Writing in the Dark

You’ve been married for eight months and twenty three days. It was rough in the beginning— to be belittled so easily and forgotten within every moment the two of you spent together. 

But over time, the jokes, the pradling eased. He didn't grab you as much, or as roughly as he once did. The scratches, the bruises faded with time, no more did they grace your cheeks, your arms. 

You learned early on that the man craved violence— sought it out in the coliseums every so often. Blood didn't seem to bother the emperor, in fact, the more that the maroon color graced his presence, the better. 

You, however, could do without. 

It was so hot- so stuffy that day. Humidity clung to your skin like an unwanted sickness. Sweat dabbed at your brow as you tirelessly fanned at your face, sitting just beside Geta himself. The crowd was ever so loud, jovially crying out, impatient for the show to begin. 

The emperor sat, knees spread with an arm bent on the rest attached to the chair. 

“This will be a good one,” Beside him, his brother; Caracalla hummed in agreement, giggling at the aggressive pushes and shoves the citizens gave to one another. 

You couldn't imagine how hot it must be down there, so close to the pit. 

Even up in the stands, you thought you might melt. 

“Wife, did you hear me?” 

Flinching you looked back at Geta, meeting his intense gaze upon your form. 

“W-What?” 

“I said, are you ready to be entertained?” 

The movement in your hand stopped, it was useless trying to fight such a heat. Not wasting a breath you answered. 

“Of course, husband.” 

Smiling, the man stood and raised his arms to the citizens. Screams erupted, they cried out in response to the man of such power, of such terror. 

With his arms back at his sides; the signal was given. 

The fight could commence. 

Roughly turning back to the box, Geta sat upon the edge of the throne, waiting to see the first death of the match. 

Not wanting to disappoint him, you stood straight, facing the clashing of swords, the crying of men. A particular soldier had ill timing with his slash, missing his foe entirely. It left him open for a second, but that was all the time that was needed. With a quick slash, the man's entrails dangled from his stomach, painting the ground a bright red. 

It was unbearable to see such a display of violence, to see these men's lives end right before your eyes. 

Your palm met with the skin of your lips, afraid of the rising bile you covered your mouth tightly, eyes gazing over with wet desperation. 

A distraction— you needed one and quick. How embarrassing would it be for the wife of the emperor to throw up her morning meal? 

In front of her own citizens? 

Nothing was working, the sounds, the clashing was too loud. The blood littered the field, running freely over the crevices with its own dirtied purpose. 

Your breathing was beginning to be too fast, too quick to catch up with. 

Think, think, think- 

“Wife?” 

Oh gods. Not now. You couldn't take the poking, the showing of bodies that lay limp and torn. 

Geta noticed the desperation in your eyes, the way you squeezed your mouth shut like a tragedy just struck before the coliseum.

“Wife. Look.” 

“Geta please-” 

A hand reached out, a mirage of colors graced your vision. 

His hand? 

His.. rings? 

“Oh…” you sighed, reaching out with both hands to grip onto the bigger one in front of you. 

“New rings?” you smiled. The bile no longer burned the back of your throat, with ease it bubbled down and the taste of your previous meal left instantly. 

“Indeed. See this one?” His pinky moved lightly, it moved up and down meticulously.

You nodded and the jewelry around your neck sounded out. The man couldn’t help but look upon it, with a smile of his own. 

The golden chain you wore, decorated in the finest stones lay about your image, resting just above your collarbones. He remembered gifting it to you not long ago, just upon the third full moon of this month's harvest. 

Your touch brought him back to the present. To your sweating form.

“This one brings good fortune.”

“Good fortune?” 

“Mmh,” he agreed, once more setting his eyes on the show in front of him. 

Couldn’t show everyone how soft he could be with his betrothed. His reign would lose its footing; a weakness she brought, they would say to him.

“What would you need that for, dear husband, when you have so much already?”

He could see you from the corner of his eye. Saw the way you stroked at his fingers with a light- loving touch. 

Your hands were much softer than his, he had to resist letting out a pleased sigh at such a discovery. 

“There can always be more.” He spoke low, distracted by the onslaught of men that paraded around the ground floor. 

“...I suppose.” The nausea was replaced with a wave of comfort. His heavy hand sat atop your lap, with your smaller fingers dancing across the new set of rings upon the man's digits. 

“Husband?”

Geta hummed. With no response, it meant he was starting to get impatient, itchy with anger. 

“Can I hold your hand here, for a while?” 

The emperor didn't say anything for a concerning amount of time. The comfortability was wearing off with every scream and groan that left the pit. Swords clashed on and on. 

Not wanting to upset your husband further, you tried to back up, to take the words out of the air. 

“Im sorry, forgive me-” 

“I suppose.”

Geta’s eyes never strained from the fighting and yours never left his image. But even from the side, you could see a softness that wasn't there before. The way his hand relaxed against yours. Ever so rough upon your oiled and cared for palms. 

That was all that needed to be said. 

You watched on, caressing Geta’s hands every so often in unspoken affection. 

────────

“Hello?”

Your voice was tired as you picked up the phone, rubbing your sleep-heavy eyes at you glanced at your alarm clock.

1:47am.

“Give me the phone, dude. You’re gonna regret this in the morning.”

You heard the sound of mumbles and rustling on the other end of the line as you tried to make out what it was that you were listening to- who the hell was calling.

“Nonono. Shhh…shut up. I just wanna. Hey! No! Gimme….gimme that baaaack. I wanna talk’ta her. C’mon. Gimme.”

You heard the familiar sound of Eddie Munson’s voice on the other end of the phone. A voice you hadn’t heard in over a month- not since the breakup.

“Hey, are you there?”

“Gareth?” You ask, trying to make sense of all of this. It was far too late for you to be dealing with it.

“Hey, yeah, sorry. That was Eddie.” He sighs heavily “We told him not to call you. But you know Eddie. He kinda just does whatever he wants.”

“Is everything okay?” You ask, sitting up in bed.

“Yeah, he’s fine. He’s just drunk. And stupid.”

And then you hear it again.

“Hey! Don’t tell her I’m stupid! M’not stupid!”

“Here we fucking go.” Gareth grumbles “Yes, Eddie, you are stupid. You literally just drunk dialed your ex-girlfriend at two in the morning.”

“Not my ex-girlfriend anymore after I-“ His words get cut off as he hiccups loudly “Will you lemme talk’ta her? Please? Pretty please? C’monnnn!”

You could hear the drunken giggles in Eddie’s voice. It was always a dead giveaway that he was tipsy. He got goofy. Well, goofier.

“Eddie, no.” Gareth says sternly “You are not talking to her right now.”

“But I neeeeed to.” He whines “Just wanna talk’ta her for a second. Just, like, a teeny tiny second.”

“No.”

“Gaaaaareth!”

You bit the inside of your cheek as you struggled not to laugh. Fucking Eddie. It was far too late for this shit.

“Baby? Hey, baby!” He bellows in the background as Gareth groans.

“Eddie, she doesn’t wanna talk to you, man. Go drink some fucking water and sleep it off like I told you to.”

“Are you sure he’s okay?” You ask, growing worried at how exasperated Gareth sounded. Eddie must have been giving him a hard time all night.

“Yeah. Like I said, he’s just stupid.”

“How’d he end up calling me, anyway?” You ask “I-“

But your words were interrupted by Eddie yelling in the background.

“Baby! Hey! Baby, baby, baby! Listen! Gare, is she listening? Babe, are you listening?”

“No, Eddie. She is not listening.”

“Oh, fuck off!" Eddie replies “I know she can hear me. Baaaaabe! Tell Gareth you wanna talk’ta me. I’ve got somethin’ to tell you. Somethin’ important.”

“Jesus Christ,” you sigh “He’s really off it, isn’t he?”

“You have no fucking idea.”

“Baaaabe! Baby, baby, babes. Sweetheart. Honey. Hey!”

“Eddie, will you please shut the fuck up?” Gareth finally snaps.

“Gare?” You sigh “Just put him on the phone.”

“You sure?” Gareth asks “I don’t think-“

“It’s fine, Gare. I’ll just let him say what he needs to say.”

“Alright…” Gareth replies, his voice unsure. The next thing you knew, the phone was being hijacked by Eddie whose voice bellowed over the line.

“Baby?”

“Yes, Eddie?”

“Fuck, finally!” He exclaims “Never thought he’d get off the phone. He hogs the fucking line like he pays the bill or something.”

“Eddie, you’re calling from his house.” You point out.

“….Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Semantics and all that. How’ya doin’, baby?” He flirts “S’been awhile.”

“What do you want, Eddie?” You ask, cutting right to the chase. You didn’t have time for games.

“Ea-sy.” He sasses “Goddamn. A guy can’t call his girl to ask what’s goin’ on? Geez…”

“Eddie, I’m not your girl.” You remind him.

“Yeah, whatever, babe. Semantics.” He states “What good are they in the grand scheme of things, anyway?”

“Well, in this case, I think they’re pretty important.”

“I don’t concur but you are free to your own opinion, m’lady. My…beautiful…lady.” He laughs, causing you to roll your eyes.

“Eddie, you have five seconds to get to the point or I’m hanging up.”

“No! Don’t! Don’t hang up, please. Just talk’ta me. Miss your voice, angel. Miss you. So much.” He sighs longingly “That pretty, pretty voice of yours.”

“Eddie, this isn’t funny. I’m hanging up now.”

“Nooo! Do. Not. Hang. Up. I need- Baby, just listen….M’sorry. I know you’re mad. I was stupid. Soooo stupid but I miss you. Miss you so much. Can’t stop thinkin’ about you.” He rambles “You’re in my head.”

“Well, Munson, I hate to you break it to you but you need to get me out of your head.” You warn “You doing this right now isn’t good for the both of us.”

“Says who?” He challenges.

“Me.” You argue “Now, hang up the phone. Go take some Advil, drink some water, and go to bed before you make a fool for yourself. You’ll regret this in the morning.”

“No, baby. ‘M not gonna regret this. I regret letting you go. I was so stupid. So fucking stupid. Stupid, Eddie. I was a stupid, bad boyfriend.” He agonizes “Don’t wanna be stupid anymore. Wanna be with you, baby. I miss you.”

“Eddie. No.” You reply sternly “Stop.”

“Nooo.” He groans “I can’t. I love you, baby.”

“Eddie, you don’t love me. You’re drunk.”

“S’true.” He laughs “M’drunk but I also love you. Love you sooo much. Never stopped.”

“Jesus Christ…”

“Y’know what I love about you th’most?” He asks, a tiny hint of a giggle escaping his lips.

“What?” You sigh.

“You put up with m’shit.” He says “Y’do it better than anyone else. I was s’lucky. Lucky me.”

“Well, not anymore.” You sigh “Now Gareth puts up with your shit.”

“Yeah but s’not the same. I miss you.” He whines “D’you miss me?”

“Eddie…”

“D’you even think about me?” He pouts “You’re probably already seein’ someone else. Probably fucking someone else. I fuckin’ think about it and it kills me, baby.”

“Why?” You ask “We’re not together anymore, Eddie. We can both have sex with whoever we want. That’s how breaking up and being single works.”

“But I don’t wanna be single.” He complains “Shit sucks! Don’t wanna have sex with anyone else either. Jus’ you. Only you, baby. Couldn’t even get hard for anyone else if I fuckin’ tried. All I wan' is you.”

“Eddie..” Your heart pounds in your chest at his admission. Even after all this time, he still had the power to make you feel wrecked over his words. He was probably so drunk that he didn’t even realize it.

“C’mon, baby. We were so good together.” He pleads “Come back t'me.”

“That was before, Eddie.” You point out, trying to stay firm. You absolutely could not fold.

“Yeah but we can fix this. I can fix it, baby. Lemme fix it, sweetheart.” He pleads “I’ll do anything to get you back.”

“Eddie, you are so drunk right now.”

“Mmm.” He hums “And horny. Don’t forget horny.”

“Another reason why you need to hang up and go to bed.”

“But I don’t wanna.” He whines “Not when I’m getting somewhere.”

“Getting where, exactly?” You huff out a laugh.

“I dunno but you’re still talkin’ t’me so I must be doin’ somethin’ right.” He points out.

Cocky little shit.

“Goodnight, Eddie.”

“Nooo, wait!” He says “C’mon, baby. I miss you. You miss me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“C’mon sweetheart, I know ya do. Fuck, I miss you. God, I miss you. Haven’t gotten off in so long. My fucking balls are hurting, baby.”

“Eddie!”

“What? S’the truth!” He says “Using my hand isn’t the same. Doesn’t feel as good as you. God, I fucking miss you. You and that tight, wet-“

“Oooohkay!” You gasp “Stop! That’s enough!”

“Oh, c’mon, sweetheart. Don’t act all shy. You used to like it when I would talk to you like this.”

“That was before, Eddie. Now I don’t.”

“Maybe you just need a reminder then.” He suggests “Because I’ve never forgotten, sweetheart. Fuck, I remember everything. How good it was. How good you feel. How you taste. Mmm fuck!”

And, for some reason, you stay on the line. You close your eyes as you throw your head back into your pillow. Fuck, this sucks.

“Baby? You still there?”

“Yeah.” You sigh “I’m still here, Eddie.”

“Good!” He says “Good, good, good….because I’m horny, sweetheart….and lonely. Sooo fuckin’ lonely. I want you, babe. I need you.”

“Eddie, this isn’t-“

“Shhh! Stop it. Stop tryin' ‘ta fight it. It’s pissin’ me off.”

“You’re the one who’s pissed off?” You scoff “You called me. With your bullshit. At two in the morning, might I add.”

“Yeah but you love my bullshit, baby. You looooove it. You put up with it s’well ‘cause you know that I make it worth your while.” He chuckles deeply.

“And how exactly do you make it ‘worth my while’?”

“Mmm….Cause I dick ya down so fuckin’ good that you always forget why you’re mad.” He flirts “S’why you lemme get away with s’much, right, sweetheart?”

“Edward Munson, I swear to god I’m hanging up now.”

“No you’re not. You’re not gonna hang up. I know you. Know you soooo well. Know what makes you weak.” He hums “Know what’s makes you tick. If you wanted to hang up, you woulda done it already. No, you don’t wanna hang up. You wanna listen to me as I tell you allll the dirty fuckin’ things that I’ve been thinkin’ about, baby. It’s been weeks. So much time for me ‘ta think. You wanna know a secret?” He laughs, coming out deep and mischievous.

You couldn’t help but be curious. “What?”

“You’re gonna hate me but I, uh, I still use those pictures of you. You know which ones I’m talkin’ about? The dirty ones?”

“Eddie!” You exclaim “You were supposed to throw those out!”

“Oops.” He laughs “Silly me. Silly, silly me. Must’a slipped m’mind, baby.”

“Yeah. Sure.” You huff.

“You wan’ ‘em, back?” He offers “I mean, because if you do, you’d have to come over’ta my place and come get ‘em.”

“Whatever, Munson. Keep them. I don’t even care.”

“That’s not true.” He tsks “You don’t mean that. You do care. As a matter of fact, I think you care soooo much. I think you secretly get off from knowin’ that your ex still needs to look at you ‘ta cum….and, baby, there’s soooo much cum. So, so much now that you’re not here to help me empty my fuckin’ load in you.”

