"You're doing that thing again," she bit out, voice uneven. Behind her, she felt more than saw his smirk. "What thing?" "You know exactly what thing," she gritted, trying to shift back against him, wordlessly demanding more. A low chuckle against her skin. "Patience, sweetheart." She cursed under her breath. He was doing it on purpose. That slow, infuriating control.

Aaric was a strategist. On and off the battlefield. He knew exactly how to play her, how to keep her on edge, how to make her fall apart. And he enjoyed it—far too much. Y/N hated and loved him for it all at once. But two could play that game. Pushing back against him just enough to throw him off balance, she turned, gripping his jaw and dragging his mouth to hers.

Aaric let out a low groan, his hands instantly tightening on her waist. She knew that sound. Knew what it meant. She was getting to him. "Problem?" she murmured against his lips, smirking. He growled, flipping their positions in one smooth movement, pressing her back against the wall. His green, piercing eyes locked onto hers, amusement flickering in them.

"You want it your way? Fine, I’ll give you what you want." he said, voice smooth and sharp, like a blade waiting to press against skin. Y/N’s eyes rolled into the back of her head, a moan left her lips. "Please." His smirk was slow, lethal. "Good girl." he murmured, before making her regret every bit of her smugness.

Later, as she lay sprawled on his bed, the room still heavy with warmth, Aaric stretched beside her, one arm lazily draped over his stomach. He was too smug, and she had half a mind to smack him for it. Instead, she rolled onto her side, propping herself up on her elbow. "You looked very pleased with yourself back there." "Shouldn't I be?" He turned his head slightly to smirk at her, hair a tousled mess. Unfairly good-looking even in exhaustion. "You challenged me, and I won."

"You cheated," she muttered, shoving at his shoulder. His chest shook with laughter. "You call that cheating? I call that strategy." She narrowed her eyes. "I call it a massive ego." Aaric simply grinned. "You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have one." She had no retort for that. Because it was true. There was something about the way he carried himself, about that mix of confidence and careful restraint, about how he never let anyone get too close, except for her.

But only like this. Only in the dark, in stolen moments, in an agreement that wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Y/N forced herself to shove the thought away before it could dig in too deep. Aaric let out a long breath, stretching again before rolling onto his side to face her. "You hungry?" She blinked. "What?"

He nodded toward his door. "The kitchen should still be open. We could grab something before the upper-years steal everything." Y/N stared at him, thrown off by the casualness of it. Because this wasn’t part of their deal. They trained together. Slept together. But they didn’t do things like—this.

She studied his expression, looking for some kind of hidden motive. But Aaric just stared back, bored, unbothered, like he wasn’t aware he’d just thrown the entire foundation of their arrangement off-balance. "You coming or not?" She should say no. But instead, she found herself following him out the door.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Aaric led her through the winding rows of ancient tomes and dust-covered archives like he had done this a hundred times before. His stride was easy, unhurried, his fingers trailing over old bindings as if this place was as familiar to him as the battlefield. "How do you even know your way around here?" Y/N whispered, half-expecting a scribe to shush them despite the emptiness.

Aaric didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stopped in front of a hidden alcove, shielded behind one of the grander bookshelves, where a narrow wooden table sat tucked against the wall, illuminated by the soft glow of a single enchanted lamp. It was perfect. Private. Isolated. Like something out of a dream-a place she would love to read her favourite book in silence in. Y/N turned to him, eyes narrowed. "You’ve been keeping this a secret, haven’t you?"

Aaric smirked, leaning against the bookshelf with an infuriatingly casual air. "Maybe." "You ass," she muttered, stepping inside anyway. "You let me suffer at those overcrowded tables for weeks, and you had this the whole time?" His smirk deepened. "I was waiting for the right moment." "To what? Taunt me?" His gaze flickered over her, amused. Something else, something unreadable, lingered beneath it. "To bring you here."

That shut her up. She swallowed, suddenly too aware of how intimate this space was. The alcove was small—too small. When he followed her in, his body brushed against hers, his warmth seeping through his shirt. He acted like he didn’t notice. But she did. Y/N cleared her throat, dropping into the chair and pulling out her notes. Focus. They were here to study.

Aaric, however, had other plans. At first, it was subtle. Sitting too close. Passing her books without looking, their fingers brushing for too long. Then, there was the way he watched her. Y/N could feel his gaze on her every time she got frustrated, could hear the quiet amusement in his exaggerated sighs whenever she muttered a curse under her breath.

When she finally looked up, exasperated, Aaric had the nerve to smirk. "Something wrong, sweetheart?" "You’re staring." "Am I?" He leaned back, utterly unapologetic. "Maybe you’re just distracted." "By what?" she shot back, crossing her arms. Aaric tilted his head, eyes flickering over her, slow and assessing. "Wouldn’t you like to know?" She hated him. And she hated even more that he was right.

Because now she was distracted—especially when he stretched, casually draping an arm over the back of her chair, fingers nearly brushing her shoulder. Y/N forced herself to focus. She wasn’t going to let him win. But Aaric wasn’t done playing. A moment later, his lips were on her neck. It wasn’t much—just a graze, a whisper of warmth, but it was enough.

Her breath hitched. "Aaric—" "Mm?" His voice was pure sin, his mouth still hovering near her skin, so close, too close. "We’re supposed to be studying," she said, though it came out weaker than intended. "Are we?" His hand slid up, fingers ghosting over her thigh. "Because I distinctly remember you calling me a distraction just now."

Y/N clenched her jaw, willing herself not to react. But when his teeth scraped just barely along the curve of her throat—deliberate, teasing, testing—her resolve shattered. She turned in her chair, grabbed the front of his shirt, and yanked him down to kiss him. Aaric let out a quiet, pleased sound, his hands immediately finding her waist. His lips curled into a smirk against hers, like he had won. And maybe he had. Again.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The training grounds were mostly empty this late in the afternoon—perfect for a fight. Y/N had purposefully avoided sparring with Aaric for the last few days. She told herself it was because she needed a break from his cocky smirks and infuriatingly smooth voice. The truth? She was still thinking about that damned study session. The way he had kissed her neck, the way he had looked at her, the way he had smirked against her lips like he knew exactly what he was doing to her.

