unconvinced. “What do you mean it’s fine?”

“It’s just—” You shake your head, clearly embarrassed. “It’s nothing serious.”

Jeongin isn’t satisfied with that answer. He can’t just ignore it. “Sit down,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “Let me take care of it.”

You hesitate.

“Please.”

At that, you relent, perching yourself on the edge of the sofa. Jeongin disappears into the other room, retrieving the first aid kit. His mind whirls as he walks back.

Why did you react like that? And more importantly—what are you trying to hide from him?

Jeongin kneels in front of you, the first aid kit resting on the floor beside him. You’re clutching your thigh, not in pain but in an attempt to keep him from seeing.

“Let me take care of it,” he says softly, reaching for your wrist.

You hesitate before letting go, your hand falling to your lap.

Jeongin lifts the hem of the bathrobe slowly, carefully, exposing only what’s necessary. When he finally sees it—the crescent-shaped wounds pressed into your skin, fresh and oozing—his breath catches. He doesn’t need an explanation. He knows.

His hands move on their own, gentle and precise as he wipes the blood away with a clean cloth. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask why. Instead, he pulls out a cotton swab, dabs ointment onto it, and carefully applies it to your wound.

A sharp inhale escapes your lips, and instinctively, he leans down and blows a soft stream of air to soothe the sting. Your body trembles under his touch.

He keeps going, pressing gauze over the wound, securing it with a bandage to keep it sterile. The entire time, he hears your breathing grow uneven, the subtle shakes in your frame growing more noticeable. Then, he feels it—drops of warmth landing on your lap, one after another.

Tears.

Jeongin looks up, and his chest tightens. You’re crying. He says nothing but lets you cry, lets you break down in the quiet safety of his presence.

Then, with a voice raw and small, you speak. “It’s my mother.” You sniffle, a shaky exhale slipping from your lips. “She—she puts so much pressure on me. I can only take so much.” A bitter, self-deprecating laugh follows. “And when I can’t, this happens.” Your fingers graze over the bandage, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to stop it.”

Jeongin swallows, his own heart aching at your words. He shouldn’t touch you, but he does. His hand finds yours, firm yet gentle, anchoring you back to something solid.

“I just need to know,” you ask, lifting your gaze to his, “that everything will be okay.”

And that’s when he feels it—the unbearable pull toward you, toward the sadness in your eyes that he wants so desperately to replace with warmth, with something softer, purer, something that tells you that you are more than this pain.

So he lets himself. His hand moves to your face, cradling your jaw as he leans in. And then, he kisses you.

You’re softer than he imagined. Your lips taste like salt and sorrow, but beneath it, there’s something else—something fragile, something hopeful.

Jeongin is aware that he shouldn’t be doing this. But when he kisses you, truly kisses you, he feels something shift—something inside him unraveling, something he’s been trying to suppress for too long. It starts slow, soft, the press of his lips against yours nothing more than an unspoken question. But when you sigh into him, when your fingers tighten around his arms as if you’re afraid he might pull away, that quiet hesitation crumbles.

His hands move with purpose, sliding along the curve of your waist, parting the fabric of your robe like a sacred offering. His lips follow, pressing reverent kisses down your throat, across your collarbone, down the delicate line of your sternum.

Every kiss is a silent promise, an unspoken prayer. You're more than your pain. More than the wounds carved into your skin. More than the weight you're carrying on your shoulders.

His mouth worships you, his hands tracing every inch of you as if committing you to memory. When he reaches your ribs, he pauses, breathing in deeply, as though he's afraid he might lose himself completely if he goes any further. His forehead presses against your stomach for just a moment, his hands gripping your hips as if grounding himself.

“God, you're beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, the words slipping out before he can stop them. He lifts his gaze to meet yours, searching for any trace of hesitation, but all he sees is trust.

Jeongin has spent years searching for divinity in scripture, in prayer, in quiet solitude. But here, now, with you trembling beneath his touch, he wonders if he’s been looking in the wrong places all along.

Everything about this moment—the warmth of your skin under his lips, the soft gasp that escapes you, the way your fingers tangle in his hair as if you’re holding on for dear life—tells him that he's walking a line he cannot uncross.

But as his mouth moves lower, pressing reverent kisses to the fragile skin of your inner thigh, he realizes that maybe he's already crossed it. Maybe he's been crossing it since the first time he met you.

Your breath hitches when his lips linger just above the bandaged wound, and for a moment, Jeongin forgets everything else. Forget that he's a priest, forget the weight of his collar, forget the promises he made.

Right now, all he knows is that you are here, trembling beneath him, looking at him like he holds the entire world in his hands. And maybe that’s why he forces himself to pause.

His lips are barely an inch from where you need him most, his hands gripping the curves of your hips, fingers digging into your soft flesh as he fights the war waging inside him. His forehead presses against your thigh, his breath warm against your skin as he tries to remember who he is supposed to be.

"Just one taste," he whispers, almost to himself, as if saying it out loud will justify what he's about to do. "God, all I need is just... one taste."

But as soon as the words leave his lips, he realizes how weak of a promise it is and as his mouth moves ever closer, as your body arches in silent invitation—deep down, he knows one taste will never be enough.

Jeongin lingers for a moment, his lips pressed to the delicate skin of your inner thigh, his breath warm and unsteady. His hands tighten around your hips, fingers pressing into your skin like he’s trying to hold himself back, trying to steady the trembling restraint unraveling inside him.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t want this. But he does. His lips trace reverent paths along your skin, his mouth pressing slow, deliberate kisses, each one deeper, more lingering than the last. He hears the soft, shuddering sound you make—half sigh, half plea—and it undoes something inside him.

His hands slide up, parting you legs wider, exposing the thing between your legs to him, Gosh, your cunt is not just wet, it's soft and flushed, quivering right in front of his face.

He doesn't waste another second, he lowers his head, exhaling softly. The warmth of his breath makes you shiver.

“I shouldn't do this,” he rasps as he falls apart at the seams.

But then, he smells it, the smell of your perfume, of your skin and of that delicate smell of female scent that he didn’t know he's been hungering for.

Jeongin traces his way from your clit to your cunt with his tongue and he's right, you're sweeter than he imagined, sweeter than any alcohol he ever tasted and none of them is as intoxicating this.

“Please...” He pleads, asking himself for one more taste.

He flattens his tongue against your clit and sample you again. He feels it, the way your body reacts to him, the way you arch toward him instinctively, seeking more. His resolve crumbles further, his self-control fraying as he presses a gentle kiss just where he knows you want him most. Right on your pulsing clit.

And then, finally—he gives in.

His arms curved around your thighs, fingers burrowing into the flesh and holding them open for his assault. He thrusts into you with his tongue, his lips and at times, he uses his teeth, eating you like a starving man.

A sound escapes you, something sweet and breathless, and Jeongin exhales sharply against you, his own restraint breaking piece by piece. He moves slowly at first, tasting, savoring, learning the way you react under him, how your body responds, how you whisper his name in a way that makes him feel utterly, devastatingly lost.

Your cunt is exactly as perfect as he's imagined all those nights as he lay awake on his bed and truthfully, in his sleep as well. The cause of him waking up with a hard on and all the cold showers he took after.

This is what he's been imagining of doing to you so he decides that he needs to make you come, and he will, he will make you come on his face. The thought alone is enough to make his cock jolts in his pants and there's a possibility that he may orgasm without even touching it.

Jeongin figures it's time to use his fingers next, running them between the fold and then slides two fingers inside, curling them to find the soft, textured spot that would push you over the edge.