Before you can stop yourself, you let out a desperate whimper. It was so quiet- hardly even there but you knew that it wouldn’t have slipped past Eddie.

God fucking dammit.

“Oh…” Eddie chuckles, low and deep in your ear as you squeeze your eyes closed. Fuck. “Oh, you like that, don’t you? Fuck, I knew you would. Always looooved to see me suffer. Loved to hear me be fuckin’ needy for you. Well, baby, m’so…fuckin’…needy without you. Dunno whatta even do with myself. So lost without you, angel. You and that tight…wet…cunt of yours. Fuck. Miss my girl, baby. Miss you sooo much.”

"Eddie..."

"Tell me, sweetheart, do you miss me? Do you miss my cock? My big fucking cock stretching you open. Fuuuck, I bet you fucking do, baby. God, I miss you. My good girl. Used to be so good for me. Used to let me fuck you anytime I wanted it. Fuck, you were always so fucking horny for me. You still horny for me, baby? Hm? Tell me. Fucking tell me."

"Fuck...yes, Eddie. I...I'm still horny for you, okay? Is that what you wanted?"

"Mhm. Exactly what I wanted, baby, thank you." He hums appreciately.

"Fucking jackass..."

"Your jackass, baby. All yours. Never stopped being yours. Only wanna to be yours. Still want you to be mine. Want you back. Fuck, I need you back. Do I have to fucking beg, sweetheart? 'Cause I will. God, I need you back. Need you wrapped around me. That fucking pussy of yours....those lips. God, sweetheart, I'm so fucking gone for you and you don't even care."

"I do care, Eddie." You admit "I just-"

"You just want me to suffer. That's it, right? You wanna teach me a lesson. You wanna make sure that I know what life is like without you. Well, sweetheart, it fucking sucks, okay? So lets just fucking make up already so that I can fuck you stupid. Like you're mine again..."

"Never stopped being yours." You whimper, growing so wet at his words. His devotion.

"Yeah? Fuck, baby, I knew it. Knew you still loved me." He sighs longingly "Fuck, I need you right now, angel. Right fucking now. Are you home?"

"Yeah, but-"

"Don't go anywhere."

"Eddie, you can't fucking drive!" You exclaim "You're drunk. You're not thinking."

"No, baby. No, no, no. I'm thinking too much. About you. God, you're in my head. Need you so bad."

"Eddie, baby, you're drunk. How about you just sleep on it, okay? How-"

"Nope!" He interjects "Need my keys. Where are my fuckin' keys? Keys....keys, keys, keys....fucking keys! Gareth! What'd you do with my keys, you dickhead?"

"Eddie-"

"Fuck, fuck, fuck.....okay.....new plan. You, sweetheart, need to come to me. Yeah? How's that sound?"

"Eddie, maybe we should just wait it out. It's not-"

"Sweetheart, listen, I don't think you get me right now. I have been without you for over a month. I am literally dying here. I need your pussy. Desperately. I need relief. Sweet fucking relief. I need to fuck you. I need to fucking bend you over the nearest fucking surface and fuck all of the fucking cum that I have been fucking backed up with for weeks. All of it. Need'ta give it to you. Right fucking now. I need to fucking bury my dick in that tight....sweet...little pussy of yours. I don't care if it's the last thing I do. I don't care. I neeeeeed it."

"Fuck, Eddie..." You moan "You sound so hot when you say things like that...."

"Yeah? You think I'm hot when I say filthy shit like that, baby? 'Cause I'm about to be fucking gorgeous by the time I get over there. So, what's it gonna be? You gonna be a good girl and let me come fuck you? You gonna let me give you this hard fucking dick? Huh? Or are just going to play games?"

"Okay." You say.

"Okay?" He asks.

"Come over here and fuck me, Munson."

The line goes silent for a moment. So silent that you were worried that the call had dropped. Then you heard the most guttural, animalistic growl that you've ever heard come from him.

"Fuck, baby, Christ! Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! Don't fall asleep on me! I'll be there in fifteen minutes, sweetheart! I love you!"

The line immediately goes dead.

Well, you thought- staring at the phone in your hand before hanging it up.

So much for not folding.

────────

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You had been on the island long enough now that people had grown comfortable with you, even fond.

Erin had taken to your company quickly, Riley had found in you a gentle listener and even the older women of the parish seemed charmed by your kindness.

They called to you as you walked past, offered you pies, stories, advice you didn’t ask for.

And you received it all with that open, patient smile that made Paul’s chest ache in a way he could no longer hide from himself.

You had started working for him at the rectory, helping him keep everything neat and clean and cooking simple but delicious dishes that you often ate together in the evenings.

Too bad the taste of food gave him less and less satisfaction, compared to the blood of the Sacrament of the Angel...

Sometimes his thirst was so pressing—and the Angel was increasingly absent—that he was forced to isolate and drink his own blood, to give himself a modicum of peace.

But even then, he just couldn't give you up.

He couldn't give up your precious friendship, made of chats, laugh and cozy silences.

Just as he couldn't give up touching himself every night in his bed, imagining you distraught and sweating beside him.

You were chatting animatedly with a smiling Leeza Scarborough—recently and miraculously healed—and her mother when Sheriff Hassan approached you purposefully with a paper cup in his hand.

You turned and smiled at him, tucking a wild lock of hair behind your ear and accepting the drink with a small bow of your head.

Father Paul’s holy composure cracked immediately.

Hassan stood tall and handsome, his uniform perfect even in the lazy sunday air.

Hassan laughed at something you were saying, shaking his head, one hand brushing your back at the waist.

The contact was nothing—innocent, fleeting.

But to Paul it was a knife stuck straight in his heart .

Something twisted inside him, boiling and raw, crawling up his ribs to grip his throat.

He had known jealousy before, with Mildred and Sarah, but never like this.

Never like an iron hand closing around his stomach, never like this urge to stride across the lawn and wrench you away from another man’s touch.

But he forced himself to stand still.

Beverly was talking at his side about the numbers from the bake sale, but her voice had become a drone, meaningless, as his gaze locked on you and the sheriff like you were a fucking perfect couple picture.

Hassan leaned slightly closer your ear and you tipped your head back to laugh at something he said.

The sight was unbearable—your throat bared, your lips parted, joy lighting your features for a man who was not him.

Paul’s hand clenched behind his back until his nails bit into his palm, leaving nasty crescent moon marks.

She’s not yours. She’s not yours. She’s not yours.

He repeated it in rhythm with his heartbeat, but it did nothing to calm him down.

Because in the dark hours of the night, when the island was quiet and he sat alone with Scripture, you already were his.

You had been from the moment your eyes had met outside the shop two months ago.

And now you were enjoying yourself with Hassan.

He felt the hypocrisy coil inside him and he almost wanted to laugh about it: how many times he had comforted you with gentle words, told you he wanted only your happiness?

How many times had he blathered on about how precious your friendship was?

Friendship…

And yet here, confronted with the sight of you shining for someone else, he wanted to snuff it out.

He wanted to cage you away from every other man’s gaze, to keep that laughter for himself alone.

The rage stirred in him, a whisper from the Angel, another one from the human blood still burning in his veins.

His vision sharpened, ears straining to catch the pitch of your voice over the crowd.

He saw the delicate pulse at the base of your throat, the way your fingers curled around the cup Hassan had given you.

Lemonade, its flavor mingled with your honey-sweet scent.

His mouth went dry with a hunger that had nothing to do with blood—though blood would be the closest word for it.

God, how he wanted to unleash a carnage and possess you amidst all the blood of those who had tried to tear you away from him.

Then you suddenly turned your eyes towards the church and found him, frozen in the steps.

For a moment the world stilled.

You smiled—small, sweet, reserved only for him.

A gift.

It cut through the haze of jealousy like sunlight through storm clouds, and he felt his heart stagger in his chest.

Your smile said ‘I was looking for you, and I found you’…

But then Hassan said something else and you turned back, and he was left clutching at air.

Damnit!

“Father Hill?” Beverly’s voice pierced the red fog.

She looked at him sharply, suspiciously. “Are you unwell?”

He blinked, forcing his features into calm. “No, Beverly. Not at all. Just… watching over the flock.”

She nodded and seemed appeased by that, but Paul knew very well the truth.

He wasn’t watching over the flock.

He was watching you.

Always you.

Only you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After what felt like an eternity—an endless parade of polite smiles, meaningless chatter and the constant, unbearable sight of you with him—Paul finally saw you excuse yourself from Hassan’s side.

The Sheriff was called away by Wade for some trivial matter and you slipped free like fresh water between rocks.

Paul kept his posture steady, his hands clasped behind his back, but inside he was a mess of pounding pulse and frayed nerves.

He almost didn’t believe it when you walked straight toward him, weaving through the crowd with easy grace, a jar of strawberry jam cradled in your hands.

“Father!” You called, your face bright as you reached him.

He'd repeatedly urged you to simply call him by his first name, but in public you still preferred to use his title.

The problem was that every time your voice generated the word ‘father’ from your lips, his mind and body automatically responded in ways that weren't exactly appropriate.

Your smile was dazzling, so open and unguarded that it nearly undid all the walls he had so carefully built to resist.

You lifted the jar toward him like it was a prize.

“Look what I got! Riley’s mom made it. Tomorrow I’ll bake you a pie with it, you’ll see—it’ll be the best thing you’ve ever tasted.”

You were so pleased with yourself, so earnest, that for a moment he could only stare.

The sunlight caught your hair, the jar glittered red like a jewel, and your smile was aimed at him and him alone.

Something inside him cracked.

“That’s… nice,” he said flatly.

Your smile faltered just a fraction. “Nice?”

Paul shifted his weight, eyes darting briefly to where Hassan still lingered across the path. “Yes. Nice. Thank you.”

Your brows knitted, confusion replacing the glow in your face. “You don’t… sound like yourself. Is everything all right?”

“I’m fine.”

But you weren’t easy to fool.

One syllable.

Hard.

Final.

Of course you weren’t.

You were the most sensitive and empathetic person he had ever met in his two lives.

You tilted your head, searching his eyes the way you always did when you were trying to understand him, to peel back his layers with nothing but patience and gentleness.

“Paul… what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he bit out, sharper this time. “Truly. Nothing that concerns you.”

Your lips parted, wounded by the coldness in his voice.

“Of course it concerns me. You’re my friend. If something’s troubling you, I want to help.”

He clenched his jaw.

Every word you spoke was kindling to the fire raging inside him, a fire made of want and jealousy and fear.

He didn’t want your pity, didn’t want your platonic friendship in that moment.

He wanted you—not smiling at Hassan, not laughing at anyone else’s jokes, not offering pies made with another family’s jam.

He wanted all of you—heart, soul, mind, body—and the impossibility of it tore him raw.

“I don’t want your help,” he snapped, the words tumbling out like nails.

His voice was low but vicious and the moment he said them, he wished he could take them back.

You flinched as if he’d struck you. The jar shook in your hands, your eyes wide and stung, mouth trembling.

“Why are you—” Your voice broke.

You swallowed and tried again, softer, whispering. “Why are you being like this?”

Paul looked at you then, really looked for the first time since you had approached him, and saw the hurt pooling in your wet eyes, the way your lower lip was shaking—as though fighting back tears.

He hated himself for it, hated the monster he had let slip through his composure, but the damage was already done and jealousy was a difficult enemy to defeat.

“I have duties,” he muttered, retreating into the only shield he had left—his collar, his role, his lie. “Perhaps it would be better if you left me to them without bothering me.”

The silence between you rang louder than the seven trumpets of the Apocalypse.

You blinked quickly, trying to dam up the tears that were threatening to spill, then forced a smile so brittle it looked painful.

“Of course, Father. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Your voice had come out little more than a broken whisper, flickering like the flame of a lamp at the mercy of the wind.

Before he could answer—before he could even take a breath and realize what he had just said—you turned and walked away.

Fast.

Shoulders stiff, head bowed, the jar of jam clutched to your chest like a lifeline.

He watched as you pushed through the chatting crowd, past the tables loaded with food, past the fluttering bunting, until you were gone, heading toward the path that led to your cottage.

His heart shattered into a thousand bloody shards, his stomach dropped beneath his boots, his breathing was shallow and hurried.

And when Beverly spoke again at his side, her voice falsely syrupy with some new scheme about fundraising, he hardly heard her.

Because all he could see was your tear-shimmering eyes, and all he could hear was the echo of his own selfish cruelty.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You'd only known him a short time, it was true, but right from the start there was something about him—and between you—that gave you the distinct feeling of having known him forever.

Of all the people who'd hurt you in your life, Paul was the last one you'd expected.

Nothing but cautious, comforting and encouraging words had came out of his mouth—along with a few jokes he was terrible at telling.

His perfectly clean-shaven face had always been relaxed, serene and smiling when he looked at you.

His deep, warm eyes, full of attention and kindness.

You set the jar of strawberry jam on the counter with shaking hands.

It was such a small thing, but you had been excited—excited to tell him you’d bake something sweet just for him.

Today his words had cut you deep, sharp and cold, slicing through your joy like glass splintering.

And instead of warmth, you’d received ice.

There was no reason for it.

You looked around the little cozy space you had begun to call home with such an unexpected ease, but today the cottage felt too small for the way your chest heaved with sharp shallow sobs, too small for the confusion and hurt pressing like stones inside your ribs.

Why?

Why did the people you loved most always end up hurting you sooner or later?

You chose to change into something comfortable and curled up on the couch, hugging your knees to your chest.

The hours trickled past slowly and in total silence, broken only by the occasional hiccup when fresh tears welled up.

Your eyes swollen, your throat burned, your head ached, but your heart hurts most of all.

Because you knew now, without a doubt.

You couldn’t lie to yourself anymore, telling the story it was just a stupid crush.

You were in love with him—that was the reason why it hurt so much.

You scoffed, puffy face in your cold hands.

You'd never been in love before.

Not really, not like that, and of course your first choice had fallen on a rather particular subject.

You were in love with Paul Hill.

A man of God, a priest—catholic.

The realization was terrifying, ridiculous, and yet… inevitable.

You had tried to pretend it was just admiration, just gratitude, just friendship, but it wasn’t.

The way your stomach fluttered when he smiled at you, the way your thoughts gravitated toward him when you were alone—and almost never appropriately—the way being near him made the world feel brighter and softer all at once.

Not for you and that was why his cruelty had hurt so bad: it wasn’t just a friend pushing you away.

It was him.

By the time the sun had begun its slow descent, painting the windows with rich gold, you were exhausted, skin pale and blotchy, throat raw and dry.

You hadn't eaten, you hadn't drunk, you hadn't rested.

You sat still on the little couch, hands clutching a balled-up handkerchief.

Just cried—more or less intensely, depending on the moment, so you barely heard the shy knock at the door.

Too soft, too tentative.

You knew very well who it was and for a moment you thought about not answering.

Let him stand out there, let him feel the loneliness he’d left in you.

But then another knock came—louder this time, and you rose with a sigh, dragging your feet and cracking the door open just enough to see him.

Paul stood there with his head bowed, shoulders slumped, a small bundle of wildflowers clutched in his hands like an offering.

He looked nothing like the composed priest everyone else saw.

His eyes widened at the sight of your sad face and he looked… broken by it.

“May I—” his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “May I speak to you?”