It had taken everything in her not to drag him straight to bed afterward. And now? Now she was going to beat the shit out of him for it. Aaric was already waiting for her when she arrived at the training mats, rolling his shoulders in a way that made his too-fitted shirt stretch over his arms. Smug as ever. "Thought you’d run off," he teased, spinning a practice blade between his fingers. "Can’t say I’d blame you."

Y/N raised a brow, pulling her own dagger from its sheath. "Big words for someone who got his ass handed to him last time." His grin sharpened. "Is that how you remember it?" "That’s how it happened." He hummed, stepping into the circle, casual but coiled with tension. "Then prove it." Oh, she would. They circled each other, slow and deliberate, watching, waiting. Aaric always fought lazy, like it was a game, like he already knew he would win. And that only made Y/N more determined.

She moved first. A quick lunge, aiming for his ribs—but Aaric was faster. He dodged with ease, just barely, the air shifting as her dagger sliced past him. Instead of countering, he stepped into her space, too close, forcing her to adjust. "Sloppy," he murmured, voice dripping with amusement. "Eat shit," she muttered, shoving him back and twisting into another strike. This time, he blocked her, their arms locking together. His body pressed against hers for a second too long, heat radiating through their clothes.

Y/N refused to let it distract her. She shifted, trying to hook his leg and knock him off balance—but he saw it coming. Before she could blink, Aaric flipped her, twisting their bodies mid-air so that when they hit the ground, he landed on top, pinning her with his full weight. Gods. His knees trapped her thighs, his hands braced on either side of her head, and his chest—broad, solid, annoyingly warm—pressed into hers.

Y/N hated how good it felt. Aaric smirked down at her, breathing only slightly uneven. "That was rude." Y/N scowled. "You’re rude." He laughed, the sound low, easy, too damn attractive. "And yet, here you are. Flat on your back beneath me." Bastard. She tried to buck him off, but he only pressed his weight down harder, making very clear that she wasn’t going anywhere. "Give up?" he asked, lips hovering far too close to hers.

Y/N swallowed. Her heart was racing—not just from the fight, but from him. The way he was looking at her, lingering, waiting. Like he wanted something. And she almost—almost—let him have it. But then she remembered his smirk. That damned, arrogant smirk. So instead of surrendering, she feigned a sigh, went slack beneath him—and then drove her knee straight into his gut.

Aaric let out a strangled oof, rolling off her just long enough for her to scramble back up and press her blade to his throat. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, to her absolute horror, Aaric grinned. A full, delighted, almost proud grin. "That," he murmured, "was dirty." Y/N, still breathless, narrowed her eyes. "You fight dirty all the time." "Exactly." His grin turned downright wicked. "Means you’re finally learning."

She huffed, stepping back and sheathing her dagger. "You’re impossible." Aaric pushed himself up with ease, brushing dust from his shirt. His gaze never left hers, dark with something she couldn’t quite name. "So, you wanna go back to my room?" he murmured, voice almost too soft. Y/N didn’t respond. Because the truth? She did-all the freaking time and never wanted to leave. And that was becoming a very, very big problem.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The music was loud, the air thick with heat and laughter. The kind of night that should have felt easy, effortless, fun. And for a while, it did. Y/N had walked in with her friends, feeling good. Dressed in something that made her feel confident, smiling at the familiar buzz of voices, the golden glow of lanterns casting shadows across the walls. Sloane shoved a drink into her hand, and she let herself relax.

She deserved this. After an exhausting week of training and avoiding the very obvious problem that was Aaric Graycastle, she deserved a night where she wasn’t thinking about him. And then—She saw him. Across the room, leaning against the bar, posture too casual, too familiar. That stupid lazy smirk curving his mouth.

The same smirk he gave her when he whispered dirty things in her ear, when he pinned her against the training mat, when he pulled her into dark corners between squad meetings just to press his lips to her neck, to murmur how badly he wanted her. Only now—now, he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at someone else.

Some girl she didn’t recognize, tall, pretty, laughing at something he said. Y/N froze, drink half-raised to her lips. The air in the room shifted, her chest tightening, stomach lurching like she’d been punched. He was so close to her. Leaning in, tilting his head like he was listening so intently, like he actually gave a damn about whatever vapid thing she was saying. Y/N’s grip tightened around her glass.

She should look away. She should leave before she did something reckless, something she couldn’t take back. But she couldn’t. Not when the girl reached out and touched his arm, fingers brushing against his skin. Not when Aaric let her. A sound built in Y/N’s throat—something raw, unfamiliar. Rage. Jealousy. But worse than all of that—hurt. Because for the first time, she wondered—Had she imagined it? All of it?

The way he lingered, the way he touched her even when they weren’t in bed, the way he showed her parts of himself he never showed anyone else. The smirk in the library, the smirk in the sparring ring, the smirk that made her feel like she was something different, something special. Had she been stupid enough to believe she was actually more than just the convenient, no-strings-attached arrangement they had?

The memory of his voice, low, teasing, full of promise, slid through her mind: "You still like sparring with me." Like it was a game. Like he already knew he had won. Maybe he had. Maybe she had always been the one who was going to lose. She downed the rest of her drink and left. Didn’t tell her friends, didn’t look back. Because if she had—if she had let herself keep watching—she didn’t know what she would have done.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

It started subtly. Skipping the gym when she knew he’d be there. Arriving to squad meetings just on time instead of early—no more lingering, no more playful back-and-forth as they walked out together. Then it became deliberate. The first time Aaric walked into a room and she walked out, his brows had knitted together in mild confusion. The second time, his smirk slipped. The third time, when he had caught her wrist in passing and she shook him off without even looking at him—He knew.