You're shamelessly grinding back into his face now, your hand tangled in his dark locks, fingernails scratching his scalp, little sighs and moans spilling out of your parted mouth.

His arms steadily hold you in place, his touch both gentle and unyielding. He’s worshipping you, drowning himself in the feeling of you, in the warmth of your skin, in the quiet, gasping breaths that fill the air.

And when he hears you break, when your body tenses and shudders under him... everything else vanishes except you and your smell and your taste and the feeling of you clenching around his finger. And then—

Jeongin looks up and sees the crucifix on the wall of his apartment and his heart lurched as he looks at himself, kneeling as if he was praying to your cunt, kneeling with his head buried between your legs. He slowly pulls away and mutters to himself. What have I done?

-

Jeongin’s breath is uneven, his head is still rested on your stomach as he tries to ground himself, to remember who he is and what he’s supposed to be. But then you speak, your voice soft yet filled with something he can’t quite place—vulnerability, sincerity, maybe even wonder.

“No one’s ever done that to me before.”

He stills. His eyes search yours as if trying to confirm what you just said, and when he sees nothing but honesty reflected back at him, something inside him shifts.

“No one’s ever made me come before,” you correct your earlier remark.

He doesn’t understand how that could be possible, how no one has ever taken the time to take care of you, to taste you.

“No guy has ever gone down on you?”

You innocently nod in response to his question.

It unsettles him, but more than that, it makes him feel something else—something dangerously close to pride. He was the first. He was the one to show you.

Before he can dwell on the thought for too long, you reach for him, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt, keeping him close when he instinctively tries to put distance between you.

“Let me return the favor to you,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

He knows what you’re asking before you even say it. “You don’t have to,” he replies quickly, shaking his head as he attempts to step back, but you don’t let him.

“I know.” You tilt your head, looking up at him, your eyes dark yet pleading. “But I want to.”

Jeongin swallows, his resolve wavering. “I don't think— I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” you whisper again, the word laced with something that makes his body betray him. Your lips brush over the sharp line of his jaw, featherlight, teasing, testing. “Please, please, please.”

He exhales harshly, his hands twitching at his sides as he fights the war raging within him. The way you say his name sends a shiver down his spine, makes him feel as though you’ve wrapped yourself around him entirely, pulling him into something he knows he shouldn't give into.

“We don’t have to have sex. I just need to see you come," you coax with your low, sultry voice, one hand slipping under his sweater. “Father, please...”

One last plea, one final whisper of please against his skin, and he feels himself crumble.

You pull him by the arms, making him sit on the sofa next to you and your hands swiftly working open his slacks. The second his cock is out of its confine, you immediately claim his lap, straddling him.

The bathrobe loosely hangs around your shoulders and you do nothing to fix it. Your breasts are merely inches away from his mouth, the hardening buds inviting him to wrap his lips around it so he does. The hardness of your nipples and the softness of your flesh is all he could feel in his mouth.

You hover over his lap for a second to reposition yourself on him, allowing your slick cleft sliding against the underside of his cock and you begin stroking him that way. You feel so soft, so warm, so... wet.

Jeongin’s hands grip your hips, his touch hesitant, torn between holding you still and letting you move the way you want. His breath is uneven, his head tilted back against the sofa, eyes half-lidded as he watches you.

“This is wrong,” he whispers, but his grip tightens when you roll your hips again, slow and deliberate.

You lean in, brushing your lips against his ear, your voice sweet, teasing. “Then stop me.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he looks down to watch the way your flesh pressed against his, the way your clitoris peeking out, the way the weight of your body pressing against his cock gives him that similar feeling of having real penetrative sex and he thinks that maybe this wouldn’t count as a sin. Even if he was, he doesn’t want to stop. He doesn’t know how even if he wanted to.

Everything about it is messy yet highly erotic, the way your bathrobe hanging onto your elbows now, the way his slacks are pulled down just enough to free his erection, the way you shamelessly angle yourself so that his shaft would press on you in all the right places, the way it's just your arousal lubricating the two of you and nothing else, and God, he suddenly gets the urge to own you, make you, take you. He wants this moment to last forever.

As if you hear his thoughts and see through his head, you smile, tilting your head to meet his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched tight. You can feel how much he’s holding back, how much restraint he’s using, and it only makes you want to push him further.

You move again, a little slower this time, watching the way his breath catches in his throat. His fingers dig into your waist, a sharp exhale leaving his lips.

“You should stop,” he tries again, but it sounds weaker now, unconvincing.

You shake your head. “Not until you let go.”

His hands tremble against you, and you know—he’s close to breaking. It's pure instinct that makes him grab your hips and work you harder and faster over him and then—

Everything flooding through him, you, your body, your legs caging his body, the taste and the smell of you that lingers on his tongue, mouth and face. A low moan escapes your mouth at the sight of his seed spurting onto his stomach and it feels like hours instead of seconds that he is suspended in pulsing, total-body release.

Jeongin stays still, his breath shaky as you press your forehead against his. The warmth of your skin, the way your body molds against his—it should be comforting, but all he feels is the weight of his own actions crashing down on him. What has he done?

His hands remain on your waist, fingers flexing as if debating whether to pull you closer or push you away. His chest rises and falls unevenly, his thoughts a chaotic storm. He shouldn’t have let this happen. He should’ve stopped. But instead, he let himself fall—let himself indulge in something he swore he would never have.

His throat tightens as he opens his mouth to say something—anything—but before he can, you shift slightly, tilting your head just enough to press a gentle kiss on his cheem. The touch is soft, delicate, filled with something he can’t quite name.

And then you whisper, “Thank you, Father.”

His entire body tenses. His stomach churns. His breath catches. The title feels heavier than it ever has before, suffocating him in ways he never imagined. He swore to be a guide, a shepherd, a man of God—and yet, here he is, lost in sin, drowning in temptation, unable to resist the warmth of you.

Jeongin shuts his eyes, swallowing hard. He doesn’t know if he should repent or pull you back in. And that terrifies him the most.

-

Jeongin has spent the entire morning convincing himself that last night was a mistake. That it was nothing more than a lapse in judgment, a moment of weakness.

But when he thinks of you—your warmth, your touch, the way you whispered his name—it lingers in his mind like the burn of whiskey down his throat.

This… whatever this is between you and him, it feels dangerously familiar. Like alcohol. Like the thing that once consumed him, ruled him, made him forget himself.

Addiction.

Jeongin knows what addiction feels like. He knows what it means to crave something so badly that it overtakes him, that it becomes impossible to resist. And he knows that if he doesn’t stop this now, if he lets himself fall again, there will be no stopping it. He has to put an end to it before it becomes something he can’t control.

So when you walk into his apartment that afternoon, smiling as if nothing happened, acting like last night was just another moment in time, Jeongin knows something needs to be said.

You set your bag down and move toward your usual spot by the desk. “Good afternoon, Father.” There’s something teasing in your voice, light and unbothered. “Did you get some writing done?”

Jeongin doesn’t answer right away. He watches you, the way you move so effortlessly through the space, like you belong here. Like you weren’t wrapped around him last night, dragging him into sin.

“Please, sit down,” Jeongin firmly says, his jaws are clenched. “We need to talk.”

Your smile falters, but you quickly mask it. “Alright,” you say, moving to sit across from him.

Jeongin sits across from you, his fingers loosely clasped together as he exhales slowly. The weight of the past few days sits heavy on his chest, pressing down like an unbearable burden. He doesn’t meet your eyes right away; if he does, he’s afraid he’ll waver.