You didn’t open the door further. You didn’t reach for the flowers. You only looked at him, your silence heavy.

Paul swallowed hard.

His Adam’s apple bobbed and his fingers tightened on the stems until you thought they might snap.

“I hurt you and I’m sorry,” he said finally, voice rough and low. “I—I was cruel. There’s no excuse for it.” He looked up then and the devastation in his eyes almost undid you. “You didn’t deserve it. You’ve never deserved anything but kindness.”

Your lips trembled but you said nothing, fresh tears got stuck between your lashes.

He exhaled, a sound close to a sob.

“I wanted it to stop. I wanted him to stop. To stop looking at you the way I do. To stop hearing your laughter the way I crave it.”

“I saw you today, laughing and talking with Hassan. You were so—” his mouth twisted as if even the memory stung. “So alive. So radiant. And instead of rejoicing in that light, I let something dark take root in me. Jealousy.”

He spat the word like poison.

The confession fell like a stone in a still lake.

Your eyes became large, your heartbeat drummed dully in your ears.

Jealous?!

Paul shook his head, pressing the flowers tighter in his palm.

“And what did I do with that sin? I punished you. I... lashed out. Because it was easier to wound you than to admit that I—” His voice faltered.

His hand came up to cover his mouth as though he’d said too much.

“What, Paul?” Your voice cracked too, your brain was in total chaos. “I thought we were friends.”

His expression flickered, pain tightening his jaw before he forced himself to meet your gaze.

The little cottage seemed to shrink around the two of you, the air heavy with everything unspoken.

“We are. You’re… you’re my closest friend on this island. Which is exactly why I—” He broke off again, shaking his head, struggling. “Sometimes I say things I don’t mean, things I regret instantly. I only know that the last person I want to hurt is you.”

His tearful eyes reflected the golden light of the sunset, piercing your soul and reaching a place inside you that was like a secret garden.

“I don't understand why—”

“I want you,” he whispered, interrupting you.

He looked terrified, exactly like you.

“I want you in ways I cannot want. In ways I have no right to.”

Your heart was pounding so hard in your ribcage it hurt.

His knuckles whitened in fists, his shoulders sagged and for the first time he looked like he might burst out crying right there, on your threshold.

But he wasn't finished yet.

The doors of his heart had now opened and there was no way to close them again.

“Every time you smile, it feels like grace and torment all at once. And today, when I thought of losing even a fraction of that to another man, I lost myself.”

You stared at the wildflowers in his trembling hands for a long moment.

His words clung to the air, sharp and aching, making your blood boil throughout your body.

And then—without thinking—you stepped aside.

Paul’s breath caught audibly when you opened the door wider.

For a moment he didn’t move, as though he feared it was a trick of his imagination.

But then—slowly, reverently—he crossed the threshold and you closed the door.

Finally he held out the flowers awkwardly until you reached for them, fingers brushing his.

The contact jolted you both.

“I am sorry,” he said again, hoarsely. “God forgive me, but more than Him… You. Please forgive me.”

New tears—big and hot, streamed down your face.

The mere sight of them broke his heart.

“If you cannot, I will understand. I’ll leave you in peace. But please—please know that it was never you. It was me drowning in my own weakness.”

You didn't know what to say, how to respond, if to answer or stay quiet.

Of all the things you'd imagined in that crying afternoon, a confession of that magnitude was definitely not among them.

You approached the old wooden table, grasping its edge and carefully placing the flowers on it, but when you turned back he was there—closer than he’d ever dared to be.

Surprise mixed in your stomach with disbelief—bright joy and fear that it was all just another dream—making you tremble all over and taking your breath away.

His face was a portrait of desperation and devotion, his lips parted like he wanted to beg forgiveness again and again but couldn’t find the right words.

The rawness in his eyes shattered something in you.

“Paul…” Your voice broke, a whimper of his name, full of longing and prayers.

He looked like he’d been hollowed out, stripped of all his priestly composure.

Just a man shaking, fragile and undone.

You moved first.

Maybe because your heart couldn’t bear to watch him tremble any longer, maybe because some instinct stronger than reason pulled you forward.

Your hands found his shoulders and intertwined behind his neck.

His arms wrapped around your waist like he would never let go, like letting go would mean dying.

He made a sound—a strangled groan—and then he was pulling you against him with such force it stole your breath for a second.

Your cheek pressed to his chest and you could hear it: his heartbeat, wild and uneven, pounding exactly like yours.

His breath was ragged against your hair, warm and mint scented.

He buried his nose in your temple, holding you as though to memorize the shape of you, the perfect fitting in his embrace, the heat of your skin.

His fingers flexed against your back—not groping, not pulling, just clinging—as if you were the last tether keeping him from falling apart.

“I can’t—” His voice cracked and your heart skipped a beat. “God help me… I can’t stop wanting you near me in every single moment of my life.”

You tightened your arms around him, pressing closer, your body fitting against his.

No kiss, no words, just the desperate press of two people aching with everything they couldn’t say and do.

The world outside seemed to fade—the soft whisper of wind against the window, the song of swallows that had made their nest just under the chipped tiles of the cottage—all of it shrinking until there was nothing but his arms around you and the fire lit low in his chest, searing into yours.

Paul drew back just enough to look at you, his hands cupping your jaw, his forehead resting against yours.

His eyes were dark, burning with torment and something even hungrier.

You could see the battle in him—duty against desire, vows against lust—and you knew this embrace was both his surrender and his restraint.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, not knowing if he begged you or commanded you. “Please… just stay.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And so you did.

The late May breeze rolled off the ocean, carrying salt and its restless whisper, brushing over your skin like a gentle caress.

The night was cool and soft all at once.

Crickets sang in the tall grass and the full moon poured silver across the sea until it glittered like glass broken into a thousand shards.

You stopped still at the cliff’s edge, eyes closing for a moment, drinking it in—the vastness, the loneliness, the complete peace of it all.

The gentle wind tugged at your hair, lifting the hem of your long crochet cardigan.

Paul’s footsteps slowed behind you as well.

He should have kept his distance, he knew it.

He repeated it inside his mind with every breath, and yet he found himself moving closer, drawn as if something beyond willpower commanded him.

Since he had met you, it seemed that this was happening more and more often: he, a servant of God, moved by desires that commanded him without obliging him—simply making him feel that giving in was the right thing to do.

He could see the shape of your body silhouetted against the moonlight, delicate and strong all at once, and it made something primal in him ache.

The memory of how he had spoken to you only a few hours earlier at the fair gnawed at his stomach.

He raised his hands, hesitated just a heartbeat, then set them down softly on your shoulders.

You jolted, but not away—if anything, you seemed to lean back into the touch, breath catching and heart running.

His palms were hot through the thin fabric.

“Are you still mad at me?”

He already knew the answer: you had hugged him, held him tight, looked at him like no one had ever looked at him before.

You had sat him on your couch, brought him a cup of lemon tea, prepared a light dinner for the both of you for the umpteenth time.

You had eaten mostly in silence, only a few words, but your eyes had said to him everything necessary.

And now you were there, together under the full moon, and you were letting yourself be touched.

“No...”

Slowly, as though surrendering to gravity, his arms slid down along your sides until they clasped around your waist.

He gently pulled you into him, chest against your back, the full weight of his body pressing close.

You gasped and then a soft sound spilled from tour lips—a moan, quick and helpless, betraying the pleasure of being held that way.

Paul’s jaw tightened.

The sound went through him like fire in his veins.

His breath thickened, warm and humid against your neck.

He felt you shift against him, felt the curve of your ass pressing into the hardness straining against his jeans.

He tried to will it away, to hold himself still, but the truth of his desire throbbed against you, impossible to hide.

You went rigid for a second, then melted, your hands finding the strength of his forearms.

“You should. You forgave me too quickly.”

A small laugh shook you, spreading out to him like gentle waves.

When your head tilted back just slightly, turning toward him, his vision blurred with longing.

Your cheek brushed his lips and suddenly your mouths hovered only inches apart.

His eyes searched yours—dark, bottomless, knowing—and you let yourself drown in them.

For an agonizing second, he thought he might break his vows and finally taste you.

The mere thought of kissing you, of intertwining his tongue with yours, of being able to touch you everywhere resonated in his soul not as a sin, but as the most natural thing possible.

Inevitable.

He touched your mouth with his fingertips, his gaze wandering over your face in search of any doubt or hesitation, but he found no trace of it.

Then suddenly the night itself seemed to lurch.

A sharp crack from the woods split the stillness, a rustle too heavy, too purposeful to be an animal.

You froze, every nerve in your body thrumming with warning.

The air shifted—thickened—your skin prickling with a dread you couldn’t name.

The distinct feeling of being watched made your scalp stand on end.

Paul’s eyes darted over his shoulder, past the line of trees a few meters away.

He saw it then.

The hunched figure, wings folded tight, pale face gleaming faintly in the dark, penetrating eyes.

Paul's stomach dropped while his heart jumped up in his throat.

The Angel was watching.

Waiting in the shadow.

Hunger radiating off It like a dangerous heat.

He gripped your waist so hard you gasped.

“We need to go,” he said, low and serious. “Now.”

“What—?”

“Don’t ask.”

His voice was rough, nearly inhuman.

He seized your hand and pulled you from the edge, practically dragging you along the path as the ocean crashed below.

You stumbled on the slippery path illuminated only by the moonlight, trying to keep his pace, fear rising in your chest even as you struggled to understand.

“Paul, wait—I can't walk like this!”

He turned, stopping so suddenly that you stumbled into him.

His expression was hard, serious, almost anguished, and for a moment you were afraid he was going to yell at you.

But then his face softened at your worried eyes.

“Your cottage—now. Please.”

You barely had time to nod before he had already taken your arms and lifted you up, carrying you against his chest to your little house.

By the time you reached the cottage your heart was pounding and your fists tightened on his black shirt.

At one point you'd felt someone—or maybe something, following you closely, but then Paul had hissed something in a language you didn't know and the shuffling noise had faded.

He shoved the door open with the keys you passed him with trembling fingers and he put you down only once you were locked inside.

Then he turned you to face him with strong hands on your arms.

His eyes were wild, his breath ragged, as if he’d just fought a battle.

“Listen to me.” His fingers pressed into your skin and maybe you would have been left with some marks. “From this night forward, you do not leave this house after sunset. Not unless I’m with you. Do you understand?”

That request was strange, absurd.

“Paul, you’re scaring me. What is—”

“Promise me!” His voice raised, then broke, then steadied, dark and desperate. “Just promise me, please. I know I have no right to ask you something like this, but please… do as I say. ”

Something in his face—anguish, devotion, something that felt dangerously close to love—struck you silent.

You nodded, barely audible. “Okay, I promise.”

He released a shaky breath, then let you go.

His hair fell in black waves over his frowning forehead.

“Thank you. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I don't want you to stay closed here, but if you need anything, please call me so I can accompany you. Don't worry about the time or what you have to do; I won't ask you anything. But if you need anything, please just call me.”

For a long moment, you watched him carefully—not to doubt or argue, but to try to understand what could have scared him so much that he had panicked.

"Okay, Paul. Don't worry, I'll do as you say.”

His eyes, kind again, betrayed his gratitude for you.

He nodded once, then slowly moved closer, cupping your face with one hand.

He looked at you all over, as if he wanted to imprint you indelibly in his memory, then he carefully placed a kiss on your forehead.

The contact was innocent, warm and caring, but it lit a languid flame in your lower abdomen that quickly became a fire at the memory of his erection pressed against you.

"Good. I'm going now. Lock yourself up and don't sleep with the windows wide open.”

Once he was outside you slid the lock into place under his gaze, wishing him goodnight in a whisper.

“Goodnight, little lamb,” he answered with a soft smile, then he turned back to the night.

Looking out the window and through the glass, you caught a last glimpse of him—rigid, scanning the moonlit shadows with a strange predator’s vigilance.

You always told yourself they were by chance: meeting him outside St. Patrick’s with groceries in your arms, crossing paths near the Rec Center just as he was locking up, pausing in conversation by the small graveyard as if the timing had simply aligned.

But chance had never felt this magnetic, this deliberate.

Every time his eyes caught yours and that sweet smile spread across his lips, something inside you shifted—hot, dangerous, absolutely forbidden.

He shouldn’t have looked at you the way he did and you shouldn’t have felt your pulse quicken at the sight of him in his black shirt and tight jeans, wind messing his hair, the gold light of sunset on his beautiful features.

But you did.

God help you, you did.

As much as you tried to keep your mind under control, your imagination ran wild and unabashed when it came to him.

You wondered if he had even the slightest bit of experience with women, if he'd ever kissed anyone, if he'd received the caresses and hugs you were sure he deserved.

And so the fantasies became more insistent, detailed, carnal.

Every evening, when you found yourself lying under the covers, two fingers would slide down your body on their own, imagining that they were the long and neat ones of Father Paul.

First they stopped at your breasts, caressing your nipples until they hardened, then they continued lower, under your pajamas and panties—and you would find yourself ready, warm and wet.

You had never experienced orgasms as intense, all-encompassing and enthralling as when you reached them thinking of him.

A month had passed quickly and you could already say you loved Crockett Island, with all its pros and cons.

But the island itself had its moods and soon it showed you one of its darker ones.

The weather turned, skies bruising to purple and steel as the ocean roared louder with each passing hour.

The older fishmen muttered about a violent storm rolling in, their voices low with the certainty of those who had lived through dozens before—while starting to prepare everything for its arrival.

It was Father Paul who stopped you outside the little grocery store—his dark brows furrowed, his voice gentle but anxious.

“You shouldn’t stay alone in the cottage tonight,” he said, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that was both unsettled and soothed.

“The wind comes hard off the sea when it storms like this. We’re gathering at the Rec Center—it’s safer there. Please, come with us.”

You hesitated, breath catching in the raw concern in his tone.

The idea of sheltering with him—beside him—through a night of rattling windows and crashing waves tempted you more than you wanted to admit.

But the same part of you that was so recklessly drawn to him was also afraid of what being so near would do to your restraint.

Plus, you'd learned your lesson and didn't want to rely on anyone—because if that anyone suddenly moved, you'd fall back into the abyss.

And you just didn't want it.

You swallowed, offered him a large, polite smile and shook your head.

“Thank you, Father. Truly. But… I’ll be fine. I'm not afraid of thunderstorms.”

For a moment, disappointment flickered across his face, so quickly you might have imagined it.

Then he nodded, his hands folding behind his back—the perfect picture of composure.

“As you wish,” he said softly, but not content.

The weight in his gaze lingered, intense and heavy, as if he didn’t quite believe you’d be fine at all.

Later the sky was already leaden when you stepped outside to bring in the last of your laundry and saw Riley, his dad Ed and Father Paul, walking up the path toward your cottage with tools in hands.

“Father Paul figured you could use a hand to make the cottage safer, since you don't want to go to the Rec Center or Erin's,” Riley said, hefting a hammer with a small, easy smile.

Ed tipped his cap, already carrying a stack of rough planks under one arm.

But your eyes snagged instantly on Father Paul.

He looked almost out of place—a little, shy smile on his lips, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a toolbox balanced casually in one hand.

You should have insisted they needn’t trouble themselves.

You should have offered to help.