Something was wrong. But Y/N told herself it was fine. This was what they agreed on. Just sex. Just convenience. No promises, no strings, no expectations. So why did it feel like she was carving out a part of herself every time she turned her back on him? Why did it feel like she was losing something that had never even been hers to begin with?

She kept her head high, kept moving, ignored the way her stomach knotted when she felt his eyes on her. Because if she stopped—if she let herself falter, if she let herself look at him—She didn’t know if she’d be able to walk away again.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

At first, Aaric told himself it was nothing. She was just busy. She had other things going on. But then—Then he realized it was only him. She still trained with the squad, still laughed with their friends, still lingered in all the same places—She just wouldn’t look at him. And that drove him fucking insane. 

The first time it happened, he brushed it off. The second time, a flicker of irritation. The third time? That was when he started watching. She still laughed when Bodhi teased her, still rolled her eyes at Ridoc’s nonsense, still shared those knowing looks with Violet. But when Aaric stepped into the room? 

She closed off. Her shoulders stiffened. Her expression shut down. And she walked away. Every. Single. Time. Aaric didn’t consider himself the obsessive type. He didn’t chase. Didn’t need to. But this? This was different. This was her slipping through his fingers, and the worst part? He didn’t know why. So he started pressing. He cornered Bodhi first—leaned against a table, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“What did I do?” Bodhi just shrugged. “You tell me.” Unhelpful. He tried Ridoc next. No luck. Even Violet, who normally saw too much, just gave him a knowing look and said, “Figure it out yourself.” And that was the moment Aaric realized—They all knew. And they weren’t telling him. The frustration boiled. Turned into something sharp. Something obsessive.

And the moment he saw her at training, saw the way she caught sight of him and immediately moved to leave—Something inside him snapped. No. No. She did not get to do this. She did not get to pull away, to pretend he didn’t exist, to act like he was just some passing thing she could erase from her life. If she wanted to leave—if she wanted to end whatever this was—Then she was going to have to look him in the fucking eyes and say it.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Aaric had been patient. Or at least, he’d told himself he had. He let her ignore him for days. Let her pretend he didn’t exist. Let her walk out of rooms the second he stepped into them. But patience wasn’t his virtue, and restraint had never been his strong suit—especially when it came to her. So when he saw her after class, lingering behind while everyone else filtered out, he didn’t think. He moved.

The door slammed behind them as he pulled her into an old, abandoned classroom, pressing her back against the wall before she had a chance to escape. His hands braced on either side of her head, caging her in. Her eyes flashed with fury. "What the hell—" "Tell me why you're avoiding me," he cut her off, voice low and demanding. She glared. Crossed her arms. "I don’t owe you an explanation."

Aaric exhaled sharply through his nose, his patience hanging by a thread. "You’re going to ignore me forever, then?" He leaned in, forcing her to either meet his gaze or look away in cowardice. "That’s the plan?" She stayed silent. That pissed him off even more. He tilted his head, eyes dark and sharp as he studied her. "You don’t get to do this," he murmured, voice quieter now, but no less intense. "You don’t get to act like we’re nothing."

That was what broke her. Her chin lifted, eyes blazing. "You broke our agreement first." Aaric scoffed, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "This is about that girl from the party, isn’t it?" His lip curled. "I only entertained her because I saw you with Bodhi." He stepped closer, the heat between them almost unbearable. "Because I was jealous." Another step. His breath fanned against her lips, soft but heavy with intent. "Because I want you to be mine."

She swallowed hard, her resolve wavering for a brief moment before she caught herself. "You don’t get to say that. Not after—" But she never got to finish. Aaric’s mouth crashed onto hers, hard, desperate. As if he’d been starving for her, as if the dam holding him back had finally shattered. She gasped against his lips, and he seized the opportunity, his tongue sweeping in to claim her.

Her fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt, nails scraping against his skin, and, fuck, he needed her closer. He lifted her with ease, placing her on the desk behind them without breaking the kiss. His hands slid under her shirt, finding the hot, bare skin of her waist, and she shivered at the contact. "You drive me fucking insane," he muttered against her lips, his fingers pressing into her hips. She let out a breathless laugh, eyes dazed and pupils blown wide. "Right back at you."

That was all the permission he needed. Their clothes came off in a flurry, discarded onto the dusty floor in haste. His mouth found the curve of her neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses that made her head fall back, a soft moan escaping her lips. "Still mad at me?" he murmured, nipping at the tender spot beneath her jaw. She barely managed to shake her head. Aaric grinned, wicked and triumphant, before slipping inside her, making her moan loud enough to echo through the room. "Aaric—oh gods," she gasped, her body pressed up against his as her arms instinctively wrapped around his shoulders for support.

His thrusts were hard, relentless, hitting that sweet spot inside her. Aaric’s hand found the soft skin of her neck, wrapping around it possessively, squeezing just enough to send a jolt of sensation through her. Her hands gripped his, her eyes wide and lost in the heat of the moment as she met his gaze. With a swift motion, he pushed her back onto the desk, changing their angle so deep, so perfect, that she could hardly breathe.

Her moans grew louder, and he tightened his hold, restricting her airflow just enough to heighten the sensation even more. She bit her lip, her teeth sinking into it as she gasped, “Fuck, Aaric. Feels so good.” He smirked, sweat building on his forehead and abs, his thrusts growing deeper, harder. "I love seeing you like this," he groaned. "You’re so fucking sexy, sweetheart." Her walls fluttered around him, and he knew she was close. But just as she was on the edge, he stopped, holding himself inside her, perfectly still.

“What are you doing?” she groaned, trying to shift her hips, desperate for more friction. He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "I want you to say it. Tell me I’m the only one for you." His gaze was intense as his fingers tightened around her neck again, waiting. Her eyes fluttered shut, a whimper escaping her as she let out a breathless plea, “Please, Aaric, I need to come.”