“I used to drink,” he finally says, voice calm but distant. “More than I should have. At first, it was just a glass or two. A way to relax, a way to take the edge off. But then it became more. I started craving it—not just the taste, but the feeling. The escape.”

Your gaze lingers on him, silent but attentive.

“I convinced myself I had control over it. That I could stop whenever I wanted. But addiction doesn’t work like that.” He lifts his hands, rubbing his fingers together absently. “Relapse is always a possibility. No matter how strong you think you are, there’s always a moment of weakness. A moment when the craving wins.”

He finally looks at you, and his stomach tightens.

“This… what’s happening between us—it’s the same,” he admits. “I told myself I could handle it. That I could keep my feelings in check. That I could stop before it became something I couldn’t control.” His jaw clenches. “But I was wrong.”

You shift slightly, and Jeongin forces himself to keep going before he loses his resolve.

“I know what I have to do,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost pained. “I have to stop before this becomes something I can’t turn back from. Before I start craving you the way I once craved alcohol.” He swallows hard. “I have to distance myself from you.”

The words feel heavier than he anticipated, but they need to be said. He waits for your reaction, dreading it. But he knows—if he doesn’t do this now, he might never be able to.

“Why are you telling me this?” Your voice is quiet, cautious.

Jeongin meets your gaze then, his expression unreadable. “Because last night… it felt the same.”

The room stills. Your lips part slightly, as if to say something, but no words come out.

Jeongin swallows hard. “It felt like something I could lose control over. And if I let it happen again… I will.”

Something flickers in your eyes—hurt, confusion, maybe even frustration—but you keep your voice soft. “So what are you saying?”

He exhales sharply, pushing his chair back as if putting physical distance between you will make it easier. “I need to stop before it becomes an addiction.”

You stare at him for a long moment, searching his face, trying to understand. And then, as if the realization finally settles in, your hands tighten into fists on your lap.

“So, you’re going to distance yourself from me.”

Jeongin clenches his jaw. He nods. “I have to.”

The silence is unbearable. When he stands, turning his back to you, it takes everything in him not to look back.

-

From that day forward, Jeongin keeps his word and distance.

He doesn’t fire you—doing so would be unprofessional, and more than that, it would feel too much like running away. Instead, he sets clear boundaries. No in-person meetings. Everything is to be communicated through email, with phone calls only when absolutely necessary.

And you, as always, listen.

Days pass, then weeks. His inbox fills with your messages—concise, professional, devoid of the warmth that once lingered in them. You do everything he asks, following his new rules without question.

It should make things easier. It should make it hurt less but it doesn’t. Because every time he sees your name on his screen, he remembers the way you looked at him that night. The way you whispered please like a prayer. The way your hands clung to him as if letting go would break you. And he hates himself for remembering.

Then, one Sunday, he sees you again. It’s unexpected. You’re seated at the farthest row of the church, hands clasped together on your lap, head bowed in quiet prayer.

Jeongin’s breath catches for a moment, but he forces himself to focus, to continue leading the mass as if your presence doesn’t affect him.

Yet, as he reads out the prayers, his thoughts stray.

He prays for you. He prays that you find peace, that you heal—not just from the wounds on your skin but from the ones buried deep inside you. He prays that you are happy. Truly, deeply happy.

By the time the mass ends, Jeongin searches for you again, but you’re already gone and he doesn’t understand why disappointment sinks so heavily in his chest.

Isn’t this what he wanted? To stay away? So why does it feel like he’s the one being left behind?

He retreats to the sacristy, changing out of his vestments with quiet efficiency. He folds each piece carefully, letting the steady rhythm of the task ground him. Once done, he makes his way to his office, his mind already preoccupied with what he needs to do next.

Then, he sees you standing in the hallway, waiting.

Jeongin freezes for a split second before something warm blooms in his chest—something dangerously close to elation.

You notice him immediately. A small smile lifts your lips as you give him a slight bow. “Father Yang,” you greet, your voice gentle, familiar.

And then, as casually as if nothing has changed, you ask, “Can I now take your offer to buy me something from the canteen?”

Jeongin exhales a quiet chuckle, his lips curving into an amused smile before he nods.

The canteen is bustling with people—parishioners fresh out of mass, staff enjoying their break—but Jeongin manages to secure two slices of pizza casserole and a cinnamon roll for you. With the plates in hand, the two of you step outside, choosing a quiet table overlooking the garden.

For a while, you eat in comfortable silence. The sun is warm but not overwhelming, the soft hum of conversation from the canteen drifting through the open air.

After a few bites and a sip of water, you reach for a napkin, dabbing your lips with practiced elegance. Then, you open your mouth to speak.

Jeongin already knows what you’re going to say so he beats you to it. “I’m sorry.”

But you stop him with a small shake of your head. “That’s actually why I came here,” you say.

A small grin tugs at his lips. “So you didn’t come here to pray?” he teases.

You chuckle, a soft, genuine sound. “I did. But… I also wanted to apologize.” You pause, eyes flickering down for a moment before meeting his gaze again. “I’m sorry for what happened that night. I—I guess it was because you were there, because you were kind and…”

You don’t finish your sentence, you look down at your plate and

Jeongin exhales, lowering his voice. “I appreciate you saying that. Because it means you know and understand what you're apologizing for,” His fingers graze the rim of his cup, a nervous habit. “I have a vow to uphold, I have to honor God. The oath that I took. But that night…” He swallows. “I blame myself for that night. I took advantage of you.”

Your eyes widen slightly, a flicker of frustration crossing your face. “No.” Your voice is firm. “You didn’t.”

You place your napkin down, sitting up straighter. “I may have parents who control me, but I’m also my own person and I'm old enough to know what I want. That night, I chose to let you do that. I wanted it.”

Jeongin stays silent, watching you, searching your expression for any hesitation. He finds none.

After a second, you add, “But I'll respect your vow, Father. I won’t bother you again.”

And Jeongin—he should feel relieved. He should feel grateful that you understand, that you accept the boundary he’s desperately trying to reinforce.

But instead, it stings. It stings more than it should.

-

Jeongin reckons that if his hands are occupied, if his mind is filled with scripture, if his days are structured down to the hour—there will be no space for thoughts of you.

So he keeps himself busy. He leads mass three times a week, his voice steady as he delivers sermons, as if he truly believes that his words can wash away the impurities he carries. Sundays are the most demanding, yet the easiest, because the church is full and there are so many people that it’s easy to forget the empty space inside him.

He leads Bible study once a week, listening to discussions about faith and virtue, nodding along even as a quiet voice inside him whispers: You’re a hypocrite.

He assists the youth group, guiding young minds, helping them find their path before they can stumble into temptation. Before they can become him.

And every afternoon, he sits in the confession booth, listening to whispered sins through the lattice, offering absolution in the form of quiet reassurances and memorized prayers.

It’s been going on like this for a week now. Jeongin does not give himself a chance to rest, because rest means silence, and silence means space for memories to creep in. For your voice. Your touch. The way you felt beneath him, the way you looked at him like he was something more than just a man wearing a collar.

Jeongin grips the edges of the wooden pew in front of him, his knuckles turning white. He bows his head, inhaling sharply, as if he can exhale you from his lungs.

He has been strong. He has been devoted. He has repented. Or so he thought until his temptation shows up in front of him.

Jeongin stops in his tracks. His breath catches, his fingers twitch at his sides, his heartbeat kicks up to an unforgiving pace.

He thought—no, hoped—that drowning himself in devotion would cleanse him of you. That if he buried himself in scripture, in sermons, in the confessions of others, he could somehow wash away the imprint you left on him. But now, standing here, looking at you, he knows it was all in vain.