Instead you stood half-hidden by the doorway, your heart tripping over itself as you watched him work.

Paul’s movements were steady, accurate—driving nails into the frame with practiced strength or holding planks firm as Riley hammered it into place.

When he paused to wipe the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm, the fading sunlight caught on his cheekbones, gilding his eye in molten gold.

Every shift of his shoulders, every flex of muscle beneath the thin black fabric made your breath snag.

You found yourself wondering—ridiculous, forbidden thoughts—how those same hands would feel pressed to your waist, how his body would cage yours if he pinned you against the very boards he was nailing shut.

You definitely had some great material to enjoy that stormy night.

Heat flushed your cheeks, shame and arousal mixing into something you couldn’t name.

By the time the windows and door had been secured, the sky was almost dark—air heavy with salt and strengthening wind.

Riley and Ed said their goodbyes quickly, promising to check again after the storm, but Paul lingered.

He glanced toward the cliff, then back at you, his eyes shadowed and unsteady.

“You’ll be ok now,” he murmured. But the way he said it, as if reassuring himself more than you, made something twist inside you. “Then... goodnight. Stay safe.”

And then he was gone, disappearing down the path with his cardigan drawn tight against his body and no chance to thank him.

Just before midnight the storm arrived in full force.

Rain lashed angrily at the cottage, the boards creaked under the force of the gale and the sound of the ocean was a relentless roar.

You had to admit—at least to yourself—that this storm was something you had never seen before and that perhaps you had underestimated it.

Wrapped in a blanket on the couch with your knees pulled to your chest, you were trying to lose yourself in the page of your novel—but your fingers stilled again and again.

Thoughts dragged you back to the sight of him—sleeves rolled up, lips parted, sweat shining on his temple, eyes focused…

Maybe it was finally time to take a relaxing break—but suddenly the light went out.

"Oh—perfect timing, really..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few miles away Father Paul sat in the Rec Center with some of his parishioners.

The storm rattled the roof, chats and prayers long faded into silence—but his heart was a drum beating a fast and intense rhythm in his chest.

He couldn’t sleep.

Couldn't pray, couldn't read.

He couldn’t even think.

Your face filled the darkness behind his eyes every time he tried to close them and your voice hunted every restless thought.

The storm outside was nothing compared to the invisible one that was shaking him from inside.

You—alone in that fragile cottage, your body warm and soft against the cold, your breath quickening at each crack of thunder, brows furrowed at the sound of the violent wind.

The thought tore at him.

He wanted to shield you, to soothe you, to claim you...

By the time the clock tolled midnight, he could no longer stand it.

Careful not to wake anyone, he closed his cardigan up to his chin, looking for an umbrella that wasn't there and opened the Rec Center's door just a few centimeters—

“Father—where are you going exactly?”

Beverly Keane's voice reached him in a whisper that made him jump.

The woman was sitting in her sleeping bag with an inquisitive look that would have made even the saintliest of Saints tremble.

“I—uhm... well—I have to check on someone.”

Her eyebrows lifted incredulously. “Now? Someone who?”

God—why she had to wake up?

Why not someone else?

Maybe it was a sign—“Don't worry, I'll be right back. Go back to sleep.”

And before she could press him with another question he stepped outside into the storm.

Wind and rain mercilessly slapped his face, whipping at his hair, lightning splitting the sky above, thunder echoing like some terrible, holy warning.

But he didn't care, nothing could stop him, each step was carrying him close to you.

The walk from the Rec Center to your cottage should have been short, a matter of minutes even in the storm, yet for him every step was agony, a battlefield where concern and need warred inside his chest.

Cold was penetrating his bones, making his teeth chatter, but the only image he carried was you—alone and fragile as the storm howled around you.

He imagined you shivering beneath the blankets, your thighs drawn close, your lips parted in anxiety, your eyes shimmering like two everlasting stars in the penumbra.

“Stupid! Damn it!” He hissed, angry with himself.

He should never have left you alone, he shouldn't have given you a choice.

He should have dragged you not to the Rec Center, but straight to the rectory and locked you in with him—and to hell if you didn't agree.

She should not be by herself. Not tonight. Not ever.

He repeated it like a prayer, though deep down he knew the truth: it wasn’t only concern that dragged him through the gale.

It was the gnawing ache in his blood, the sinful craving that had made peace impossible since your very first meeting, that made the storm outside feel like a mirror of the one in his soul.

He was almost there, and then a particular near lightning split the sky, illuminating the cottage ahead.

For a brief, terrible moment, Paul froze in his tracks.

The Angel stood there—boney and imposing, on the cottage roof.

Vast leather wings spread open against the dark, head bowed as though in vigil for a tribute, its pale eyes glowing like lanterns through the sheets of rain.

Watching.

Sniffing.

Waiting.

He staggered back, nearly slipping in the mud—his heart stuttered, his breath caught sharp in his chest.

Then he ran toward the little house.

“Not her!” He yelled, though the words were drowned by the rain. “Not like that. Not now!”

The Angel smiled sinisterly at him, his teeth filthy and his fangs pointed.

When the next flash came, the figure was gone.

Paul was breathless.

A faint light filtered through the door frame and he hurried.

He pounded against the damp wood, desperate, the sound swallowed instantly by the wind.

He pounded again, louder—his knuckles scraped raw.

Finally the door creaked open a few centimetres and there you stood, wrapped in a big, wool sweater, candlelight painting you in gold from behind.

“Paul?!” Your voice was startled and soft, your eyes widening as you took him in—soaked, trembling, hair plastered to his forehead. “Father! Come in!”

The scent of you hit him instantly—clean soap, lavender and honey, the faint sweetness of your skin.

Relief crashed through him so hard he nearly collapsed against the threshold.

You reached instinctively to tug him inside, your hands warm through the wet fabric on his chest.

The door shut behind you both, cutting off the roar of the storm until only the crackle of the fire and your quickened breathing remained.

You fussed at his dripping hair, the wet cardigan clinging indecently to his body—revealing the delicate lines of muscle beneath.

He knew what you were watching—your gaze lingered too long on his chest, then the faint outline of his thighs beneath the sodden jeans.

Heat surged through him, answering the flicker of wonder in your eyes.

You were beautiful, ethereal in the dim light, the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

And angry.

“Why are you here?” You said, not accusing, only bewildered. “You're completely soaked! The power's out, I have nothing you can change in—”

Your cute concern lit a languid flame in his lower belly and he smiled like a complete idiot.

He should have said he came to check on you, to be sure you were safe, but his mind betrayed him, filling with images of you pressed against the wall—his wet clothes tangling with your warm ones, your breath hitching as his mouth claimed yours, your fingers in his dripping hair, an heavenly moan escaping your throat when he sucked your hard nipples while rolling his hips onto you.

You crossed your arms just under your breast and shifted on your feet, sweater slipping from your shoulder and baring the curve of your collarbone.

He nearly groaned aloud.

“I—” He swallowed hard, forcing himself to step back, to tear his gaze from your skin.

He needed an excuse, anything to anchor himself before he drowned in you completely.

“I came because—” His voice cracked. He steadied it, softer this time, a weak, desperate fabrication. “I wanted to ask… if you’d consider helping me at the rectory. As a housekeeper, I mean. The place is… far too much for me alone.”

The lie hung in the air between you, absurd and clumsy.

Yet it was the only shield he had left.

“An—ah… and maybe you could cook me something nice—every now and then, I mean. I'm not a great cook. I would be very grateful to you.”

You tilted your head in shock, mouth open, eyes still searching his face.

He panicked.

“If you are still searching for a job, of course!”

You stayed completely still, lips pressing into the most delicious, perplexed line.

“And this conversation couldn't wait until tomorrow morning?!”

Oh, you were so very angry…

He decided to choose silence, running a hand through his soaked hair.

Looking down at his feet, he noticed that he had made a small puddle around him.

“I’m sorry. I—”

You didn't let him finish.

“Come on, Father. I'll show you where the bathroom is, so you can take off your clothes and put them in front of the fireplace.”

His eyes went bigger, mouth arid. “I'll find you something to wear while they dry, but I can't guarantee it will be your style.”

The sweet danger of the situation bit into his stomach, his heart felt like it was going to explode in fireworks in his chest.

“I... can—I can go back to the Rec Center. I don't want to disturb you with my presence.”

He knew you were feeling it too—the fire under the surface, the push of something forbidden and sacred at the same time.

“Nonsense, now you're stuck with me. I won't let you out of here until the Great Flood stops coming down.”

His cock jumped at the mere thought.

What a sacrifice that would have been...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The storm rattled restlessly at the planks at the windows, but inside your cottage there was warmth—flickering firelight, candles, the faint herbal scent of tea steeping and the almost ridiculous sight of Father Paul in your clothes.

The sweatshirt you had dug out for him was at least soft, but it barely covered his wrists, riding up whenever he moved.

The shorts were even worse, hanging on him in a way that was indecent in the dim light, bare legs stretched out across the rug with a blanket on.

He’d protested at first, embarrassed—but the only other option was to stay naked and so now he sat opposite you, a steaming mug cupped carefully in his hands, a faint flush on his cheeks that wasn’t only from the heat.

You pulled your own blanket tighter around your shoulders, trying not to stare too long.

But it was impossible not to notice how boyish he looked dressed like this—boyish, and yet… not.

The lean strength of his body was still evident beneath the borrowed clothes and when he shifted closer to set down his mug, the shadows emphasized the sharp line of his jaw and the perfect cupid's bow of his lip.

He smiled at you then, a small, careful smile that reached his sweet eyes.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he said softly, nodding toward the fire, the mugs, the borrowed clothes. “But I’m grateful. Truly.”

“It was nothing,” you murmured, looking down into your tea. “I couldn’t let you freeze for coming to offer to work for you.”

For a moment there was silence, filled only by the crackle of the fire and the steady drum of rain outside.

But you could feel it—like a current in the room, humming low beneath your skin.

His gaze on you lingered, warm but searching, and it made your heart beat just a little faster.

“How old are you, Father?”

Paul looked a little surprised by the question, his hands rubbed slowly on his knees.

“I am... forty-three… Why?”

Your eyebrows rose of their own accord.

God, this is so hot—

“We have quite a difference in age, don't we?”

Your tone was light but he remained serious, almost worried.

“Is this a problem?”

Oh Father, the only problem here is my daddy kink and—stoppp!

“Not at all. It was just an observation.”

He continued to observe you carefully, but he seemed relieved. Silence spread through the small, warm, fragrant room and the line between right and wrong had never seemed so thin to you.

When he spoke his voice was gentler than you’d ever heard it, stripped of any ceremony.

“You know… you don’t have to hold everything so tightly. Not with me. I’m not speaking as a priest right now.”

You just looked at him and he tilted his head, studying you with those impossibly earnest eyes, as if willing you to believe him.

“Just as a friend. Someone who… cares what’s on your mind.”

The words settled over you with surprising weight.

For all his kindness since you’d arrived on the island, this was different.

This was an invitation for a friendship.

You drew in a breath, your fingers tightening around your mug.

The warmth of the fire pressed against your skin, the storm outside kept the world at bay, and his eyes—steady, patient, deep—made it impossible to keep retreating.

In the end you needed to talk to someone about it, you'd never done that before.

And he seemed like the perfect person.

“I was born and raised in this town in Indiana, not too small and not too big. My family comes from humble origins, both my parents worked. I have an older brother, he has always been the jewel in the crown for the whole family…”

It looked a lot like a grocery list, tears were already welling up behind your lashes.

“We had a very simple life made up of few things and often second-hand, but I was happy and fine with that, even though I've always felt second in everything, not just in birth order. We were—I mean, they still are, quite religious too.”

You risked a quick glance in Paul's direction and he just nodded slightly, encouraging you to continue with eyes full of affection.

“That was until I went to high school. My life there became hell. I was a shy, reserved, and absolutely unpopular girl. I had no interest in what appealed to my peers and tended to isolate myself in my own little fantasy world. I didn't bother anyone, but I was different and being different always attracts the wrong attention. They started bullying me; at first it was just small things, then it got bigger and bigger.”

The first tear fell, streaking down your cheek.

“I’m sorry…” His voice was low, soft, a whisper in the storm.

You took a broken breath.

“When I told my parents, they didn't believe me. When I insisted, they belittled it. And in the meantime, they constantly made comparisons with my brother—who had never had those problems, who was always well-liked wherever he went. I was feeling very bad and things were getting worse. I asked to see a psychologist and everyone laughed at me, making fun of me.”

The tears were now flowing steadily and your eyes were starting to swell.

Paul silently reached out, taking your hand and intertwining his long fingers with yours.

You returned the gesture with a gentle squeeze, heart skipping a beat.

“I started to isolate myself more and more, to no longer trust anyone, to no longer talk to anyone. And then the panic attacks, social anxiety, and compulsions began. I bit my nails until they bled, I pulled out my hair until there was no more left in certain zones. And no one did anything to answer my cries for help.”

You took a deep breath, struggling to maintain some shred of control.

“Shortly after graduation, I met a boy. At first, I wasn't even interested, but over time I grew fond of him. He was like me, misunderstood, an outcast. A few months later we ran away together, far from everything and everyone. My parents obviously were ashamed of me and told me to never come home again.”

A short break, just the sound of rain and wind in the dark.

“At first, things had gone pretty well; we both worked and managed to pay rent and the bare necessities of life. It wasn't great, but I felt free and finally a little better.”

Paul had practically become a marble statue, all compassionate eyes and reassuring presence.

“Then slowly things got worse. He wanted to pursue his dream of becoming a successful musician and stopped working. In the meantime, he started taking drugs. At first, not heavy drugs, but then he couldn't get enough. He began spending entire days doing nothing and going out at night, returning at dawn.”

Your eyes were looking at the flames in the fireplace, but they clearly saw what you were saying.

Only Paul's large, warm hand kept you anchored to reality.

“I started working two jobs, gritting my teeth even more, but something inside me was changing. At first I paid his debts, I supported him, but then I decided I'd had enough. I worked even harder, I put in overtime whenever I had the opportunity, I sold those two or three golden things I had. In the meantime, I stopped paying for him and when the perfect moment presented itself, I ran away.”

A thumb began to stroke the back of your hand in small circles. "You were so strong, so brave…”

“You didn't do anything wrong, you have nothing to reproach yourself for. You had to save your own life.” He whispered.

The smile that played on your lips was tense, bitter. "I'm not proud of what I did. I abandoned him, but for the first time in my life I had chosen myself; I was my priority.”

He squeezed your hand.

Finally you looked him in the eye again, a faint smile on your lips.

“I came back home then, but obviously my parents kept their word. Luckily, my maternal grandmother always loved me and took me in. I found a new job, saved up, went to therapy... and now I'm here. Finally myself, chasing my dream since I was a child.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, but that was fine with you. Paul was still holding your hand, your fingers intertwined, his thumb still caressing your skin like a feather.

He was looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite decipher: he seemed sorry, almost worried, but also admired, proud... of you.

The tears had stopped streaming down your face and neck, and your heart felt lighter, as if confiding—or perhaps confessing—in him had lifted much of the heaviness that was making it sink.

“I'm so sorry for what you had to go through—to endure, alone. You didn't deserve it.”

His eyes burned with something that scared and thrilled you at the same time.