He murmured softly, “Wrong answer, baby.” But despite his words, his hips shifted again, and his other hand moved to lift her leg over his shoulder, deepening their connection, making her moan even louder. “Oh, yes,” she moaned, her hands cupping his face, trying to pull him into a kiss, but he refused, his eyes locked onto hers as he thrust faster, harder.

The pressure built once again, and she thought she was finally going to fall over the edge. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, drawing blood as she neared her release. But then, just like before, he pulled out of her, stopping everything. “No, no, no, no, please Aaric. Please,” she begged, her body arching toward him, desperate to pull him back in.

He raised an eyebrow, unmoved. "It’s you. It’s always been you," she gasped, grabbing his hands, pulling him against her. She pressed her forehead to his, her breath fast, ragged. But he didn’t move, didn’t respond. Her heart pounded, and then, in a whisper, she admitted it: “I love you.”

And with that, all his restraint shattered. With one swift motion, he was inside her again, railing into her, driving her into the old desk. The force of his thrusts had her seeing stars. "Fuck, sweetheart," Aaric groaned, the intensity of their pleasure growing with each passing second, both of them on the verge of breaking. And then they came together, a tidal wave of sensation crashing over them, moaning each other’s names as their bodies shuddered in sync.

When they finally collapsed together, skin slick and hearts still racing, he cupped her face, tilting her chin up so she had no choice but to look at him. His forehead rested against hers, their breaths mingling in the space between them. "So..." His voice was softer now, vulnerable in a way she hadn’t expected. "Can I be yours?"

It was the fourth morning this week.

Your veil was damp with snow, the thin wool of your cloak darkened where it clung to your shoulders. You made no sound as you slipped into the back pew, always the same one, never closer. Your eyes lowered, hands folded with such practiced reverence it twisted something in him.

He dared not look too long. But he always did.

Your name, he had learned only once—accidentally—when an old woman called you from the village well. The name hung in his thoughts like incense, clinging to everything, sweet and choking.

And yet here he stood, fingers curled tight around the edge of the altar, as though bracing himself against some storm only he could feel.

That storm wore a veil.

It was during Vespers, when the candlelight turned stone into gold and shadow, that it first became unbearable.

He had watched you—God forgive him—watched your lips form the prayers, your lashes flutter shut, your neck tilt ever so slightly in the humility of devotion. The flickering light carved your from the gloom like a figure of Caravaggio’s brush, all tenderness and sorrow.

Something cracked.

He fumbled a word, tripping over in saecula saeculorum, and his voice fractured mid-chant. No one noticed. No one, except you.

Their eyes met. Just for a moment.

Your gaze held no seduction. No invitation. Only something deeper, far more cruel: compassion.

The shame that followed was worse than fire.

That night he scoured his back with a birch switch until welts rose like ridges on a holy relic. He wept without sound, biting the cloth he kept for cleaning chalices to keep the walls from hearing. Mea culpa, Deus. Ego sum pulvis. Ego sum nihil. He whispered it like a charm, again and again.

He had not spoken aloud of you. Not to his fellow priests when they came from Rouen. Not to the boy who rang the bell. Not to the old woman who brought him bread and wine. But in the silence of the sanctuary—when only the flame above the altar moved—he thought of you. He felt you. Every breath he took tasted of your presence.

You had become more than a believer. You were a haunting. At times, he cusses your name in the dead of the night. He called you a witch, a being far from god, a demon sent to test his faith. But soon after, he begged for forgiveness, begged you to forgive him for even daring to whisper your name.

He was possessed.

The days blurred. Guilt became a ritual as practiced as the Mass itself.

Then the dreams began.

At first, they were vague shadows—glimpses of you form beneath candlelight, the whisper of your breath echoing through vaulted stone halls. But with each passing night, they grew bolder, more vivid, more desperate, as if something inside him had been loosed and now fed hungrily on his restraint.

In the dreams, you stood barefoot at the altar, your veil discarded, your hair unbound. You called to him not with words, but with silence, with eyes heavy-lidded and glistening. And he, Father Alaric—ordained servant of Christ, keeper of sacraments and silence—he went to you. He always did.

Your mouth pressed to the hollow of his throat, where the crucifix once lay. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, urging. You would place his hands upon your skin as if you knew that they had once been consecrated. And when he tried to pull away, when his voice, hoarse and breaking, cried “no”, you would whisper, “But you already have.”

He woke each time with the taste of your name on his tongue and the sheets tangled in his legs like bindings, the proof of his sin staining his clothes.

Sometimes, in the dream, the Virgin herself would appear in the distance, behind the altar. Her eyes wept blood. Her hands outstretched, not in blessing, but accusation.

Other times, it was Christ—emaciated and nailed—his head turning, impossibly, to meet Alaric’s gaze. And Christ would speak only once, voice hollow with sorrow:

“Et tu me tradidisti."

He punished himself each morning.

But guilt is a poor disinfectant when the wound is desire.

He fasted until his stomach shriveled in protest. He refused the warmth of his bed, choosing the chapel floor, curling like a dog beneath the altar, whispering penitential Psalms as if repetition could drown memory. When his mind still wandered—when the shape of your hips pressed behind his eyelids like relics burned into cloth—he took the birch rod. Ten lashes. Twenty. Thirty. Until his back wept with him.

He bathed his hands in boiling water. The same hands that once held the host, that raised the chalice, that touched the sick and the dying, the ones that so desperately wanted to feel you—he now blistered them deliberately, sobbing as skin peeled, praying that the pain would purge him.

And yet the next night, the dreams returned.

Sometimes, they turned darker.

You would kneel before him in the confessional, your face hidden, your voice a whisper.

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

"What sin?" he would ask, breath catching.

"I have dreamed of your hands upon me."

And in the dream, he would lean forward, fingers trembling against the wood.

"Is that a sin?" You would ask.

"Yes," he would say, his voice breaking. "The greatest sin of all."