Jeongin exhales slowly, his fingers tightening around the strap of his bag as he takes in the sight of you. His apartment door feels a thousand miles away, and yet you—you—are impossibly close.

His heart betrays him before his mind can intervene, a rush of longing surging through his veins. You’re clutching something—a big paper bag. He can’t tell what it is, not when his focus keeps flickering to the way your hands tremble slightly, the way your eyes lift to meet his with that same quiet intensity that undid him before.

Jeongin swallows. This is it. A fight or flight situation.

But what exactly is he trying to fight? You? Or the part of himself that so desperately wants to take a step forward instead of back?

What exactly is he trying to run away from? Sin? Or the possibility that he doesn't regret it the way he should?

Jeongin doesn’t move because the real question isn’t whether he should fight or flee. It’s whether he has the strength to do either when all he really wants—all he truly, desperately wants—is you.

All of a sudden, you shift, standing upright from where you were leaning against the wall, clutching a bag in front of you. And then you smile. “Hello, Father.”

It’s just a greeting—nothing unusual, nothing improper—but coming from you, it stirs something deep inside him. Something he has spent nights praying to silence. Something he has drowned himself in work to forget.

For a moment, he is back in the confessional, back to the first time he heard those words from your lips. And then, he is back in that dimly lit room, back to the way you had whispered Father in a voice so delicate, so devastatingly sweet, that it had unraveled something inside him.

He swallows thickly and keeps his voice steady. “How have you been?”

You tilt your head slightly, as if surprised by the question. “I’ve been doing well.” A soft pause. “How about you?”

Jeongin doesn’t know how to answer that. He doesn’t know how to explain the countless hours spent in the church, the prayers that never seem to be enough, the guilt that clings to him like a second skin. So he lies. “I’m doing okay.”

You nod, as if accepting it. Then, gently, you ask, “Do you mind if I come in for a while?”

Of course, he minds. Of course, he should say no. But instead, he unlocks the door, pushes it open, and lets you inside—knowing full well that he’s stepping into temptation itself.

You place the bag you were carrying on the small dining table and carefully pull out a box, lifting the lid to reveal a cake inside. “I wanted to congratulate you,” you say softly. “For finishing your book.”

Jeongin nods, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. “Thank you.” His voice is quieter than he intends, like he’s afraid speaking too loudly will break whatever fragile restraint he has left.

He smiles, and it’s genuine—he is grateful for the gesture—but he’s afraid. Afraid of what will happen if he lets himself be grateful. Afraid of the thoughts in his head, the ones that threaten to spill out if he isn’t careful.

He forces himself to focus, “Have you received the last payment for your work?”

You nod. “I have, Father. Thank you.”

“You shouldn’t thank me,” he replies, shaking his head. “You earned it.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and uncertain. Jeongin isn’t sure how to carry this—how to hold this moment without it slipping through his fingers and becoming something he can’t take back. Should he stop it here? Should he say something that will make you leave? Or should he just let it happen?

Then, before he can decide, you speak. “Father, can I make another confession?”

His breath catches. He should say no. He should tell you to come to the church like everyone else, to sit in the booth and let the wooden partition separate you like it’s meant to. But that would be a lie.

Because the truth is, he wants to hear it. Whatever it is, whatever words you’re about to give him, he wants them.

The two of you sit facing each other. Jeongin sits motionless, hands folded neatly in his lap, as you take the seat across from him. The room feels too quiet, the kind of quiet that magnifies everything—the sound of your breathing, the weight of his own pulse.

"Are you ready?" he asks, voice steadier than he feels.

You nod and together, you make the sign of the cross, murmuring, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

Your hands lower, folding over your lap, but your fingers fidget slightly, twisting together.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The words hit him harder than they should. He has heard them countless times from countless lips, but from you, they settle differently—carrying something heavier, something more intimate.

"I'm not sure how to start but I'm okay," you continue. "I’ve been doing well. I still feel the pressure from my parents but I’ve managed to handle it without... hurting myself."

Jeongin exhales slowly. Relief is a strange thing—something he should embrace, something he should hold onto, but instead, it mixes with something else. A quiet, aching guilt.

"That’s good to hear," he says, and he means it.

"However, there’s something else," you admit, voice softer but carrying an edge. "Something that’s been bothering me."

Jeongin doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He only listens.

"I’ve been thinking about why I took this job in the first place." A pause. You lower your gaze for a brief moment before lifting it again, searching for something in him. "Clearly, I didn’t need the money. I have more than enough."

The way you say it—it’s not an explanation. It’s a confession.

"I think… I was looking for something. A distraction. An escape." Your voice lingers in the space between you. "And of all the flyers on the bulletin board, I saw yours first and I don’t think that was just a coincidence. I think it was fate that I found it. That I found you."

Jeongin feels something coil in his chest. Fate. It’s a word that should comfort him, should feel divine, but instead, it makes him afraid.

"I liked working with you. I liked being around you." You pause, your voice almost fragile. "You made me feel… safe. At peace. Like you kept my darkness at bay."

Jeongin wants to hold onto those words, wants to accept them without letting them mean too much. But how can he, when they already do?

Then there’s a shift in your expression. Something deeper, something almost… dangerous.

"But then that night happened."

The silence that follows is unbearable.

"It awakened something in me," you say, voice softer now. "A different kind of darkness."

Jeongin swallows, but it does nothing to ease the dryness in his throat. Because he knows. He knows exactly what kind of darkness you mean and worse—he feels it too.

-

Jeongin sees it all—the way your thighs press together, the way your fingers twist at the hem of your skirt, the way your voice lowers, softer now, edged with something dangerous. He can hear it in your breathing, in the hesitation before you speak. And then, you say it. "I've been thinking about you."

Jeongin swallows, but the dryness in his throat lingers. He keeps his expression still, unreadable, though his heart betrays him, beating faster, harder.

"Just the way you look at me," you continue, voice almost fragile. "The way you speak to me… the way you say my name."

He exhales slowly, discreetly, as if releasing the pressure in his chest will steady him. It doesn't.

Then, your voice drops even lower, as if confessing something far worse. "Lately, I can't seem to focus on anything. I think about you constantly, and sometimes... sometimes that isn't enough."

His brow lifts—just slightly—but the movement feels like stepping closer to the edge of something irreversible.

"I've been getting off while thinking about you."

Silence. A deafening silence. Jeongin clenches his hands into fists in his lap. If restraint had a form, it would be the rigid line of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. The part of him that should shut this down, that should guide you back into the light, is nowhere to be found.

Instead, he asks, "You've touched yourself thinking of me?"

Your nod is small, innocent, sinful.

"Mostly," you murmur, "I think of the way you look at me. Like you're trying to—" You stop. But he knows.

Jeongin exhales sharply, tilting his head ever so slightly, studying you. "And why did you come here tonight?"

You bite your lip. Hesitate. Lie.

He sees it before you even speak, and it almost makes him smile. "Remember, lying is a sin," he says, leaning forward, voice quiet but commanding. "So tell me—why did you come here tonight?"

The silence stretches between you. You hesitate, fingers twitching toward your thigh—the same spot where he knows you like to dig your nails into the flesh. The moment you realize he's watching, you quickly clasp your hands together in your lap.

"I want you to give me one more," you finally whisper.

His fingers twitch. "One more what?"

You shift in your seat. Your lips part, but no words come out at first. He watches, listens to the silence, lets it stretch until you can’t take it anymore.

"I want you to make me come again."

A slow exhale leaves him, steady, controlled, but something shifts inside him—something that tells him this moment has already spiraled past redemption.