You had been sincere in telling him your life and you had to be sincere to the very end.

He deserved it.

Your complete trust.

You can felt it.

“Throughout all this, I never stopped praying, asking God why he was making me suffer like that. I wanted to know what I had done wrong, why he was punishing me... but he never answered. Just like everyone else. I guess he had something better to do.”

Your bitter tone made him shiver, but you can tell it was out of sadness.

He didn't even try to answer you like all the other priests had done, quoting the Bible or the Gospel or with some ready-made phrase signed directly by the Vatican.

“That's why I'm angry with him. He abandoned me and now it's too late to make peace.”

Paul had listened with attention, letting your words fill the small space between you.

His fingers had remained laced with yours all the time, steady and warm, anchoring you as if the act of holding your hand were the most natural thing in the world.

When he finally spoke was not in the stern cadence of a sermon, but in the gentle, low timbre of a man choosing his words carefully only for you.

“You know,” he began, his eyes searching yours, “people talk as if everything in life has a deadline. As if there’s some clock ticking above our heads, counting down all the choices we didn’t make.” His mouth curved into a soft, almost wistful smile. “But the truth is… it’s never too late. Not for love, not for hope, not for whatever it is you want most.”

You blinked, throat tight, his voice unraveling knots inside you that had been there for years.

“As for God…” He hesitated, as if weighing whether he had the right to say it. “If you’re angry with Him, then maybe you’re meant to be. Your anger is honest. You have every right to feel it. And if the moment to make peace with Him comes, it will. If it doesn’t—” His gaze softened, steady and unwavering “—that’s okay too. He’s not going anywhere. And neither am I.”

The silence after those words was heavy, but not suffocating.

It wrapped around you like a blanket, filling your chest with something you couldn’t name.

Without thinking, he reached up with his free hand and brushed a strand of hair from your face, his fingertips lingering against your cheek.

The touch was feather-light, reverent, but it sent a shiver of pleasure down your spine all the same.

Your lips parted slightly, breath catching at the contact.

His eyes flicked to your mouth only for the briefest heartbeat before returning to your eyes.

“You’re not alone,” he whispered, his palm cupping your cheek now, firm and steady, as if to print the words in your skin. “You will never be again if you let me be by your side. I promise.”

And in that moment, with all you being, you believed him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He held you tightly by the waist, his teeth clenched, his brows furrowed as he thrust his hips upward, meeting your wild up-and-down motion on his cock.

Paul was sitting beneath you on the couch, his jeans pulled down to his ankles and his shirt unbuttoned.

Your compliments encouraged him to continue stronger and stronger, an animal in heat that finally possesses its favorite prey.

You were completely naked on top of him, your breasts bouncing, your hands on his chest, your head tilted slightly back.

"God, Father. I've never had anyone fuck me as well as you.”

“How many dicks has this pussy taken? And here I thought you were a good girl...”

You moaned at his filthy words and he buried his face between your tits, licking and biting them.

"It doesn't matter. You're mine now, and no one else can ever cum inside you from now on. Do you understand?”

Pulling your hair, he made you arch against him, his hands now setting the pace, making you sway in time with him.

"Answer me, angel.”

He let go of you and you immediately threw yourself against his chest, burying your face in the crook of his neck, your fingers entwined tightly in his hair.

"Yes, Father. I'm yours, only yours. I want only you inside me until the day I die.”

He seemed satisfied, because he helped you go faster on him, adding two fingers to your clit and letting you use them as you wished.

"Now you're my good girl, my little one. Now come and make me come, I want to fill you up.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your favorite blanket was carefully pulled up to your chin, leaving not a single inch of your body exposed.

You were lying on the sofa in a hot sweat, your heart gone mad in your ears and the ache between your thighs dissolving in languid waves.

In the fireplace the flames were low but still alive, fueled by carefully arranged small pieces of wood.

The dawn light barely filtered through the boards still nailed to the windows, dim and pale.

For a moment the whole world had seemed at peace, in perfect balance, calm and clear like the ocean in the early morning hours.

Then reality returned forcefully, tearing you from the last, sweet effects of your sleep.

The storm.

Paul, in the middle of the night.

“Oh, for God's sake!”

Father Paul, under you in this very couch—you were dreaming, but your cunt responded immediately to the title.

Sitting up, you looked for him in the small living room, but he wasn't there.

Not even his clothes drying.

You had practically told him your entire life, you had vomited all your sadness and anger at him... and he had welcomed you.

He ran away. No, impossible, he isn't like that.

No judgment, no empty suggestions.

Just listening, understanding, and closeness.

He had held your hand.

He had caressed your face.

He had looked at your lips as if he wanted to—what a nonsense.

He was a priest, a man devoted to celibacy who was offering you his most total and pure friendship.

You stood up on shaking tiptoes to check if maybe he had gone to the bathroom, but nothing.

The house was empty.

And then you saw it, a note hanging on the front door:

On the kitchen sink, the two mugs from which you'd drunk your herbal tea were upside down, washed and dried.

The blanket you'd given him to warm himself was carefully folded on the coffee table.

The storm is over, I'm going back to the Rec Center.

Good morning.

You fell asleep in the early morning hours.

The power is back and I checked the house the best I could, everything seems fine.

I'll ask Riley to come by anyway and take off the boards, hope you don't mind.

I'm bringing your clothes with me, I'll return them washed.

Thanks for the tea and everything. Paul

A smile painted your mouth, spontaneous and bright, and you decided to have breakfast and get ready for a little reconnaissance tour of the damage caused by the storm, hoping there wasn't much.

When you stepped outside a little later, the morning air smelled of salt and wet earth and the wind had cracked the thinner branches, scattering them along the path.

The gravel crunched under your steps, the sky still veiled by dark clouds, but with every breath the crisp freedom of your new beginning filled your lungs like a gift.

The green grass all around was soaked and bent as if a huge creature had slept on it, but your little cottage had held up well.

You pulled your wool scarf tighter around your neck and decided to head down toward the shore, curious to see what the night had left behind.

You were grateful, even though you didn't know exactly why.

But when you reached the beach, the feeling shifted at once.

A little crowd had already gathered further ahead, silhouettes wrapped in raincoats drawn into a half-circle.

You recognized Riley, standing beside his father and Sheriff Hassan, speaking tensely with a couple of fishermen.

And there, a little apart from the rest—talking with the island's doctor, Sarah Gunning, was Father Paul.

He seemed completely absorbed in what the woman was telling him, his expression serious and frowning.

A nagging pang of jealousy tightened your chest.

Your pace slowed, an involuntary shiver prickling the back of your neck.

It didn’t take you long to see what kept them all frozen, whispering.

Their glassy eyes caught the pale morning light, reflecting it back in a grotesque parody of life while seagulls circled above, their cries shrill against the muted surf.

Scattered across the damp sand lay dozens upon dozens of cats.

Small bodies, matted, stiffened by salt and death.

Your heart dropped when Paul’s eyes lifted and found yours.

A bitter stench rose in your throat, forcing you to cover your mouth.

It wasn’t the first dead animal you had seen in your life—and you didn't even have a delicate stomach—but something about this was profoundly wrong: the number, the simultaneity, the mute violence of it.

For a moment it felt like there were only the two of you, even with the whole village standing there before that macabre spectacle.

His gaze was taut, heavy with concern… and yet, beneath the shadow of worry, you thought you caught a different glimmer.

Something else.

Not fear.

Not grief.

There was a certain thrill in being young again in this modern age—so different from the one in which he had first born and lived: less rigid, more open, full of wonders and possibilities.

He could never thank God enough for having gifted him the miracle of meeting His Angel in the desert.

Some time after noon he stopped in front of the only grocery store on the island—small, wooden walls peeling, the single window clouded with condensation—to say hello to the recently-arrived sheriff and grab something to eat.

Its dual life as the presence of the police office gave the building a sense of importance that was almost laughable: a place to buy canned soup and aspirin and also a place to deliver justice in the back. 

Life on Crockett had always been like that: a little lonely, but full of oddities.

Sheriff Hassan was sitting on the steps outside drinking his afternoon coffee, and shook his hand with a kind smile, immediately making small talk about the weather.

He found him an interesting man—deeply devoted to his work and to his only son—but unfortunately torn by the pain of having lost his wife so young.

He was responding to something insignificant when he saw you for the first time.

You had just walked outside the shop door, your wool coat pulled tight against your body, your hair dancing in the wind. 

Young—oh so young compared to him. 

Beautiful in your pure simplicity, something unstudied and sweet in your makeupless face.

No armor, just gentle and bright presence.

And it was that bareness that struck him first, piercing through him more sharply than the cold air.

For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

The Sheriff was still talking, but he was no longer listening.

Then you lifted your chin and your eyes caught his. 

And there—just like that—something inside him broke. 

Or began, he didn't know.

He felt it in his chest like the first crack of thunder before a storm: the instant recognition of souls, the impossible certainty—the raw, unholy pull toward you. 

His faith told him it was a test. 

His heart told him it was revelation.

“Good morning... Father,” you whispered with a shy smile, as though testing how the title tasted between your lips.

He dipped his head in a nod, forcing his mouth into the familiar priest’s smile, gentle and controlled. 

“Good morning. Cold today, isn’t it?”

What the fuck, Jo—Paul!

A small laugh escaped you and he was undone by it. 

That sound nestled under his ribs and settled there, warm and dangerous. 

“Yes, it feels like winter doesn’t want to let go,” you said, watching around. “But the flowers look ready to burst open any second. It is beautiful here.”

He should have answered with something pastoral, something safe—a platitude about God’s seasons or patience. 

But instead, he only intentionally watched your lips form the words, and a faint pink flush emerging in your cheeks. 

He wondered if you always blushed so easily, or if it was only under his gaze.

God please, let it be so.

“Yes it is. I don’t think we’ve ever met. I’m Paul Hill.” His voice, warm and even, betrayed nothing of the riot behind his sternum.

You shifted the paper bags in your arms, holding them with one forearm against your chest and extended a tiny hand, telling him your name. 

Everyday things that shouldn’t have made you look so delicate, so touchable—perfect—yet he found himself drowning in them while grabbing your cold fingers.

“I’ve only just come here,” you explained. “I’m renting the little cottage by the cliff. Thought it might help me… find some quiet. And maybe some answers.”

His brow arched slightly. “Answers?”

You gave a little smile, eyes darting away, then back to him.

“Inspiration, actually. I'm a writer—or better, I'd like to become one. I'm here to write my first novel. I needed some peace, some silence. Loneliness.”

He tilted his head, studying you. 

He smoothed his expression, pastoral calm settling like a mask over his features.

It was a harmless declaration on the surface, yet something in the way your gaze flicked aside, the careful weight you placed on the word solitude—it pricked him.

Like you weren’t only searching for anonymity, but hiding inside it. Fleeing.

Inside, though, unease curled and agitated. 

What is she running from? 

What—who dared to wound her so deeply she had to bury herself on this forgotten shore?

Still, he would not ask. Not yet. 

To press too hard might send you retreating back into yourself, and the thought of you withdrawing from him—even after this brief encounter—was absolutely unbearable.

So instead, he let his voice soften, a velvet thread weaving between you.

“Then may this island give you the peace you seek. And if ever that loneliness feels heavier than it should… I hope you’ll know you don’t have to bear it alone.”

You looked embarrassed.

“Thanks, but do not worry, Father. I’m not going to bother you. The truth is… I’m angry at God. And I don’t know how to stop being angry. So I’m sorry, but don’t expect to see me in your pews.”

Your words were bitter but polite and pierced him right in the heart—more keenly than you could ever know. 

Angry at God… and yet you shone like one of His greatest creations.

Again, he should have offered scripture, or gentle correction. Instead, his throat tightened around the urge to say your name like a plea.

“I wouldn’t force you,” he said, lowering his voice as though your anger were something intimate meant only for him. “But… my church, my ear, my time—they’re yours, if you ever need them. No judgment, just open arms.”

The words were safe, measured, but beneath them throbbed something more dangerous. 

You gave a small nod, almost a bow, as though acknowledging a pact between you.

Don’t hide from me.

Let me be the one who carries the weight, who shelters you.

Let me be the place where you rest.

“Thank you. That’s… very kind. And appreciate.”

Your eyes softened.

He imagined absolution not spoken in the confessional, but wrung from your body above his.

He saw the faint tremor in your lashes and with it an ache rose inside him, sharp as hunger—because he couldn't stop himself from imagining you leaning closer to him, whispering your sins and troubles against his neck. 

And even as he looked like a  righteous priest, his mind betrayed him effortlessly—picturing you not in some lonely room with a laptop in front of you—but in his cold bed, your novel forgotten on the floor as he wrote his devotion into your skin with his tongue and fingers.

It shamed him, yet it thrilled him all the same.

He had plans to carry on.

Miracles to prepare and share.

Millie.

He had done all that for his lost flock, but mostly for her, and now it seemed to have no more importance for him.

In a few minutes, in a handful of words, you had swept away everything he thought he wanted with all his heart.

He forced himself to look away for a moment, toward the cross hanging in the dim window of the shop.

“Uhm... I have to go now. I still have a few things to take care of.”

Forgive me, Lord… because I want her kindness wrapped around me.

I want it pressed against my skin, I want it soaking my tongue like holy wine—

Your voice was just a faint, embarrassed whisper, and he realized he'd been silent—lost in his head—for longer than normal.

The Sheriff was looking at him strangely.

He cleared his throat and when he looked back at you, his priestly smile was back again. 

“I can walk you home, if you like… Bring your groceries…”

Only his eyes betrayed him—darker, deeper, hungrier—as though some low fire had just been lit.

There was already the one of the Sacrament, and now yours…

You smiled, too innocent to notice.

“I’d love it, Father. Thank you so much.”

Oh, how I would love to have you scream 'Father' while riding me…

“It’s only a pleasure. Let's go.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The cottage smelled faintly of salt and old wood—the kind of scent that clung to every house on Crockett—carried on by the damp wind from the ocean. 

You had kicked off your sneakers by the door, feeling the ache in your feet after a day spent cleaning, unpacking, arranging, pretending this place already belonged to you.

Night had fallen quickly, the sky outside now a dark bruise flecked with shining stars, and you were left with nothing but the hum of the small refrigerator and the slow pulse of your own heartbeat.

It had been a good day. 

Better than you had dared to expect. 

There was electricity in it, a fizz like the first sip of lemon soda—freedom, maybe, the sharp freshness of starting over.

You tried not to think too hard about what you’d left behind.

About the reasons you had run until you found yourself on this forgotten island with only a manuscript in your head and the ache of unnamed memories in your chest…

But his beautiful face kept rising in your thoughts.

Father Paul Hill.

So absurd how much space he already took up in your mind after a single chance encounter outside a store. 

He really was a handsome man, kind and attentive.

He had insisted on carrying your bags home—'insisted', as if you had played difficult—and suddenly you’d been struck by how tall he was, how his presence seemed to radiate in magnetic waves. 

Not just kindness and charm, but something else, something attractive and unsettling.

You remembered the way his warm eyes lingered on you as he asked small questions: where you came from, how old were you, how did you find Crockett in the first place, how long you’d planned to stay. 

Harmless curiosities, usual conversation—and yet each one felt like a gentle probe into the secret places you’d rather leave untouched.