Then the screen would vanish. The walls would melt. And you would be there again—naked in shadow, light breaking over you like stained glass, beautiful, so beautiful—and he would be inside you before he could speak your name. Ravaging you with a passion he wouldn't even show to God himself. Devouring you in ways he didn't know he could. He couldn't.

Each time, he awoke gasping, clutching the crucifix above his bed like a lifeline, though even its face seemed turned away.

It was not just lust. That would have been simpler.

No—what tormented Alaric most was how sacred it felt in the dream. How right. How their bodies fit like psalms and silence, how your moans filled the chapel like liturgy, how you tighten around him right before he wakes. In sleep, their union was a prayer.

And that, he knew, was the deepest heresy of all.

To mistake sin for sacrament.

You arrived late today.

Not by much, only after the first psalm, but late enough that he felt it, sharp and irrational, like a missed heartbeat. Snow dusted your lashes. Your veil was pulled lower than usual, hiding more of your face. And you did not go to your pew, the one he appointed yours.

You sat beside him.

Not close. Never close. But close enough.

The boy from the mill.

Young, broad-shouldered, smelling of smoke and wet wool. He shifted to make room for you, his elbow brushing your sleeve. You murmured something—thanks, perhaps—and he smiled, quick and unthinking. The kind of smile Alaric had not worn in years.

The chant continued. Dominus vobiscum.

Alaric’s voice did not falter. He was proud of that, for a moment. His hands were steady as he lifted them, palms outward in blessing. But his eyes betrayed him. They returned again and again to the line of your shoulder, the space between you and the boy narrowing each time he leaned to whisper something in your ear.

He told himself it meant nothing. The thought should have ended there.

It did not.

When the boy laughed, soft, careless, something dark and sudden rose in Alaric’s chest. Not desire. Something colder. Possessive. Ugly.

You smiled.

Not the restrained curve of lips you wore in prayer. This was different, one he never saw before, it felt private, forbidden.

Alaric missed a line. He swallowed and continued, heat blooming behind his collar despite the cold.

Jealousy, Alaric realized with horror, felt like certainty.

Certainty that you were being taken from him.

The absurdity of it nearly made him laugh aloud. Taken. As if you had ever been his. As if he had not given himself away, body and name and future, to God alone. As if he were not already hollowed by vows.

Yet when the boy bowed his head during prayer and your gaze lingered on him, just a second too long, Alaric felt something fracture again.

He imagined the boy’s hands where his were forbidden. On your waist. Your back. Your throat. He imagined you responding, soft and unashamed, without guilt, without bloodied backs or boiling water.

Then he imagined his own hands around the boy's neck, squeezing until that smile disappeared from his face, or from yours. Or maybe an accident. God was merciful to accidents.

Alaric turned away as if struck, revulsion.

The thought sickened him, he tasted bile, shame flooding him so violently it burned. His knees nearly buckled. To think such a thing, to want such a thing—Deus meus.

That night, he could not sleep.

When dawn broke, he would press his face to the cold stone floor and sob like a child. His prayers no longer had the clarity of belief. They had become bargaining, begging. Deals made in desperation.

"Lord, take this cup from me."

"Let her stop coming."

"Let me forget her face."

"Take my eyes, if you must. But leave me pure again."

But God was silent.

In the candlelight, Christ’s face seemed to weep. Not in mercy. In sorrow.

And still, the dreams came once again.

Was this temptation? Or punishment?

Alaric began to fear that God had not sent you as a test, but as a mirror. You were not the serpent in the garden—he was. He saw in you what he had buried—desire, yes, but also gentleness, a longing to be seen not as a priest, not as a vessel of doctrine, but as a man. A man, capable of pleasure and desires. And that was the greater sin.

He would sit in the confessional after you left, wishing for another voice on the other side of the screen. He imagined your—soft, honest, filled with ordinary confessions of doubt and loneliness. Sometimes, when madness gripped him, he imagined you whispering, I want you, Father.

And in the darkest recesses of his mind, he whispered back.

He clawed at these thoughts like a beast, desperate to bury them, but they flowered in secret soil, watered by silence.

It was Lent when the crisis came.

You approached the altar during Communion. You knelt like all the others, lips parted, eyes closed. Alaric stood frozen, the wafer hovering in his trembling hand. He stared at your mouth—the delicate line of it, the pink of your tongue waiting.

He couldn’t do it.

He dropped the host. A gasp rose among the parishioners. Time slowed. Your eyes opened.

For one breathless instant, neither moved.

Then you reached down—too quickly—and lifted the wafer, pressing it to your lips yourself, swallowing with reverence before lowering your gaze.

That night, he collapsed in front of the crucifix, arms spread in mockery of the Savior’s pose, blood from fresh wounds staining the altar cloth. His voice cracked in the empty chapel.

Take it from me, Lord, Strip her from my soul.

But once again God was silent.

Each morning you came was an ordeal, he was glad, in a way, that you never sat with the boy again, did you know?

Father Alaric would always feel your presence before he saw you, but he never turned to look at you outright. That would have made it real. Instead, he remained before the altar, eyes lowered in pretended devotion, reciting the Mass in a voice scraped raw by sleeplessness and shame.

He despised himself in those moments.

He clung to the cloth of the altar as if it could anchor him, white-knuckled, whispering the Latin words like a ward against temptation. Introibo ad altare Dei. Ad Deum qui lætificat juventutem meam.

But there was no joy. Only dread. Only the sick, festering knowing that his eyes would betray him—that he would look.

And he always did.

A flicker. Just enough. Just a glance.

Your face was calm, reverent, beautiful in its restraint, he wished you would smile more. You wore modest clothing. Your veil always intact, the veil you never wore in his dreams. You offered no signs. No flirtation. And somehow that made it worse.

You were not Eve.

You had not offered the fruit.

He had picked it himself, over and over, in thought, in dream, in craving.

Each glimpse was a dagger. Your hands folded in prayer. Your lashes low over downcast eyes. Your lips, slightly parted in silent chant, he saw them in flashes, as if God Himself tried to block his view, but Alaric always found a way to see you.