Leaning back in his chair, Jeongin lets the tension settle into something almost… triumphant. He had suffered alone for too long, questioning whether he was the only one plagued by this torment.

And now—now, he knows. You wanted this. You wanted him.

His lips part, exhaling a quiet chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. His voice is calm, but edged with something darker. "You came here tonight, lying about your intentions. You said all of that in the middle of a confession." He tilts his head. "Do you know what that means?"

You lower your gaze, eyes on your clasped hands as if you've only now realized the weight of your actions.

"It means," he murmurs, "that you are willfully leading another person into wrongful action or thought."

A pause.

"And that," he continues, "is a sin."

Your breath shudders, fingers tightening around each other. "What do I have to do for my penance, Father?" you whisper.

Jeongin leans back in his chair, spreading his legs slightly, tilting his head back just enough to catch the crucifix on the wall in his peripheral vision.

Forgive me for I am about to sin again.

When he lowers his head again, his gaze finds yours—watching, waiting. And then—

"Get on your knees," he orders.

And you obey.

-

Jeongin looks down at you, his breath unsteady despite the effort to keep himself composed. You kneel before him, your hands resting on your thighs, waiting. There’s a flicker of hesitation in your gaze, but beneath it, something far more resolute. A silent plea. A challenge.

His fingers find your jaw, gripping firmly—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you look at him, to ensure you understand the gravity of what you’re asking for. He tilts your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet his. They are wide, expectant, full of something he shouldn’t acknowledge.

"So you want to me to make you come, huh?" His voice is lower than intended, almost hoarse.

You nod and he tightens his grip. "Use your words."

"Yes," you breathe, almost too quiet. "I want you to make me come."

He exhales sharply, his thumb tracing the seam of your lips, smearing the carefully applied lipstick as he studies the way your mouth parts under his touch. His restraint is thinning. He should stop. He knows he should. But your breath hitches, and something in your expression—so innocent, yet so utterly brazen—unravels him further.

"You know this is wrong to ask me that."

Another nod. "Yes"

Jeongin drags his thumb down, over the soft curve of your chin, his touch lingering before he lets go, sitting back. He should feel disgusted with himself. He should feel regret. But all he feels is this terrible, consuming desire.

"You're a filthy, filthy girl," he mutters, somewhere between scorn and wonder.

The words are barely out of his mouth before he sees the effect they have on you. Your lashes flutter, your breath stutters, your fingers tighten against your thighs. As if you’d been waiting for him to say it. As if you wanted to hear it.

The realization makes something dark coil inside him. Jeongin leans back, spreading his hands over his thighs as he watches you, watches the way you anticipate his next words, his next move.

"Take off your dress," he orders, his voice smooth, controlled, betraying nothing of the war waging inside him.

You hesitate only a moment before reaching behind you, unzipping the fabric and pulling it over your head. The dress pools at your knees, leaving you in delicate, cream-colored undergarments. His gaze sweeps over you, slow and deliberate, but his first instinct is not to linger where he shouldn’t—it’s to search for what matters most. Your thighs.

He looks for the marks, the wounds he knows too well. The evidence of your pain, your struggle. His jaw tenses until he finds them—faded now, healing. No fresh ones. No new pain.

Only then does he allow himself to truly look at you. Every curve, every delicate line of your body—so fragile, yet so unyielding in your desire. You kneel before him, and for the first time in three years, Jeongin feels something crack inside him.

Temptation has never been this human. This devastating. This inevitable.

Jeongin rises from his chair, slow and deliberate. The air between you shifts, thickens, as he steps forward, his presence looming over you where you kneel at his feet. His sharp, foxy eyes bore down into yours, and you meet his gaze without hesitation—bold, unwavering.

He exhales through his nose, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then, with practiced ease, he lifts his hands to the collar of his shirt, loosening it just enough to ease the tightness constricting his throat. His fingers move lower, unfastening the first button, then the second, a calculated pause between each. Not out of hesitation. No, Jeongin is in control. He just wants you to wait.

His hands drop next to his belt, gripping the leather before he yanks it free with a sharp, deliberate pull. The sound slices through the silence, and he doesn’t miss the way your breath catches—just for a second. His lips twitch, but he says nothing.

Instead, he takes his time working the buckle open, then the button, then the slow, almost lazy drag of his zipper. He does it methodically, making sure you feel every second pass.

Anticipation is a game, and Jeongin plays to win.

When he finally pushes the fabric down, baring himself completely, he doesn’t miss a thing—the widening of your eyes, the quiet hitch of breath, the way your tongue darts out, wetting your lips like a creature starved.

Something about that look—hunger, reverence, surrender—makes his control slip, just a little.

Because, for all his restraint, for all the rules he’s tried to follow, Jeongin has always known one thing. He was never strong enough to resist you.

He watches you for a second, reveling in the way your lips part, how your breath quickens, how your pupils darken with need. But it’s not enough. Not yet.

His hand moves with purpose, fingers curling under your chin before sliding up to grasp your jaw, firm yet controlled. He tilts your face up, forcing your gaze to lock with his. “Eyes on me,” he murmurs, voice low, steady. It’s not a request—it’s a command.

You obey, though he can feel the way your breath hitches under his grip. He doesn’t loosen it. Instead, he presses his thumb against your lower lip, parting your mouth open wider. He holds you there for a moment, letting the weight of it settle, watching your lips quiver slightly under his touch.

“Keep it open,” he instructs.

And then, without warning, he slides two fingers past your lips, pressing them onto your tongue. Your lips wrap around them instinctively, your cheeks hollowing as you suck, slow and deliberate. He watches, fascinated, as your tongue moves against his skin, warm and wet, taking him deeper.

His breath comes heavier now, his restraint fraying at the edges as he feels the way you work your mouth around him, as if you’re showing him—wordlessly—just how much you want him, how much you crave him.

Jeongin swallows hard, his grip tightening ever so slightly before he pulls his fingers out of your mouth, hard enough that it makes a loud popping sound.

“Let's try that again,” he mutters with jaws clenched.

You keep your mouth open for him, ignoring how your saliva is dribbling from one corner of your mouth while keeping your eyes on him.

He wraps his hand around his cock, hard as it possibly gets and hot inside his palm. He gently rubs the tip with his thumb before aiming it toward your mouth.

“Keep it open,” he voice has an edge to it, rushed.

He puts his length inside and watches as his length disappearing into your mouth, little by little. When he deems he's deep enough, he swallows air.

“Now, close it.”

A hiss escapes his mouth the second you close your mouth around it. He's forgotten how good this is, how hot and slick a woman’s tongue could be, how perfect it feels around him. His eyes flick down and catches your hand going between your legs, caressing your clothed core.

For a second, he can’t believe this good girl, a trust fund baby and a taste for expensive clothes is nothing but a bobbing mess of head between his legs. He suddenly gets the urge to thrust into your mouth, he suppresses it but he decides to indulge himself just a little. He runs his hands through your hair, using it to keep your head still as he pushes deeper until he hits the back of your throat and immediately slides it back out.

Oh, he's never been harder than this before and when he pulls away, he can see every vein, he can feel the painfully swollen crest as it flares out. His cock is throbbing with so much need and that’s when he knows he has to feel you

But before that, he needs to taste you again.

"Get up and take everything off." His voice is steady, unwavering, though inside, restraint coils tightly around him like a vice.

You obey without hesitation. Standing up, fingers move with quiet precision as each article of clothing falls away, baring yourself to him piece by piece. He leans back in his chair, allowing himself a moment to take you in—the curves, the softness, the way candlelight casts flickering shadows across your skin.