Still you’d answered, more honestly than you meant to. 

You were from some small town and in your 20s. 

On a late night TV show they had talked about Crockett Island—which had been hit hard and decimated by an oil disaster years earlier—and you had immediately thought it was perfect.

You weren't in any hurry to leave; you would stay as long as necessary to write your book. 

The owner of the cottage had given you a really good price on the rent—and you had some precious savings. 

In any case, you would look for a job to support yourself.

He hadn’t pressed more. 

He had only smiled and nodded, his expression soft and solemn all at once, and wished you everything you desired. 

But there had been something beneath that look, something that made you shiver—as if he’d seen more than you wanted him to.

Now, in the hush of your little cottage, you replayed it all—the sound of his voice, the way the sunlight had caught in his dark hair, the ease with which he had brought your bags with one arm—his hand brushing yours more than once.

Briefly, by accident—maybe.

Your cheeks grew warm at the memory and you snorted. 

It was ridiculous. 

He was a priest. 

He was untouchable, sacred, devoted only to God. 

But you couldn’t deny the pull, the current that had leapt between you in those short minutes of walking and talking together.

Something about him made you feel… noticed. 

Not just politely acknowledged, but seen, as if he were looking straight through your shy smiles and careful words into the pulse beneath, into the places where you still ached.

You curled up on the couch, drawing a blanket over your legs, and pressed your forehead to your knees. 

This was madness. 

You were going crazy.

You had come here to escape, to rebuild. 

The last thing you needed was to complicate your life with impossible attractions.

For a priest, no less.

You were becoming a dirty girl with a priest kink...

A very hot one though. Have you seen those skinny jeans? And his hands? Such perfect fingers… Not to mention his thin lips, perfect for being taken between teeth—Stop!

And yet, the thought of him—the way his voice wrapped around your name, low and reverent, the way his eyes seemed almost to burn in the fading light—lingered like a forbidden prayer you couldn’t stop whispering inside your head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dream came to you in fragments at first, like flickers of candlelight on the inside of your eyelids. 

You weren’t on your couch anymore—you were in church, the nave drowned in shadow, dozens of white candles burning on the altar until their smoke curled up like a shimmering cloud. 

The scent of wax, old wood and incense clung to you—heavy, suffocating.

And then he was there. 

Father Paul in his black shirt, the collar undone, sleeves rolled to his forearms. 

His eyes gleamed gold in the dark, catching the firelight as though they belonged to some creature not entirely of this world.

“You came back to me,” he whispered, his voice low and reverent, as though you were a miracle and he the witness.

Before you could answer he had you pinned against the altar itself, your thighs spread wide over the cool stone. 

His hands slid down, finding your heat without hesitation.

“Say you want me,” he urged, fingers teasing the slick folds of your cunt until your hips jerked helplessly. “Say you’ll let me sanctify you.”

“Paul—please—” your voice broke into a whimper, but he silenced you with his mouth crushing against yours, tongue demanding, punishing.

When he pulled back—a thin strand of spit still connecting you—he pressed two fingers inside you, groaning at the wet sound your body made around him.

“Call me as you should, little dove.”

A command you couldn't disobey.

“Father. Oh my God, please Father!”

He looked you straight in the eyes, his lips slightly open.

For a moment it seemed to you that a rainbow-colored halo was glowing just around his head.

“So holy,” he growled, curling his fingers just right until you cried out, back arching on the altar. “This tight little sanctuary, made for me alone.”

Your breath stuttered as his free hand wrapped your hair firmly, tilting your head so you couldn’t look anywhere but at him.

“You want me?” He asked, eyes burning into your soul.

“Yes! Yes, Father, I—”

“Then do not be afraid.”

When he finally pushed inside you, thick and merciless, the world seemed to shatter. 

The altar bruise your ass with every thrust, the candles flickered wildly as if protesting the blasphemy, and Paul fucked you like he was both damning you and saving you in the same breath.

Your cries echoed through the empty church, obscene and ecstatic.

“Good girl,” he rasped against your neck, licking at the sweet sweat there. “You’re mine now. Flesh of my flesh. Blood of my blood.”

The wet sound of your bodies joining in that animalistic and sacrilegious dance quickly brought you to frenzy.

“Say my name,” he demanded, pounding into you, his hand at your throat now. “Say it until God Himself hears you.”

“Paul—Paul—ahh—Father Paul!” You screamed, every syllable torn out of you as your climax detonated, white-hot and unbearable.

He followed soon after, groaning into your mouth, spilling inside you like it was the holiest of sacraments.

And just before the dream fractured into nothing, you heard him whisper between broken breaths. 

“Amen...”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The church was silent—too silent.

Father Paul paced before the altar, his shoes hitting the floor like the steps of a penitent ghost.

His chest rose and fell too quickly, hands trembling as he braced them around his rosary, bowing his head as though prayer could quiet the storm inside him.

But there was no answer, no help.

No wings unfurling in the shadows.

No hiss of leather or promise of replenished grace.

The chalice was empty. 

The decanter bone-dry. 

The last drops of the Angel’s sacrament had burned down his throat days ago, and since then the hunger had only grown louder, more savage. 

His veins felt scorched, his mouth parched no matter how much water he drank.

And still—still—it wasn’t that thirst alone that was undoing him.

It was you.

Your scent lingered in his memory, honey and salt, fresh spring air and something sweeter he couldn’t name. 

The warmth of your smile, the echo of your light laughter in the back of his skull. 

Every time he shut his eyes he saw you again—your lips parted in tender surprise, your lashes trembling as if you already knew what he wanted from you.

He gripped the Bible on the altar, knuckles white, whispering through clenched teeth.

“God, forgive me… I burn for her more than for You.”

The words tasted like poison, like blasphemy itself, yet the truth of them made his cock swell inside the tight confines of his jeans. 

His body betrayed him—betrayed his vows, his faith, everything he thought had tethered him to Heaven.

He pressed hard his forehead to the stone, desperate, rocking slightly as if the movement might soothe him. 

Instead, it conjured filthier visions: you on your knees before him at the altar, not in prayer but with your lips stretched around him, swallowing his cum as if it were another kind of sacrament.

“Stop,” he hissed, digging his nails until they cracked and bled.

He imagined lifting you onto the altar itself, spreading your thighs wide while the candles cried hot red wax down their sides, the shadow of the crucifix falling across your body as he thrust into you again and again, fucking you so hard you’d scream his name like it was the holiest prayer.

“Jesus Christ…” His voice cracked, equal parts plea and curse.

His eyes caught the candle flames, and for a heartbeat they reflected back at him in gold—feral, hungry, something no longer entirely human.

And beneath that, terror.

But of the abyss opening in his chest whenever he thought of you, of the desperate certainty that if you asked him to, he would tear off his collar, his skin, his very soul, and lay them at your feet.

Not of Hell.

Not of God’s wrath.

“Lord—” he whimpered, sinking to his knees before the altar, shaking, his throat dry as ash. “Send me Your Angel. Save us before I damn us both. I beg You.”

But the church stayed silent. 

The shadows stayed empty.

And his heart thundered with your name.

The stillness was unbearable.

His breath rasped out of him, shallow, ragged, as he tried to pray again, lips moving whispering—but every word twisted and corrupted, turning into your name.

He dragged a trembling hand down his face—then lower, until it pressed against the thick, aching bulge of his erection.

He froze—horror flashing through him at what he was about to do in the House of God.

And then he thought of you.

Of your pure, innocent eyes the first time you’d looked up at him.

Of your lips, swollen and soft from nervous biting while talking about yourself.

Of the way your voice had broken when you admitted you’d lost Faith.

The sublime thought that he himself could have become your new creed.

The last thread of restraint snapped.

His hand opened his jeans, tugging his cock free—hard, throbbing, flushed a violent red, pulsing in his fist like it had been waiting for this desecration.

He leaned forward against the altar, teeth bared in a silent snarl of desperation as he began to stroke himself—slow at first, then faster, as though each pump could wring the hunger out of him.

He imagined your knees pressing into the cold wooden floor, your mouth stretching open to take him down to the root while your eyes watered and your tongue worked sin into devotion.

“Oh God… oh God…”

The words were a litany not of worship, but of need.

He bucked harder into his fist, gasping, sweat slicking his temples.

The candles flickered violently as if even the flames recoiled, shadows jittered across the crucifix, Christ’s face staring down in silent judgment while he fucked his own hand like a sinner possessed.

“Say it,” he panted, his voice low, guttural, cracking with need. “Say you love me. Say you’ll give yourself to me—completely.”

In his head you obeyed, moaning it against his cock, your voice trembling but full of devotion, eyes fixed on his.

That was enough to break him.

With a strangled cry he came, hot jets spilling against the altar cloth.

He collapsed forward, cock still twitching in his grip, breath tearing out of him in sobs and groans. 

His eyes glowed faintly gold in the candlelight, a predator’s gleam burning through the penitent mask.

“Forgive me, Father—” he whispered crying, though his lips twisted into a smile that was anything but sorry. “But I’ll make her my salvation… even if I have to damn us both.”

There was a certain thrill in being young again in this modern age—so different from the one in which he had first born and lived: less rigid, more open, full of wonders and possibilities.

He could never thank God enough for having gifted him the miracle of meeting His Angel in the desert.

Some time after noon he stopped in front of the only grocery store on the island—small, wooden walls peeling, the single window clouded with condensation—to say hello to the recently-arrived sheriff and grab something to eat.

Its dual life as the presence of the police office gave the building a sense of importance that was almost laughable: a place to buy canned soup and aspirin and also a place to deliver justice in the back. 

Life on Crockett had always been like that: a little lonely, but full of oddities.

Sheriff Hassan was sitting on the steps outside drinking his afternoon coffee, and shook his hand with a kind smile, immediately making small talk about the weather.

He found him an interesting man—deeply devoted to his work and to his only son—but unfortunately torn by the pain of having lost his wife so young.

He was responding to something insignificant when he saw you for the first time.

You had just walked outside the shop door, your wool coat pulled tight against your body, your hair dancing in the wind. 

Young—oh so young compared to him. 

Beautiful in your pure simplicity, something unstudied and sweet in your makeupless face.

No armor, just gentle and bright presence.

And it was that bareness that struck him first, piercing through him more sharply than the cold air.

For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

The Sheriff was still talking, but he was no longer listening.

Then you lifted your chin and your eyes caught his. 

And there—just like that—something inside him broke. 

Or began, he didn't know.

He felt it in his chest like the first crack of thunder before a storm: the instant recognition of souls, the impossible certainty—the raw, unholy pull toward you. 

His faith told him it was a test. 

His heart told him it was revelation.

“Good morning... Father,” you whispered with a shy smile, as though testing how the title tasted between your lips.

He dipped his head in a nod, forcing his mouth into the familiar priest’s smile, gentle and controlled. 

“Good morning. Cold today, isn’t it?”

What the fuck, Jo—Paul!

A small laugh escaped you and he was undone by it. 

That sound nestled under his ribs and settled there, warm and dangerous. 

“Yes, it feels like winter doesn’t want to let go,” you said, watching around. “But the flowers look ready to burst open any second. It is beautiful here.”

He should have answered with something pastoral, something safe—a platitude about God’s seasons or patience. 

But instead, he only intentionally watched your lips form the words, and a faint pink flush emerging in your cheeks. 

He wondered if you always blushed so easily, or if it was only under his gaze.

God please, let it be so.

“Yes it is. I don’t think we’ve ever met. I’m Paul Hill.” His voice, warm and even, betrayed nothing of the riot behind his sternum.

You shifted the paper bags in your arms, holding them with one forearm against your chest and extended a tiny hand, telling him your name. 

Everyday things that shouldn’t have made you look so delicate, so touchable—perfect—yet he found himself drowning in them while grabbing your cold fingers.

“I’ve only just come here,” you explained. “I’m renting the little cottage by the cliff. Thought it might help me… find some quiet. And maybe some answers.”

His brow arched slightly. “Answers?”

You gave a little smile, eyes darting away, then back to him.

“Inspiration, actually. I'm a writer—or better, I'd like to become one. I'm here to write my first novel. I needed some peace, some silence. Loneliness.”

He tilted his head, studying you. 

He smoothed his expression, pastoral calm settling like a mask over his features.

It was a harmless declaration on the surface, yet something in the way your gaze flicked aside, the careful weight you placed on the word solitude—it pricked him.

Like you weren’t only searching for anonymity, but hiding inside it. Fleeing.

Inside, though, unease curled and agitated. 

What is she running from? 

What—who dared to wound her so deeply she had to bury herself on this forgotten shore?

Still, he would not ask. Not yet. 

To press too hard might send you retreating back into yourself, and the thought of you withdrawing from him—even after this brief encounter—was absolutely unbearable.

So instead, he let his voice soften, a velvet thread weaving between you.

“Then may this island give you the peace you seek. And if ever that loneliness feels heavier than it should… I hope you’ll know you don’t have to bear it alone.”

You looked embarrassed.

“Thanks, but do not worry, Father. I’m not going to bother you. The truth is… I’m angry at God. And I don’t know how to stop being angry. So I’m sorry, but don’t expect to see me in your pews.”

Your words were bitter but polite and pierced him right in the heart—more keenly than you could ever know. 

Angry at God… and yet you shone like one of His greatest creations.

Again, he should have offered scripture, or gentle correction. Instead, his throat tightened around the urge to say your name like a plea.

“I wouldn’t force you,” he said, lowering his voice as though your anger were something intimate meant only for him. “But… my church, my ear, my time—they’re yours, if you ever need them. No judgment, just open arms.”

The words were safe, measured, but beneath them throbbed something more dangerous. 

You gave a small nod, almost a bow, as though acknowledging a pact between you.

Don’t hide from me.

Let me be the one who carries the weight, who shelters you.

Let me be the place where you rest.

“Thank you. That’s… very kind. And appreciate.”

Your eyes softened.

He imagined absolution not spoken in the confessional, but wrung from your body above his.

He saw the faint tremor in your lashes and with it an ache rose inside him, sharp as hunger—because he couldn't stop himself from imagining you leaning closer to him, whispering your sins and troubles against his neck. 

And even as he looked like a  righteous priest, his mind betrayed him effortlessly—picturing you not in some lonely room with a laptop in front of you—but in his cold bed, your novel forgotten on the floor as he wrote his devotion into your skin with his tongue and fingers.

It shamed him, yet it thrilled him all the same.

He had plans to carry on.

Miracles to prepare and share.

Millie.

He had done all that for his lost flock, but mostly for her, and now it seemed to have no more importance for him.

In a few minutes, in a handful of words, you had swept away everything he thought he wanted with all his heart.

He forced himself to look away for a moment, toward the cross hanging in the dim window of the shop.

“Uhm... I have to go now. I still have a few things to take care of.”

Forgive me, Lord… because I want her kindness wrapped around me.

I want it pressed against my skin, I want it soaking my tongue like holy wine—

Your voice was just a faint, embarrassed whisper, and he realized he'd been silent—lost in his head—for longer than normal.

The Sheriff was looking at him strangely.

He cleared his throat and when he looked back at you, his priestly smile was back again. 

“I can walk you home, if you like… Bring your groceries…”

Only his eyes betrayed him—darker, deeper, hungrier—as though some low fire had just been lit.