And then the guilt would crash down like a tide.

The Mass became penance. Each Kyrie eleison a desperate cry. He would tremble as he lifted the host, whispering Hoc est enim Corpus meum with a heart soaked in filth, wondering how the body of Christ did not turn to ash in his hands.

When he gave Communion, he avoided you. He assigned it to the altar boy, or timed the rite when you had already left. He could not—would not—let you kneel before him again, lest his hands tremble and betray him, lest your lips brush the wafer and he remember the dream of your mouth on his skin.

After Mass, he would retreat to the sacristy and vomit.

Or else collapse in the corner, head buried in his arms, rocking like a madman.

Some mornings, he would scourge himself immediately. Others, he simply wept, staring at the flickering votive candles and begging them to burn him too.

Yet the worst mornings—the truly damnable ones—were when he caught himself hoping you would come.

Waking early. Dressing with strange care. Sweeping the chapel as if preparing for your presence, then punishing himself in advance for the wanting.

And so he stayed.

And so he watched.

And so he burned.

The next morning, you did not come.

Nor the next.

Father Alaric thought—at first—that it was mercy.

He told himself so as he stood before the altar that morning, robes heavy on his shoulders, the golden chalice trembling in his grip. He continued the Mass in silence that felt too clean. The words of the liturgy echoed off the stones without weight. Without you, the chapel felt hollow—not purified, but stripped. As if some vital organ had been removed, leaving only the shell of a body still pretending to breathe.

He told himself: This is God’s answer.

This is my deliverance.

You were a test. The test is over.

He lasted until the final blessing. Then he collapsed behind the altar, fingers knotted in his hair, mouth open in a scream that never quite came.

The next morning, you was gone again.

And the morning after that.

And the morning after that.

And the morning after that.

And the morning after that.

And the morning after that.

And the morning after that.

What began as relief curdled into something uglier, panic.

He could not ask. He dared not. To speak your name aloud would be to confess everything.

And so he waited.

And the waiting became obsession.

He began keeping track of the hours. Listening for your footfall, realizing he knew it by heart. Cleaning the chapel twice daily, in case today—today—might be the day you returned.

But you did not.

He began dreaming again—but now the dreams were different. Now you were outside the chapel, trying to enter, but the doors would not open. You were crying. Your hands bled from scratching at the wood. And behind you stood shadowy figures—hooded, murmuring judgment—dragging you away as he screamed and pounded from within: “Forgive me! Come back!”

He would wake gasping, clawing at the bedclothes, drenched in sweat and guilt, shame, longing.

Soon, he began to see you.

Not truly. But enough.

A flicker of familiar hair outside the chapel window. A figure in the fog near the woods. Every woman in a veil became your silhouette. Every face blurred until it could become yours.

When he realized he had begun to hope for your ghost, he sank to the chapel floor and wept like a child.

Then came the worst change of all.

Resentment.

He resented you for leaving. For escaping the fire while he burned alone. For damning him in absence more deeply than you did in presence. Did you find a man? Did you drown yourself in sin while letting him die from thirst?

He cursed you under his breath. Called you Eve, witch, temptress, harlot, siren, Lilith. He told himself you had never prayed, never loved God, that you had come only to poison his soul.

But still, he scrubbed the pew where you once sat. Still, he lit candles in your name. Still, he whispered apologies into the confessional you had once entered—speaking to the silence as if you crouched on the other side, waiting, listening.

One night, weeks after your final visit, he found your handkerchief wedged in the corner of the pew. Faded, forgotten.

He brought it to his lips like a relic, to his nose, to his body, as if it was your hand itself.

He clutched it through the next Mass. Held it as he knelt before the crucifix and begged:

Let her come back. Let me see her once more. Just once, just once, just once, just once, just once let me truly see her.

But heaven stayed silent.

The candle at the altar flickered. Then died.

That summer, Alaric hanged himself from the yew tree behind the chapel.

Beneath him, the floor was scuffed with signs of struggle—not with the act, but with the soul. Scratched Latin phrases, half-muttered prayers etched with fingernails into the dirt as if the penance might reach God faster in blood than in breath.

There was a letter in his hand. His final words, they were scrawled in charcoal, wild and uneven, and folded inside, your handkerchief.

“I loved her more than Heaven. I feared her more than Hell.

If God made her to test me, then He failed.

Or I did.

But the worst sin was not desire,

It was believing I could feel it and remain holy.”

And below, in blood

"Forgive me, not God, but you."

My first time posting anything :>

English is not my first language so sorry for any mistakes...

A thin chuckle follows, more awkward than the other, too long. The laugh dies into silence and his breathing changes, lower at first, then heavier, dragging like he’s thinking too hard.

“But, uh… you know, it’s crazy, because even when I’m busy, I keep—fuck, okay, who am I kidding, I thought I could do this, I really thought I could call you and tell you how well I am without you... But shit, I can't. I can’t even get through a single hour without your face just… burning into my head. Like some goddamn watermark on everything. I’ll be laughing with people and suddenly—bam—it’s you. Always fucking you. And it’s stupid, right? It’s fucking stupid. I thought I was past it.”

His voice drops lower, more confessional now, almost whispering closer to the mic, like he’s confessing something shameful. The pacing stopped.

"I miss you, I really do. I know this is getting old by now but fuck, I miss you so much... even when you hated me, you still looked perfect. You still—God, you’re perfect. You know that, right? So perfect that it hurts... too perfect to be with someone like me, isn't?"

A sharp inhale through his teeth. He exhales with a shaky laugh, voice tilting upward into something more brittle. You can hear him shifting, his breath catching in his throat.

"I hate this, I hate it. I hate that you left me and I’m still stuck here, chained up like some fucking dog."