Your body is a vision. His heaven. And yet, his ruin.

"Go to the altar," he instructs.

You turn, stepping forward toward the structure pressed against the wall, your back facing him. There’s something about the way you carry yourself—so trusting, so willing—that stirs something darker inside him. He waits, watching as you reach the altar, as your breath subtly hitches in anticipation as he makes you wait.

Slowly, deliberately, Jeongin begins to undress, shrugging off layers until only the dark fabric of his shirt remains, parted in the front, exposing the rise and fall of his chest. The cool air does nothing to ease the heat simmering beneath his skin.

He moves toward you. "Hands on the altar," he orders, his voice lower now, softer but laced with something unmistakable.

You comply instantly, palms pressing flat against the surface, body bowing slightly forward. He closes the space between you—not enough to touch, but enough for his presence to be felt.

Jeongin places a hand at the nape of your neck, his fingers spreading over your skin. The moment he makes contact, he feels the shiver that ripples through you, sees the way goosebumps bloom in his wake. He likes that. Likes the way you respond to him without a word, without even seeing his face.

His hand drags downward, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine at a maddening pace. You exhale sharply, your body betraying you in the way it subtly arches, in the quiet whimper that slips past your lips.

He lets his touch linger before withdrawing, dropping to his knees behind you. The first press of his lips against the back of your thigh is featherlight, a mere ghost of contact, yet your legs tremble as if he’s already undone you. And he hasn’t even started yet.

Jeongin lingers there, kneeling behind you, his breath ghosting over your skin. He watches the way your fingers curl against the altar, the slight tension in your shoulders, the way your body anticipates him without a single word being spoken.

He starts slow. The press of his lips trails higher, along the backs of your thighs, over the curve of your hips. He savors the way you shudder, the way your breath falters. His hands follow, gliding over your skin, fingers kneading into flesh, learning every dip and softness like a prayer.

Then, with a firm grip, he coaxes you apart. A sharp inhale from you. A deep exhale from him.

Jeongin leans in, burying his mouth between your ass cheeks. The first touch of his tongue on your cunt is tentative, almost reverent, but he quickly finds the rhythm that has you trembling against him. His hands tighten on your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wants you. He works you open with slow, unhurried precision, as if he has all the time in the world, as if he’s making up for every moment he’s denied himself this.

Your hands grip the altar tighter, your breathing turns uneven, your body tilts just the slightest bit forward. He takes it as permission. As confirmation.

The sounds you make, the way you try to stay quiet yet fail, send something dangerous surging through him. His nails dig into your skin as he holds you still, refusing to let you escape from the pleasure he’s giving you.

He used to kneel here, in front of the altar, hands clasped in prayer, head bowed in devotion. But tonight—tonight, he kneels for something else entirely. He kneels before you. Not in prayer, but in worship.

You're shamelessly arching your back more and as a test, Jeongin pulls away, he can almost hear your groan of complaints from the sudden loss of contact. He gets up, looming behind you, his breath measured, his control razor-thin and then he presses his mouth to your ear to whisper. "Turn around and sit on the altar."

You hesitate but obey, turning around to face him and lifting yourself onto the altar, your legs hanging over the edge. The contrast is almost poetic—the sacred and the profane, colliding in the dim glow of candlelight.

He steps closer, his hands bracketing you, his body caging yours. His gaze lingers on your lips before he tilts his head and presses his mouth to yours. Soft at first, testing. But you don’t yield. You keep your lips sealed, eyes flickering with something untamed, something that dares him to take more.

And Jeongin—God help him—rises to the challenge. His hand finds your throat, fingers wrapping firm but not unkind. He feels the pulse beneath his palm, fast and unsteady, matching the rhythm hammering inside his own chest. A push, just enough to make you tilt your head back until it meets the wall behind you. He leans in again, this time kissing you with purpose, swallowing the sharp breath you take in surprise. He kisses you until you have no choice but to part for him, until resistance crumbles and submission tastes sweet on his tongue.

His body follows, pressing against you, his hips meeting yours in a slow, deliberate roll. The friction is intoxicating, pulling a soft sound from your lips that nearly undoes him. He pulls away just as abruptly, his hand still firm at your neck, his lips hovering close enough that his breath fans over your parted mouth.

“Behave,” he murmurs, voice low, edged with something dangerous.

You nod, obedient, but it’s not enough. His fingers tighten, just for a moment—a reminder.

“Words!”

A breathless whisper. “Yes.”

Jeongin releases you, only to slide his hands down, pushing your legs apart with the same authority. His eyes drop, and for a moment, he forgets himself—no scripture, no vow, nothing exists but the sight of you bared before him.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, his breath coming a little heavier. He grips your thighs, pressing your feet to the edge of the altar, opening you further. Every muscle in his body coils tight with restraint, but when he drags his gaze back to yours, the weight of his next words settles between you like a confession.

“Stay still.” He tilts his head, voice softer but no less commanding. “Stay very still.”

You nod, and this time, he doesn’t correct you because he’s already too far gone.

He leans his forehead against your and both of you looking down to watch as his tip presses against your entrance, and then slowly, he slips it inside. He stops when the crest of his cock is in you, and then freezes, muscles quivering.

And just like that, he has his first bite of the forbidden fruit and barely able to keep himself from eating it all.

Another moment passes with the two of you just stare down at it, at the sight of his cock inside you. You look away first, looking at him as you ask, “How do I feel?”

You're so tight it's squeezing him and honestly, there are no words to describe what that wet, velvety walls is doing to him. All he can think about is sinking deeper into you, deeper into this hell disguised as heaven.

Jeongin has to force his brain to work to form a coherent answer, “You feel... heavenly.”

Then, unable to help yourself, you move forward just the tiniest. Impulsively, Jeongin grabs your neck again and quickly calming himself down, refuses to come from that little movement. Instead of fear, he sees the glint in your eyes, wild and daring, you're enjoying this a little too much.

“I told you to stay still,” he reminds you.

Your eyes going back to the place where you and him connected. Then together, you watch as his big hand pressing into your delicate flesh, watching it quivering around the tip of his cock. His thumb hovers over your clit before rubbing on it.

As you draw a sharp breath, he feels you clenched around him and he hisses, grabbing the countertop to keep himself from losing it.

He knows you're trying to stay still and you want to see yourself come around him as much as he does. He quickens the pace of his rubbing, of his thumb applying gentle pressures on your clit.

You have your lips pressed into a thin line until you can’t help it anymore but moan and plead. “Please...”

“Please what?” He asks, his voice dark and heavy.

You can barely talk as moans constantly spilling out of your mouth, your head lolling to the side, you arched back shoving your breasts closer to him. He doesn’t waste the opportunity to lower his head and sucks on your nipple, loving the feel of it hardening on his tongue.

He drags his mouth to your neck, kissing and about to bite on the skin when you suddenly come undone before him. Your body rolls as if you move along to the waves of pleasure washing over you, again and again, all the while you keep tightening around him.

The thought that he can make you come with only the shallowest of penetrations drives him wild. You slump in his arms as you slowly come down from your high and resting your head on his shoulder.

Jeongin is about to pull out but you grab his hip, stopping him. You shake your head as you take another second to compute words. “I want you to come inside me next.”

“You know that I can't,” he breathlessly mutters, his hand grips the edge of the altar.

“You don’t have to worry, I'm on the pill,” you assure him, your hand grasping at his shirt now, afraid that he'll try to get away again. And then—soft, breathless—you say it. “Please, Jeongin.”

You’ve only ever called him Father. The title has lingered between you, a constant reminder of what he is, what he shouldn’t be. But now, with his body tangled with yours, the weight of his name sits heavy on your tongue, waiting to be spoken.