There was already the one of the Sacrament, and now yours…

You smiled, too innocent to notice.

“I’d love it, Father. Thank you so much.”

Oh, how I would love to have you scream 'Father' while riding me…

“It’s only a pleasure. Let's go.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The cottage smelled faintly of salt and old wood—the kind of scent that clung to every house on Crockett—carried on by the damp wind from the ocean. 

You had kicked off your sneakers by the door, feeling the ache in your feet after a day spent cleaning, unpacking, arranging, pretending this place already belonged to you.

Night had fallen quickly, the sky outside now a dark bruise flecked with shining stars, and you were left with nothing but the hum of the small refrigerator and the slow pulse of your own heartbeat.

It had been a good day. 

Better than you had dared to expect. 

There was electricity in it, a fizz like the first sip of lemon soda—freedom, maybe, the sharp freshness of starting over.

You tried not to think too hard about what you’d left behind.

About the reasons you had run until you found yourself on this forgotten island with only a manuscript in your head and the ache of unnamed memories in your chest…

But his beautiful face kept rising in your thoughts.

Father Paul Hill.

So absurd how much space he already took up in your mind after a single chance encounter outside a store. 

He really was a handsome man, kind and attentive.

He had insisted on carrying your bags home—'insisted', as if you had played difficult—and suddenly you’d been struck by how tall he was, how his presence seemed to radiate in magnetic waves. 

Not just kindness and charm, but something else, something attractive and unsettling.

You remembered the way his warm eyes lingered on you as he asked small questions: where you came from, how old were you, how did you find Crockett in the first place, how long you’d planned to stay. 

Harmless curiosities, usual conversation—and yet each one felt like a gentle probe into the secret places you’d rather leave untouched.

Still you’d answered, more honestly than you meant to. 

You were from some small town and in your 20s. 

On a late night TV show they had talked about Crockett Island—which had been hit hard and decimated by an oil disaster years earlier—and you had immediately thought it was perfect.

You weren't in any hurry to leave; you would stay as long as necessary to write your book. 

The owner of the cottage had given you a really good price on the rent—and you had some precious savings. 

In any case, you would look for a job to support yourself.

He hadn’t pressed more. 

He had only smiled and nodded, his expression soft and solemn all at once, and wished you everything you desired. 

But there had been something beneath that look, something that made you shiver—as if he’d seen more than you wanted him to.

Now, in the hush of your little cottage, you replayed it all—the sound of his voice, the way the sunlight had caught in his dark hair, the ease with which he had brought your bags with one arm—his hand brushing yours more than once.

Briefly, by accident—maybe.

Your cheeks grew warm at the memory and you snorted. 

It was ridiculous. 

He was a priest. 

He was untouchable, sacred, devoted only to God. 

But you couldn’t deny the pull, the current that had leapt between you in those short minutes of walking and talking together.

Something about him made you feel… noticed. 

Not just politely acknowledged, but seen, as if he were looking straight through your shy smiles and careful words into the pulse beneath, into the places where you still ached.

You curled up on the couch, drawing a blanket over your legs, and pressed your forehead to your knees. 

This was madness. 

You were going crazy.

You had come here to escape, to rebuild. 

The last thing you needed was to complicate your life with impossible attractions.

For a priest, no less.

You were becoming a dirty girl with a priest kink...

A very hot one though. Have you seen those skinny jeans? And his hands? Such perfect fingers… Not to mention his thin lips, perfect for being taken between teeth—Stop!

And yet, the thought of him—the way his voice wrapped around your name, low and reverent, the way his eyes seemed almost to burn in the fading light—lingered like a forbidden prayer you couldn’t stop whispering inside your head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dream came to you in fragments at first, like flickers of candlelight on the inside of your eyelids. 

You weren’t on your couch anymore—you were in church, the nave drowned in shadow, dozens of white candles burning on the altar until their smoke curled up like a shimmering cloud. 

The scent of wax, old wood and incense clung to you—heavy, suffocating.

And then he was there. 

Father Paul in his black shirt, the collar undone, sleeves rolled to his forearms. 

His eyes gleamed gold in the dark, catching the firelight as though they belonged to some creature not entirely of this world.

“You came back to me,” he whispered, his voice low and reverent, as though you were a miracle and he the witness.

Before you could answer he had you pinned against the altar itself, your thighs spread wide over the cool stone. 

His hands slid down, finding your heat without hesitation.

“Say you want me,” he urged, fingers teasing the slick folds of your cunt until your hips jerked helplessly. “Say you’ll let me sanctify you.”

“Paul—please—” your voice broke into a whimper, but he silenced you with his mouth crushing against yours, tongue demanding, punishing.

When he pulled back—a thin strand of spit still connecting you—he pressed two fingers inside you, groaning at the wet sound your body made around him.

“Call me as you should, little dove.”

A command you couldn't disobey.

“Father. Oh my God, please Father!”

He looked you straight in the eyes, his lips slightly open.

For a moment it seemed to you that a rainbow-colored halo was glowing just around his head.

“So holy,” he growled, curling his fingers just right until you cried out, back arching on the altar. “This tight little sanctuary, made for me alone.”

Your breath stuttered as his free hand wrapped your hair firmly, tilting your head so you couldn’t look anywhere but at him.

“You want me?” He asked, eyes burning into your soul.

“Yes! Yes, Father, I—”

“Then do not be afraid.”

When he finally pushed inside you, thick and merciless, the world seemed to shatter. 

The altar bruise your ass with every thrust, the candles flickered wildly as if protesting the blasphemy, and Paul fucked you like he was both damning you and saving you in the same breath.

Your cries echoed through the empty church, obscene and ecstatic.

“Good girl,” he rasped against your neck, licking at the sweet sweat there. “You’re mine now. Flesh of my flesh. Blood of my blood.”

The wet sound of your bodies joining in that animalistic and sacrilegious dance quickly brought you to frenzy.

“Say my name,” he demanded, pounding into you, his hand at your throat now. “Say it until God Himself hears you.”

“Paul—Paul—ahh—Father Paul!” You screamed, every syllable torn out of you as your climax detonated, white-hot and unbearable.

He followed soon after, groaning into your mouth, spilling inside you like it was the holiest of sacraments.

And just before the dream fractured into nothing, you heard him whisper between broken breaths. 

“Amen...”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The church was silent—too silent.

Father Paul paced before the altar, his shoes hitting the floor like the steps of a penitent ghost.

His chest rose and fell too quickly, hands trembling as he braced them around his rosary, bowing his head as though prayer could quiet the storm inside him.

But there was no answer, no help.

No wings unfurling in the shadows.

No hiss of leather or promise of replenished grace.

The chalice was empty. 

The decanter bone-dry. 

The last drops of the Angel’s sacrament had burned down his throat days ago, and since then the hunger had only grown louder, more savage. 

His veins felt scorched, his mouth parched no matter how much water he drank.

And still—still—it wasn’t that thirst alone that was undoing him.

It was you.

Your scent lingered in his memory, honey and salt, fresh spring air and something sweeter he couldn’t name. 

The warmth of your smile, the echo of your light laughter in the back of his skull. 

Every time he shut his eyes he saw you again—your lips parted in tender surprise, your lashes trembling as if you already knew what he wanted from you.

He gripped the Bible on the altar, knuckles white, whispering through clenched teeth.

“God, forgive me… I burn for her more than for You.”

The words tasted like poison, like blasphemy itself, yet the truth of them made his cock swell inside the tight confines of his jeans. 

His body betrayed him—betrayed his vows, his faith, everything he thought had tethered him to Heaven.

He pressed hard his forehead to the stone, desperate, rocking slightly as if the movement might soothe him. 

Instead, it conjured filthier visions: you on your knees before him at the altar, not in prayer but with your lips stretched around him, swallowing his cum as if it were another kind of sacrament.

“Stop,” he hissed, digging his nails until they cracked and bled.

He imagined lifting you onto the altar itself, spreading your thighs wide while the candles cried hot red wax down their sides, the shadow of the crucifix falling across your body as he thrust into you again and again, fucking you so hard you’d scream his name like it was the holiest prayer.

“Jesus Christ…” His voice cracked, equal parts plea and curse.

His eyes caught the candle flames, and for a heartbeat they reflected back at him in gold—feral, hungry, something no longer entirely human.

And beneath that, terror.

But of the abyss opening in his chest whenever he thought of you, of the desperate certainty that if you asked him to, he would tear off his collar, his skin, his very soul, and lay them at your feet.

Not of Hell.

Not of God’s wrath.

“Lord—” he whimpered, sinking to his knees before the altar, shaking, his throat dry as ash. “Send me Your Angel. Save us before I damn us both. I beg You.”

But the church stayed silent. 

The shadows stayed empty.

And his heart thundered with your name.

The stillness was unbearable.

His breath rasped out of him, shallow, ragged, as he tried to pray again, lips moving whispering—but every word twisted and corrupted, turning into your name.

He dragged a trembling hand down his face—then lower, until it pressed against the thick, aching bulge of his erection.

He froze—horror flashing through him at what he was about to do in the House of God.

And then he thought of you.

Of your pure, innocent eyes the first time you’d looked up at him.

Of your lips, swollen and soft from nervous biting while talking about yourself.

Of the way your voice had broken when you admitted you’d lost Faith.

The sublime thought that he himself could have become your new creed.

The last thread of restraint snapped.

His hand opened his jeans, tugging his cock free—hard, throbbing, flushed a violent red, pulsing in his fist like it had been waiting for this desecration.

He leaned forward against the altar, teeth bared in a silent snarl of desperation as he began to stroke himself—slow at first, then faster, as though each pump could wring the hunger out of him.

He imagined your knees pressing into the cold wooden floor, your mouth stretching open to take him down to the root while your eyes watered and your tongue worked sin into devotion.

“Oh God… oh God…”

The words were a litany not of worship, but of need.

He bucked harder into his fist, gasping, sweat slicking his temples.

The candles flickered violently as if even the flames recoiled, shadows jittered across the crucifix, Christ’s face staring down in silent judgment while he fucked his own hand like a sinner possessed.

“Say it,” he panted, his voice low, guttural, cracking with need. “Say you love me. Say you’ll give yourself to me—completely.”

In his head you obeyed, moaning it against his cock, your voice trembling but full of devotion, eyes fixed on his.

That was enough to break him.

With a strangled cry he came, hot jets spilling against the altar cloth.

He collapsed forward, cock still twitching in his grip, breath tearing out of him in sobs and groans. 

His eyes glowed faintly gold in the candlelight, a predator’s gleam burning through the penitent mask.

“Forgive me, Father—” he whispered crying, though his lips twisted into a smile that was anything but sorry. “But I’ll make her my salvation… even if I have to damn us both.”

Young, beautiful, tender.

You had arrived on that scrap of land surrounded by the ocean with the sweet fragrance of innocence still clinging to you. 

Untouched. Unspoiled.

The first time he had seen you—by chance, outside the island’s little shop—was an early spring afternoon, still a bit cold but with the flowers around on the verge of blossoming.

The conversation between you had flowed so easily—gentle, respectful, yet alive with a spark that pulled at him in ways he refused to even think about.

You had blushed under his gaze again and again, lowering your eyes at his careful and gentle compliments, lips trembling with shy smiles.

You had told him—bitterly but softly—that you were angry with God. 

Angry He had not been there in your moments of need, that He had allowed your wounds, your trials, your scars. 

And so you told him you would not go to Mass.

He had not insisted, he had no right to.

Instead he had told you that his church would always remain open for you, that his ears–his arms, would always be ready to receive you.

That he would listen to you, no matter the hour, no matter the subject.

He would sit in silence if that was what you needed, that he would never demand… only receive.

He had been very clear: he wanted to hear your voice.

And you had given it to him so willing.

What had started as a lovely friendship soon became something else… deeper, sweeter. Wholesome. 

Your voice weaved itself into his veins, your laughter quickened his pulse—the sound of temptation itself took root in his chest.

A few more encounters—at first accidental, then not so much—and you had begun to sing whole hymns just for him.

The first time he had kissed you, you’d sucked in such a desperate breath through your nose that he couldn’t stop a smug little chuckle as his fingers trailed lightly over your cheek, slipping into your hair to tilt your face to his.

It was a heavy summer day, sky gray and damp, wind rushing through the tall grass and carrying away the soft moans that slipped from your mouth as his tongue tasted you with desperate hunger.

For a while—too short a while—it was simply like that: kisses that began tender and slow, only to turn into merciless battles of lips, teeth and spit.

Hands tangled in each other's hair with measured force—his always found your breasts, your waist, your thighs.

He had noticed, even if he had said nothing.

As your relationship deepened so did the intimacy and your clothes shifted with it: jeans, leggings and oversized sweaters gave way to shorter skirts and tight tops, or light little dresses that fluttered in the summer air.

The first time he truly had touched you, you’d moaned in such a way that his cock swelled painfully inside the skinny jeans he’d bought after returning rejuvenated from the Holy Land.

You were on the cramped little rectory couch and he had started to rub you in slow, teasing circles over the smooth fabric of your panties.

He hadn’t been able to resist the dampness he felt on his fingertips and by simply shifting aside what was in his way, he’d pushed a finger inside your molten heat, reveling in the sensation of your body pulling him deeper.

His thumb had found your clit, playing lazily with it, and the cry of raw pleasure that filled the room when you came had rung in his ears for days.

A little later, on a Sunday morning just before the most anticipated mass of the week after Leeza Scarborough’s miracle, you had slipped to your knees beneath his desk without warning. 

While he read over his sermon, your lips wrapped around him, your hand stroking in rhythm, the holy words above drowned out by the obscene wet sounds below. 

Your tear-glossed eyes locked onto his, urging him with every muffled whimper, blasphemous little sounds that had him spilling down your throat before he could even gasp out a warning.

Not that you had been the least bit displeased.

As soon as he could, he returned the favor in the austere kitchen of the little house you’d rented to finish your book in peace—the one that was meant to launch your success. 

You sat wide-legged on the table, that ridiculous short black dress with tiny red roses bunched up around your hips while his head was buried between your thighs, one hand teasing a bare, aching nipple.

Your fingers tangled in his hair as shameless moans spilled out of you, dragging him closer, guiding his mouth and tongue exactly where you needed them the most.

When he finally lifted his eyes to your face and gave your clit a slow, deliberate lick, you screamed his name so loudly he feared the neighbors might have heard every tremor of your orgasm shaking through you and worse, known exactly who had given it to you.

An hour later, while you were making dinner with him watching your every move and sipping a glass of red wine, his mind couldn’t help but drift further, conjuring things that once had meant everything and now felt like almost nothing.

Millie was practically the way she’d been forty years earlier, when they had fallen in love and loved each other on that very island, conceiving their daughter.

The Angel’s Sacrament truly was a blessing from the Lord, a gift so immense he couldn’t possibly keep it for himself—though for now it remained a secret elixir, slipped to others only through Communion.

On the journey back from Jerusalem, while buying and building his new identity, bribing customs officers just to move that heavy, priceless trunk, he had pictured it countless times: the moment he would see his beloved Mildred young and glowing once more. 

He had been certain it would be the happiest moment of his life.

Her husband was dead.

She was well.

Finally, she was free.

They could have found a way to be together, maybe even shepherd that blessed flock hand in hand under the daylight.