His breath hits the mic, sharp and uneven. He exhales hard through his nose, like he's trying to stay calm. Somewhere in the background, there’s the creak of a floorboard, then the snap of fingers, restless, inpatient, you remember him snapping his fingers when he was angry, memories you wanted to forget come rushing back. His voice rises suddenly, sharper, cracking at the edges.

"You fucking broke me, you threw me out like trash, and somehow you’re still the only thing that makes me feel alive. Do you understand what kind of sick joke that is? You’re the only person who can make me want to scream and cry and laugh and… die. All in the same fucking second. And I hate that—I hate you."

The line goes silent except for the sound of his breathing. Low, heavy, uneven, like he’s right in your ear. The phone scrapes against something as he adjusts it, muttering under his breath before his voice spikes again, hot, unfiltered.

"I saw you with him today, you know. Do you have any idea how that made me feel? Any fucking idea? Seeing that you're moving on, while I'm still here? I hate you for smiling without me, for laughing with him. With him. Do you know what that feels like? it makes my skin crawl. I picture his hands on you and it makes me want to tear my own fucking eyes out. Or his. His, preferably. You think he loves you like I do? He doesn’t. He can’t. He’s nothing. This shit makes me want to break something, break him. Break you.”

There's a dull thud—a kick, or maybe a punch, against the wall, hard, the sound makes you flinch even though you're not there. His breathing becomes more ragged, harsh, each word dragging through his lungs.

“I hate you so much, but I hate myself more—I hate myself 'cause I still fucking love you. Shit, I want to cut it out of me, this thing you put in me, this sickness. I can’t escape you. You left, but you’re still here, rotting inside my head. I hate you for that, I hate you so much I can barely breathe.”

The phone picks up the sound of pacing again, faster this time, frantic, like a caged animal. His words start spilling quicker, voice climbing and cracking, breath hitching between syllables.

"And you—you don’t even answer me anymore. Texts, calls, nothing. I try a new number but you always fucking block me. I sit there watching the screen, watching that little bubble never appear. Do you know what that does to me? Do you want me to lose it? Do you fucking get off on that?"

A sudden slam—something kicked across the room—and his breathing comes ragged, harsh against the receiver, like he’s burning through his chest. Then, just as suddenly, he drops his tone, almost whispering now, unsteady, words trembling as if his throat is closing.

"Huh? Do you know what it does to me? I fucking hate you. I hate you so much sometimes I wanna scream until my throat bleeds, I wanna wrap my hands around your neck until you feel what it's like to be breathless. But then I think about not having you at all, and it’s worse. It’s so much worse. Because I can’t—fuck—I can’t live without you.”

You hear a broken sob on the other end of the line, he was crying. But it wasn't soft, it wasn't sad, no, it’s raw, guttural, strangled through clenched teeth. Every sob rides the edge of a laugh, like grief and fury have blended into one.

"I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t breathe without choking on the thought of you with someone else. You think I don’t see? I know you. I know you, better than anyone. That new guy—you think I don’t notice the way you laugh different around him? That cheap fucking smile you give him, like he’s earned it? No. No, no, no. That smile was mine. It was always mine."

His tone drops, low and venomous, his breath scrapes against the receiver like static, uneven and fast, as if he’s grinning through his teeth. Every word pressed too close to the mic, distorted by spit and fury.

"I swear to God, if I ever see him—if I ever see that asshole with you again—I don’t care what happens. I’ll ruin his face. I’ll fucking kill him. I’ll make sure you never forget who you belong to."

Then a sudden, violent exhale, followed by a hoarse chuckle. Each word bursts like it’s been clawed out of him.

"You hear me? You’re mine. You can’t erase me. You can block my number, delete my photos, throw my shit in the street—I’ll still be there. Right there, because life without you doesn’t mean shit. I’d rather stop breathing than watch you walk away again. And if you do… maybe I’ll make sure you don’t walk anywhere at all."

Then a sudden laugh, sharp and ugly, tearing out of him like it hurts to let it go. He chuckles into the phone, the sound slipping into something maniacal, more unhinged. He exhales dramatically, as if he's just realized something life-changing. You can practically hear the smile on his lips.

"Yeah. Yeah, maybe that’s how this ends. You and me. Together. Nobody else. You’re the only thing that makes sense. The only reason I get out of bed. And if you think you can just leave me, just replace me—”

A long pause. The silence is jagged, filled only by his erratic breathing. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, colder, stripped of the earlier softness.

“—then you’re out of your fucking mind. Because I won’t let that happen. Do you hear me? I won’t. You’re mine. You always were. You always will be. And if I have to remind you of that, if I have to show you, then I will. I’ll come find you. I’ll come find you both. And when I do—”

There’s a pause, the sound of him breathing ragged, like he’s chewing back something ugly. Then his voice drops, almost pleading, almost gentle.

“Baby… don’t make me do this. Just call me back. Please, please. Just—say you love me. Say it once. That’s all I need. That’s all I—”

The line cuts off mid-sentence as you ended the voicemail.

The flat beep lingers in your ears long after the line cuts, you’re holding the phone tighter than you realize, your fingers stiff, trembling against the screen. His voice still rings in your ears, like it’s soaked into the air around you, sticky and heavy, impossible to shake off. You set the phone down on the table like it burned you, looking at it like it was your ex itself, the silence of your apartment swells around it, every creak of the building suddenly too loud. You know better—you know better—than to let him crawl under your skin again, but your chest still feels like it’s filling with ice water.

Your chest felt too small for your lungs, breaths coming shallow and shaky. You wanted to laugh, maybe, because of course he would leave a two a.m. voicemail like that. It was so him.

This wasn't the first one he'd left you, God, you lost count of how many of them filled your phone as the week went on. It had only gotten worse after the breakup. The endless texts, pages and pages of them. One minute he’d be begging you to come back, saying he couldn’t live without you, the next he’d call you a whore, a slut for playing with his feelings. You’d blocked him everywhere, but he always found a way back in. New numbers, fake accounts, and endless voicemails, mostly drunk ones.