If this is the last time that he gets to do it then yes, he's going to give it to you, to himself and frankly, he would agree to anything, no matter how wrong it is because for some reasons, that's what makes it sweeter so Jeongin nods.

A sly smile blooms on your face as you lean back against the wall, digging your heels to the edge of the altar. The little maneuver doesn't move him any deeper inside, but it makes you tighten around him, and nudges him closer to his climax.

You run your hands to the undersides of your breasts, circling your thumbs on your stiff nipples and then pressing them together to the middle, showing him how luscious and ample they are.

God, he needs to move, needs to thrust. He needs to fuck.

He watches as your fingers go to your clit and you start to get yourself off again. You drown out your moans by shoving the other fingers and pumping them in and out of your mouth, the same mouth that has gotten his cock hard as rock.

And then, you move your hips ever so slightly, rocking them just enough to let him slipping in and out of you. Oh, he's only an inch and half inside you but he can feel how wet, how tight, and the next thing he knows, he shudders as pleasure is taking over him. His legs trembling, he can barely breathe as it rips through him, his first time coming inside a woman in years.

He does all his best to stay composed, not wanting to miss out on anything, he wants to imprint it in his memory, the sight of his seed filling and then dripping out of you.

Jeongin pulls out just enough as his arms still wrapped tightly around you as if letting go would mean losing something he can’t bear to lose. Your breath is warm against his collarbone, your cheek pressed against his chest, and he can feel the faint, rapid beat of your heart against his skin. His own pulse is just as frantic, yet his body is still—both of you caught in the quiet aftermath of what you’ve just done.

His hands skim down your back, fingers tracing over the curve of your spine, grounding himself in the reality of you. He notices that the two of you knocked a few things off the altar but all he can focus on is the way you fit against him, how perfectly you mold into him, like you were meant to be here, like this.

Jeongin exhales slowly, his lips pressing against the top of your head, almost unconsciously. A thought creeps into his mind, unbidden yet undeniable—sin has never tasted this sweet before.

-

Jeongin watches as you remain on the altar, your body still bathed in the afterglow of everything you’ve done. He knows he should step away, put distance between you, but instead, he moves with purpose—retrieving a damp cloth from the bathroom. When he returns, he kneels before you, his touch slow, deliberate, as he cleans the mess he made. He does it with care, with reverence, as if making up for all the ways he has defiled you.

Afterward, he gathers your clothes, shaking off the weight of sin that clings to them as if the fabric itself remembers. He helps you dress—zipping up your dress, smoothing the wrinkles. Every movement is unspoken penance, his way of giving back what he took.

When he finally meets your gaze, he braces himself before saying it. “This is it.” His voice is steady, but inside, something cracks. He brushes your hair to the side and holds it there as he continues, “There’ll be no more of this.”

To his surprise, you only nod. “I know.”

Something about your acceptance unsettles him more than if you had fought it. Before the weight of it can crush him, Jeongin pulls you in, one last time, pressing his lips against yours. It’s not hunger, not desperation—it’s something gentler, something deeper. A kiss that lingers, that memorizes. A kiss that means goodbye.

When he pulls away, instinct guides him. His fingers brush over your forehead, and before he can stop himself, he traces a cross against your skin. A blessing. A final act of absolution.

He then looks at you, memorizing every detail—the way your lashes flutter as you blink, the way your lips are still slightly swollen, the way your chest rises and falls with each quiet breath. He wants to believe that this is mercy, that ending it now is the only way to save both of you. But as he watches you, standing there in silence, he wonders if salvation was ever meant for him at all.

“Go in peace,” he whispers.

You hold his gaze, searching, waiting. But there is nothing left to say. Slowly, you turn and step away, your presence fading like the last flicker of a dying candle.

Jeongin stands there, unmoving, as the air between you turns cold. He has given you his final blessing, but as he watches you leave, he realizes—

He may have absolved you. But he has damned himself.

-

Jeongin's manuscript has been approved. His agent gave him the green light, the final stamp of approval before it moves toward publication. This should be a moment of relief, of pride. He’s worked tirelessly, pouring himself into every page, yet all he can focus on is what this truly means. He has no reason to see you again.

And he should be grateful. This is his chance to break away from his biggest temptation, to put you behind him, to return to the disciplined, righteous path he chose for himself. But instead, he feels devastated.

The feeling sits heavy in his chest, like an ache that won’t go away so he does the only thing he can think of. He goes out of the door and starts walking.

The cool night air bites at his skin as he drifts aimlessly, his feet leading him through familiar streets, turning corners without much thought. It isn’t until he stops that he realizes where he is.

Here. The street where he met you that night. Jeongin’s breath catches in his throat as memories flood his mind, as vivid as if they had just happened.

The way the neon lights cast a bluish glow across your face, making your skin look almost ethereal. The delighted surprise in your eyes when you spotted him. The way your dress hugged your figure, your coat slipping off one shoulder, baring just enough skin to make his stomach clench. And your voice—sweet, teasing, full of something sinful when you looked at him and said that word.

Father.

Jeongin squeezes his eyes shut, willing the memory away, but when he opens them, he’s still staring at the neon signs flickering in the distance. And then, something tells him to go inside.

He doesn’t know what it is. Curiosity, perhaps. Or maybe it’s something far more dangerous. His feet move before his mind can stop him.

The bass of the music reverberates through his chest as he steps inside the club, past the flashing lights and the scent of alcohol thick in the air. There are people everywhere—bodies pressed together, laughter spilling from lips, fleeting touches and lingering gazes exchanged under dim lighting.

But Jeongin isn’t looking at any of them. He’s searching. His eyes scan the crowd, craning his neck, looking for a face.

That’s when he realizes the truth. It isn’t curiosity that brought him here. It’s you.

He stands frozen in place, the chaos of the club fading into a dull hum around him. The neon lights flicker, casting a bluish glow over his skin, but he barely notices. His mind is too full of you.

You, with your soft voice and knowing smiles. You, who looked at him like he was more than a man of God, like he was just a man—fallible, weak, yours. You, who made him forget every vow he swore to uphold.

He should have known from the very beginning. From the moment you stepped into his life, there was something about you that made him uneasy in the most exhilarating way.

You weren’t temptation in the way sin usually was—dark, indulgent, full of guilt and regret. No, you were something worse. You were sweetness, a warmth that melted into him, that made him crave more, that made him forget why he was supposed to resist in the first place. And that was far more dangerous.

Because even now, standing in a place he has no business being, it isn’t the alcohol that tempts him. It isn’t the fleeting touches of strangers, the bodies swaying in reckless abandon.

It’s you. It has always been you. His greatest sin. His sweetest sin.

And if he were to fall again—if he were to let himself be weak—he knows, without a doubt, that it would be for you.

-

Four months since that night. Since the lines blurred between faith and desire, between duty and the undeniable pull of something he should have never allowed himself to feel. Since he last saw you. Since he let you go.

Now, Jeongin’s life has settled back into its rightful order. His book has been published, his parish duties continue as always, and the weight of his sins remains locked in the quiet chambers of his heart. He has done what is necessary—repented, prayed, convinced himself that he has moved forward.

The confessional is his sanctuary, a place where he is not Jeongin but Father Yang Jeongin. Here, he is not a man burdened by past mistakes but a servant of God, a listener of sins, a guide for those seeking absolution. Today has been like any other—whispered confessions of impatience, dishonesty, lapses in faith. Forgivable sins.