You'd hear a few seconds of them at most, never letting more than one sentence come out of his mouth before you deleted it without a second thought. But why was this time different? Why this time did you actually listen to what he had to say? This time he actually sounded... normal. Was it because he said he was over it? No, it couldn't be, you knew better than to believe any word that came out of this fucker's mouth. So why?

Your chest is tight. Every breath feels shallow, like if you inhale too deep, he’ll hear it somehow. You don’t move, you don’t even want to blink, because in the silence that follows, it feels like he’s still there—like he’s right outside the door, grinning, waiting for you to come check. Fuck, not this again, you moved out because of that, he has no way of knowing where you live now, he can't.

You catch your own reflection in the black phone screen and it startles you, eyes wide and damp, and you hate that you look scared, that he made you feel this way again.

You think about deleting the voicemail, but your thumb hovers over the option, frozen. What if you need proof? What if someone doesn’t believe you? Then again, If you think you're going to have to use this voicemail as proof for something, it means you think he's going to do something. The thought makes your blood run cold. He wouldn't do that, would he? You want to believe it, you really do, but you can't.

Your stomach twisted when you replayed his words in your head. That new guy. Your hand flew to your mouth. He knew. He’d seen you. Somehow, somewhere, he’d been there. How does he know about your new boyfriend? Was he staking you? How does he know about that? How does he know where you were? Does he know where you live? How would he know? How? How? How?

Your pulse roared in your ears. Suddenly every corner of the apartment felt hostile. The windows—were the blinds closed? Had you locked the door? You moved, quick and clumsy, pulling each latch, tugging each curtain. You half-expected to see him standing there in the street, grinning up at your window like he’d been there all along.

"Fuck."

You grab the phone before you can talk yourself out of it and dial Alex number. Your thumb trembles against the glass as it rings, rings, and you hold your breath, each second dragging long enough to convince you that maybe—maybe your ex already did something. Maybe that was the last voicemail before everything went south. Was it a warning?

“Hello?” Alex’s voice is warm, groggy, a little confused. It cuts through the quiet like light under a locked door, and you feel like you can breathe again.

You don’t answer right away. Your lips part, but no sound comes out. He says your name, softer this time. “You okay?”

And just like that, the tears you didn’t know you were holding back sting the corners of your eyes. You force yourself to swallow, clear your throat, smooth the cracks from your voice before they can betray you.

“Yeah. Sorry. I—I didn’t mean to wake you.”

But it’s a lie. You did. You needed to. His voice is proof that nothing’s happened, that your ex’s threats are just noise, just another performance, like all the others. He used to do that, scare you on purpose. Whisper things he’d never follow through on, just to watch you flinch. Just to remind you how much power he had. He always thought he was charming when he was angry, like his rage meant passion instead of danger.

You remember the first time he did it. The two of you were still in his car, some summer night where the air stuck to your skin. He laughed while telling you what he’d do if you ever left him—ridiculous, horrible things—but then he kissed your hand right after, like it was all a joke. And you laughed, too. shit, you laughed, because you thought it was endearing when he said it, because that showed how much he loved you.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Alex asks again, and you realize you’ve been quiet too long.

“Yeah,” you say, maybe too quickly. You hear yourself trying to sound casual, normal, the way you always tried to sound when your ex cornered you with one of his monologues. Just keep the tone even. Don’t let him hear it. “Just… couldn’t sleep. Wanted to hear your voice.”

There’s a pause, and then Alex chuckles softly, not unkindly. “That’s all? You scared me for a second. Thought something happened.”

You can't tell him anything, should you? You can't think straight. He knew about your crazy ex, of course. You didn't want to hide anything from him, Alex was different. It was a messy breakup, that's all you said, because you didn't want to remember, you didn't want him to know this side of you, you didn't want him to know what you did. “Nothing’s wrong,” you lie again, quieter this time. “I just… missed you.”

You press the phone tighter to your ear, listening to Alex breathe on the other side, steady and safe, alive. "Well, i'm glad you miss me, but can't you do it tomorrow morning?" You hear him yawn on the other end of the line, and guilt creeps up on you.

"Right, right, sorry, I'll let you sleep now." You didn't really want to hang up, you wanted to keep hearing his voice, hearing his breathing... You were getting paranoid, and that was exactly what he wanted, for you to feel scared. You couldn't let him control your mind, not anymore. "Good night, Alex."

"Good night, beautiful." You could feel the smile behind his voice, and it made you smile too. "Love you." Alex says without hesitation, always, like he really means it, and it lands in your chest with a quiet warmth, steadying, grounding.

"Love you too." you murmur, barely above a whisper, as if the words themselves are a shield. He sighs, murmurs something about going back to bed, and the call ends with a small click, leaving you alone with the hum of silence.

Of course he didn’t do anything. That’s ridiculous. He’s always been all talk—big, dramatic threats meant to send you spinning, meant to keep you tethered to him through fear. He wouldn’t actually follow through. He wasn’t that crazy.

…Right?

You sink into the couch, clutching the phone like it might start ringing again. It’s easy to picture him pacing through his apartment, snapping his fingers, muttering to himself, winding himself up on a stage only he can see. You’ve seen it before.

The memory comes back sharp, unwanted. That night he showed up at your door after three days of silence, after a stupid fight you don't even remember anymore. His eyes were bloodshot, jaw tight, words tumbling too fast to make sense. He laughed, then shouted, then laughed again, like the switch was broken inside him. But then he cupped your cheek, whispered that he couldn’t live without you, that you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart. His thumb stroked your skin so tenderly you almost believed it.

He could be sweet when he wanted. Sweet enough to trick you into thinking the rest of it was just a phase, just a lapse of reason, just the storm before the calm, nothing more. Sweet enough to make you forget, for a little while, the bruises of his words.

You close your eyes and shake it off, you don't want to remember any more of this, you wanted to forget about the past, about him. That was then. He’s bluffing. He’s always bluffing.

This was just another one of his fucked up threats.

It has to be.