Jeongin shifts, preparing to leave, when the door creaks open. Another parishioner. He waits. For a moment, there is only silence. Then—

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

His breath stills. It is a voice he knows. A voice he has spent four months trying to forget. Yours.

His hands curl into fists, hidden in the folds of his robe. You. Of all the people who could have entered this booth, it had to be you.

Your voice is steady, but he can hear it—the tremor beneath the surface, the weight pressing down on every syllable.

“It has been… four months since my last confession.”

Four months. The exact amount of time since that night. Since you were beneath him, your hands gripping his shoulders, whispering his name like a prayer. Since he felt your warmth, your skin, the unbearable gravity of something he should have never allowed himself to want. Since he let you go.

Your voice cuts through the thick silence. “I have tried to forget. To move forward. But I think of someone I cannot see again. Someone I cannot meet again.”

Jeongin’s chest tightens. He already knows. But hearing it—hearing you say it—makes it real in a way that nothing else has.

“And I know that when we are together, it will only lead to more sin.”

The weight of your words settles deep inside him. He should not ask. He should not pry. He should do what is expected of him—forgive, counsel, absolve. But he is weak when it comes to you.

“Sin is not merely in the presence of another,” he says carefully, his voice calm, even. “But in the intent, in the heart.”

A pause. The air between you tightens. “Do you believe that being with this person is wrong?”

Silence. Then, so softly that it almost doesn’t reach him— “Yes.”

Jeongin’s grip on his robe tightens. There is so much he could say. So much he wants to ask. But this space does not belong to him—it belongs to God. And Jeongin, despite everything, still clings to his duty.

“You must seek absolution,” he murmurs. “To let go of what burdens you.”

A sharp inhale. A shift in the air. “I don’t think I can.”

Jeongin’s composure cracks and then—softer, more fragile than before—you speak again.

“I need to be around him,” you admit, the words raw, unguarded. “Because he gives me peace.”

His heartbeat falters as your voice wavers, thick with something unspoken. “I feel comfortable with him. I feel safe.” A breath. “And I... miss him.”

His eyes squeeze shut. You miss him. The ache in his chest sharpens into something unbearable. This is not just sin. Not just temptation. It is something deeper, something neither of you have been able to name, something neither of you have been able to let go of.

And God help him, he misses you too.

Jeongin swallows, his throat tight. “Then pray,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “And I will pray for you.”

You sniffle before saying, “I don't think that will be enough for me.”

Then, the faint rustle of fabric. A shift. You do not say goodbye but he hears the door clicks shut.

Jeongin remains seated, staring into the silence, knowing full well that no prayer will erase you from his thoughts. He should let you go. He should let you leave. But he can’t.

His body moves before his mind can catch up. The door swings open, and he steps out, scanning the dimly lit hallway. You’re already walking away, your pace hurried, as if putting distance between yourself and the confessional will make what just happened any less real.

His feet carry him forward. Faster. And then—he reaches out. His fingers wrap around your wrist.

You stop. Slowly, hesitantly, you turn to face him and when your eyes meet his, Jeongin feels his breath catch. Your eyes are glassy, unshed tears clinging to the edges of your lashes. The sight of it—of you, standing there, hurting—nearly undoes him.

His grip tightens, just slightly. Just enough to ground him, to remind himself that you are here. That he has you for this fleeting moment. Then, before he can stop himself, before he can think about what is right or wrong—he tugs you forward.

His fingers slide from your wrist to your hand, threading together, and he leads you down the hallway. Past the rows of pews, past the flickering candlelight of the sanctuary, past the open space where the weight of divinity looms overhead.

The door shuts behind you with a quiet click, sealing you both inside his small, dimly lit office. The air is thick with something unspoken, something fragile yet impossible to ignore. Jeongin lets go of your hand, but the warmth of your touch lingers, burning into his skin like a memory he’s afraid to hold on to—yet even more afraid to let go of.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

You stand there, watching him, your eyes still glassy with unshed tears. And Jeongin—he stands before you, his breathing uneven, his pulse an unsteady rhythm beneath his skin.

What has he done? What is he doing? He should send you away. He should open the door and tell you to leave before this goes any further, before this fragile moment fractures into something neither of you can take back.

Deep down, despite everything he has told himself, despite every prayer whispered into the hollow of his chest—he wants you to stay. He swallows, his voice hoarse when he finally speaks. "You shouldn't be here."

A small, broken smile flickers across your lips. "I know."

Silence settles between you like a weight too heavy to bear.

And then, softly—almost pleadingly—you whisper, "Tell me to leave."

Jeongin stands there, staring at you, knowing exactly what he should say but unable to force the words out. If he were a stronger man, he would. But he isn’t. And the moment he steps forward, closing the space between you, he knows he’s already lost. His hands reach up before he can stop himself, fingers brushing against your face as if memorizing the shape of you—soft, warm, real.

You don’t move away. You don’t flinch. You just look at him, wide-eyed and waiting, as if you knew this would happen all along. And then, before he can second-guess it, before reason can drag him back into the light—he kisses you.

The second his lips meet yours, his resolution shatters. He was a fool to think he could resist you, a fool to believe that time and distance would erase the pull between you. Because the moment he has you again, everything else ceases to matter. The weight of his priesthood, the vows he swore, the life he built—it all dissolves into nothing compared to the way you feel against him.

You gasp softly, your hands clutching at his shirt, and that sound alone undoes him. He deepens the kiss, his fingers tangling in your hair, his breath shaky as he pulls you closer—too close. Closer than he should.

But he can’t stop. Not when you’re here, not when you taste like longing and quiet desperation, not when every fiber of his being is screaming for more. And in this moment, he knows—he will never be able to let you go.

Because this—you—is a sin he cannot repent.

And God help him, he doesn’t want to.

-

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...

WORSHIP.

I.N x reader. (s,a)

Synopsis: In the quiet halls of the church and the secrecy of the night, boundaries are tested, faith is questioned, and desires threaten to consume both you and Jeongin. Some sins are easy to resist—others, once tasted, become impossible to forget.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The confession echoes in the empty church, absorbed by the stillness of flickering candlelight. Yang Jeongin kneels before the altar, his fingers curled together in a desperate grip, as if holding himself together.

"I have broken my vow."

The weight of those words settles heavily on his chest. He exhales slowly, but the guilt does not leave him. The silence stretches, pressing in on him, waiting for him to continue. But how does he put it into words?

How does he confess that, despite all his prayers, despite the years of devotion, he let himself want something—someone—he should never have?

Jeongin closes his eyes. Images flood his mind, unbidden and relentless. A voice, teasing yet thoughtful. Fingers brushing over the pages of his manuscript. The way you looked at him—not as a priest, but as a man. Your touch on him, your warmth around him, your heat pressed against him and that sweet, sweet taste of you that flooded his tongue.

Lowering his head, he lets out a slow, unsteady breath and murmurs—

"Lord, have mercy on me."

But mercy does not come. Not in the silence of the church, not in the warmth of the candlelight, not in the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat that refuses to quiet. He waits, as if expecting some sign, some force greater than himself to strip him of this longing, to pull him back from the edge before he falls again.

Nothing comes.

Jeongin forces his eyes open, staring at the altar before him. The crucifix looms overhead, a reminder, a warning—yet all he can think about is how your hands felt gripping the front of his shirt, how they felt against his skin. The way you pleaded so desperately to please him.

Please, please, please.

A shudder courses through him. He grips the rosary tighter, the beads biting into his skin. He should repent. He should beg for forgiveness. He should erase every trace of you from his thoughts before he condemns himself further.

And yet—

And yet, when he closes his eyes again, all he sees is you.

...