But then, just a week later, you had stepped off the noon ferry and ruined everything.

You shattered his plan, ripped apart his certainties, and turned his very existence inside out.

You had become everything to him, though he could not trace when or why.

Nothing he craved made sense anymore unless you were at the center of it.

His old life had rotted into a pale, useless memory, stripped of its weight, no longer capable of squeezing his heart with grief and pain.

In his chest, the love for you and the love for God had fused into the same blinding flame: indistinguishable, inseparable, like the sun mirrored across the sea until both sky and water shone with the same light. 

You were his own personal sacrament, his gospel, the flesh and blood reflection of divinity.

When he finally had you whole, burying himself deep inside you with all the desperation that had been tormenting him, autumn had descended on Crockett with storms, dancing dead leaves and an everlasting thirst for blood, casting a low golden shadow on everything.

Then suddenly you had gone, left him hollow and desperate when you boarded that damned ferry a few days earlier, bound for the mainland to spend Thanksgiving with your family.

You had sadly whispered that you didn’t want to go, clinging to him in the barren rectory like a sinner at confession.

Your ties to them were faint, fragile threads you could have severed easily—yet when your grandmother had begged almost in tears, you had yielded. 

Because that was you: mercy made woman. 

Good, gentle, selfless, sweet… too pure for this world, too radiant for the filthy claws of men.

Too much even for him.

And yet he was far too selfish, far too possessed, to ever think of letting you go.

He had kissed your forehead and forced a smile, even as the taste of losing you poisoned his mouth and heart. 

God forgive me, he thought as he carried your bag down to the dock, his hands aching to clutch your body instead of the cheap fabric, aching to brand himself into you before the world could steal you away.

At the foot of the ferry’s ramp, you had turned to him with a smile that was not just skin but soul, not just words but eternity.

Then the engine roared, the waves split open, and Sturge steered the boat into the fog.

You dissolved into the salt and the mist and he was left gasping, empty, as though the Body of Christ had been torn from his tongue mid-Communion.

When the night came down something inside him snapped.

He had thought the hunger was cruel before, but now it was merciless, gnawing at him from the inside, turning his veins into burning wires that screamed only your name. 

Blood alone could no longer satisfy him; it wasn’t enough, it would never be enough again unless it was pulsing in your throat, warm between your thighs, dripping from your kiss.

You were gone only hours before, yet already his body betrayed him—his cock aching against the restraint of his jeans, his lips remembering the taste of your cum, his fingers twitching for the silken heat of your flesh. 

Every prayer he tried to mutter shattered into vicious curses, every Ave Maria became your name, every drop of faith twisted into lust so consuming it felt like divine fire.

He prowled the empty church like a beast in a cage, eyes on the crucifix, daring Christ Himself to condemn him.

“She is mine,” he whispered into the silence, voice raw, broken. “She is no sin. She will never be.”

The candles flickered with his blasphemy, shadows trembling as if even the walls recoiled from the sacrilege that was boiling in him. 

And yet he didn’t repent. 

He couldn’t. 

He would gladly trade salvation for another taste of you, another chance to spill his sin between your thighs, to feel your moans echo in the hollow of the church until God Himself was forced to listen.

All he could imagine was that holy and forbidden sacrament dripping from his lips into your mouth, holy wine and unholy hunger mingling until neither of you could tell where grace ended and sin began.

He finally understood what it really meant to die and reborn, only in your arms he could rise again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The day of your return had crawled toward him with a damned, sluggish cruelty, every hour stretching itself thin just to torture him a little longer.

During that infernal week he had clung desperately to the mask of normalcy, gripping with nails and teeth the role his flock expected of him—but everything had unraveled in the span of a single, cursed heartbeat.

Joe Collins had died on the wooden floor of the rectory.

A tragic accident, yes, yet he had drunk his blood, pieces of his brains straight from the wound, unable to restrain the frenzy. 

He had drained him dry.

Beverly Keane had found him the next morning in the parlor drenched in gore, tears, horror and the raw, visceral need for you.

She had helped him clean himself while Sturge and Wade Scarborough disposed of the poor soul’s corpse.

But then he too had died, writhing in unspeakable agony with the horrifying certainty that he would never see you again.

His only regret, whispering the Act of Contrition through fevered lips while his bones shattered inside him, was never having told you ‘I love you’ aloud. 

He could only pray he had shown it in other ways—in the worship of your body, in the reverence of your name whispered as if it were Scripture.

His heart had slowed to nothing, his breath had thinned, his eyelids had fallen heavy. 

The rosary slipped between his fingers as life abandoned him.

Father, forgive me, for I have sinned…

But you—out of all his sins, you were not one of them.

You could never be.

You were his holiest blessing, the most bright miracle God had ever granted him—lifting him toward Heaven every time he pushed inside you while you asked for nothing but his love, his name gasped into his ear like the sweetest word in the whole Creation.

Later he had woken again in the night, shuddering, drenched in cold sweat, muscles locked so tight they felt like iron, bones aching as though shattered and reforged in the same instant.

Bev had tended him with wide, trembling eyes and frantic prayers murmured in the dark of his chamber, while Sturge and Wade scurried back and forth, obeying her orders without a word or a question.

Dawn had broken pale and merciless, the sunlight searing his skin even through the curtains—literally melting him into grotesque scraps before stitching him back together in a matter of minutes, leaving only a faint sting.

He had told them everything then: the journey to the Wailing Wall as John Pruitt, the cave in the desert, the Angel who had blessed him with youth and strength.

The trunk that carried salvation back home, the new identity of Father Paul Hill, the Sacrament mixed with the Communion, the divine miracles… 

But also the thirst for blood, the sudden pain.

Death and resurrection anew.

He hadn’t needed to argue.

They had seen him die and rise with their own eyes, recognise the Sacrament’s power inside their flesh.

Sturge’s back no longer ached as hell after decades at sea, Wade had watched his own paraplegic daughter walk again, and Bev—well, Bev had never needed proof.

Her faith was unshakable.

She was the one who had the idea that Mass would be moved to the evening, just after sunset, so their priest could talk with his people without burning to ash.

And while the promise of great miracles awaited Crockett, he had waited for something greater still: you.

He would have to confess everything to you as soon as possible—why he could no longer walk in daylight, why your secret walks had to end and above all why you would have to take the Sacrament into your own body. 

You, who had stayed true to your original word of never setting a foot inside a church–even if it was his.

You, who had been so much angry with God…

One thing at a time, he told himself, sitting at the desk in the vestry with a sermon on resurrection spread before him, the sacred words writhing and twisting until they blurred into something obscene.

He missed you so bloody bad.

Every verse of sacrifice made him see your thighs parting for him, every psalm of devotion echoed like your moans against his mouth while he pistoned deep inside you.

His hand slipped the belt loose, popped the button and zipper open and dragged out his cock hard and aching, stroking himself lazily to the memory of your lips parting in a whimper of pure pleasure beneath him, your tear-glazed eyes shackled to his.

The very image of you on your knees on the floor–not in confession but in worship of a far darker kind, burned him alive until his climax spilled hot across the sermon pages, a benediction turned to blasphemy.

Fuck.

Just before noon his phone buzzed and he all but launched himself across the vestry desk to read it.

Your name pulsed on the tiny screen like a sacred spell.

'Hi Father, I’m coming back. I’m taking the 3 p.m. ferry :*'

If it had been anyone else maybe he would’ve paused to marvel at how far technology had come—a miracle unimaginable to a man born in the 1930s. 

But this was you, and when it came to you every thought bent to a different logic.

He answered at once, telling you to come directly to Saint Patrick’s as soon as you stepped off the boat—no stops at home, no chatter with anyone. 

The urgency in his tone had convinced you without a single question.

By the time you arrived, the sky above the church was bleeding with the fierce, warm hues of sunset, a vast canvas burning like his soul on fire for you. 

The sun sagged low, weak against the misty ocean horizon.

Your scent reached him before your footsteps did, sweet and undeniable, flooding his sharpened senses.

He could feel your heart galloping, every beat echoing inside his chest as though it were his own.

In the wavering glow of dozens of candles he had lit with reverent care, he listened the damp wood creak beneath your shoes, the old door groaning as you pushed it open.

He smiled, head tipped back against the peeling wall, eyes fixed on the crucifix above the altar, overflowing with love and gratitude. 

Finally you were home.

“Paul…?”

Your voice was low, timid, almost afraid.

He stepped from the shadows so suddenly that you gasped, your bag thudding to the floor in a puff of dust.

In a single, swift motion he had you in his arms—lifting you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist, your back pressed hard against the door he kicked shut behind you.

His mouth seized yours in a kiss that was both a welcome and a punishment, his tongue driving past your lips without permission, tangling with yours in a wet, chaotic rhythm.

His hands roamed like a starved man—into your hair, along your cold cheeks, down your sides, cupping your ass through sheer black stockings, squeezing the softness of your thighs.

You were already singing his favorite hymn in the shape of your breathless moans.

“I missed you so fucking much. You’re never leaving me again.”

He ground you against the wood with nothing but the weight of his body, fumbling your coat open, tugging the scarf free, squeezing your breasts together with trembling, hungry hands.

“I missed you too… these days without you were unbearable…”

Thank God for the sweater you had chosen—a deep V-neck that allowed him to bury his face against your perfumed skin, kissing and licking every inch before dragging fabric and lace aside to take your nipple between his teeth.

He sucked hard, greedy, while his other hand rolled the other pink peak, drawing a voiceless cry from your throat, your head thrown back, your fingers tangled tight in his hair messing with it.

“But now we’re together again,” he whispered, voice honeyed with devotion. “And I want to hear you. Always. Do you remember?”

His words broke something inside you, heat flooding down your belly to pool between your thighs until your mind went white with delirium.

“Paul… I want you too, but —aahh!—not here… in church…”

The low laugh he let slip reverberated through the sacred stillness, breaking against your bodies as he pulled off your nipple with a wet sound.

His gaze locked with yours, shameless, as he pushed his cock against the very ache that throbbed for him. 

You moaned, filthy and unrestrained.

He laughed again, thumb tugging down your lower lip.

“I know exactly where we are. But I don’t just want you…” Your cheeks were burning now, painted with a pretty blush. “I love you. And I’m going to make love to you here, before God Himself.”

Your swollen lips parted just slightly in surprise, your eyes big and wet.

His fingers left your face, tracing the line of your throat where your pulse thundered. He pressed his forehead to yours, breath hot and uneven.

“Do you feel that?” he whispered, rolling his hips into you, his erection hard and undeniable. “That’s how much I need you. That’s how much I’ve missed you. How much I love you.”

The words were a confession and a curse all at once, spoken with the fervor of one of his sermon. 

“I–Paul, oh my God… Paul–”

His free hand tugged impatiently at your clothes, desperate to bare more of your skin to his mouth and eyes, to his worship.

The crucifix above the altar loomed behind him, its silent witness only fueling the fire licking at his veins. 

“Good girl–yes, say my name,” he demanded, voice thick with lust, teeth brushing the shell of your ear and gently biting down. “Say it like a prayer. Loud. I want Him to hear you too.”

You just obeyed, happily.

His mouth left your skin only long enough to growl against your lips, devouring your kiss as though starving, suffocating your whimpers. 

In one swift, urgent motion he finally tore your coat from your shoulders, tugged your sweater up and off, pushed your skirt high over your hips.

“God, look at you,” he muttered, voice hoarse with reverence and hunger. “So fucking perfect… and all mine.”

He freed himself from his jeans with trembling haste, his cock long and flushed pressing hot against your thigh while he tore apart your stockings and panties, guiding it between your folds with one hand, sliding the tip through the slickness that had been waiting only for him. 

The first thrust inside you stole the air from your lungs, your cry muffled against his mouth as he bottomed out just for filling you completely again, desperately.

Pinned against the heavy wooden door your body arched for him, nails biting into his shoulders through the black shirt, ankles crossed behind his back pushing him deeper. 

He moved with a rhythm that was both brutal and worshipful, then his hand slid up your throat, fingers curling gently but firmly around the delicate column.

He held you there—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that you were his, body and soul. 

Your pulse pounded beneath his thumb, and he felt it like a second heartbeat against his palm.

“Look at me,” he growled, hips slamming forward, driving you crazy on the edge of your climax already.

You did, your eyes wide and glassy in the flickering candlelight, and that was when you saw it—the glow in his gaze. 

Gold, burning low, inhuman and divine all at once, shimmering through your soul.

The sight made you tremble around him, your walls clenching so tight he groaned, forehead falling to yours.

“I love you too… Christ, I love you so badly—”

He kissed you in tears, his thrusts growing harder, longer, deeper–each one pushing you into the old wood until it creaked like it too was about to break under the force of his devotion for you. 

His hand at your throat tightened just enough to make the world go hazy, your breath stuttering as his name tumbled from your lips in ragged, broken pleas.

The gold in his eyes blazed brighter, flickering like candle flames on the verge of consuming everything. 

You could feel him everywhere—in your throat where he held you, in your chest where your heart hammered against his, in your core where he drove himself again and again until you thought you’d broken.

“Say it,” he demanded, his voice a guttural order, sweat dripping from his wet-soaked hair, hips snapping into you with brutal precision. “Say you’re mine—say it before God Himself.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, the words tearing out of you, desperate, unholy but true. “Always yours.”

Your confirmation broke something loose in him. 

With a growl half-prayer, half-blasphemy, he pounded into you until white stars burst behind your eyes. 

The hand on your throat tightened as his other slid down to your clit, thumb circling it with merciless skill.

The combined assault sent you spiraling, your climax hitting like lightning, body convulsing, a cry torn from you that echoed through the church like a hymn of pure, holy sin.

“Oh my God! Yes! Paul, oh my God!”

Your walls clamped down around him, milking him with every spasm of your release.

He buried himself to the hilt, head thrown back, eyes glowing gold as if heaven itself burned inside them. 

His groan was low, guttural as hot pulses of release flooded you, each one a claim, a promise.

He stayed there, panting and trembling, holding you gently as though your body was the altar and he the priest who had just consecrated it with his own sin, feeling every shake of your flesh. 

His lips pressed to your temple, breath ragged.

“I love you,” he whispered again, softer now, reverent.

You clung to him with your whole body, surrendering yourself to him with a trust that made his heart tremble.

“Tell me, my sweet angel…” his voice was only a soft whisper, trembling somewhere between fear and faith. “Do you really love me? Do you trust me with everything you are?”

Your answer came without hesitation, a breathless vow. “Yes, with all of me. Always. Forever.”

A shudder passed through him—relief, hunger, need, revelation. 

His mouth crashed against yours, desperate and bruising before his lips slid lower, tracing paths of fire down your jaw, your sore throat. Then, without warning, his teeth sank into your flesh.

The sting was sharp, electric, then molten in languid waves. 

A cry tore from your throat—half pain, half ecstasy—as his fangs pierced deeper, as he drank from you like you were the only chalice that had ever mattered to him.

The pull of his mouth was frantic, greedy, yet impossibly reverent, and you felt yourself unraveling, every drop he took binding you tighter to him.

You moaned and moaned, the pleasure rising once again between your legs.

When he finally tore himself away, his lips glistened with your blood. 

His gold gaze, fever-bright locked with yours as he raised his own wrist to his mouth, tearing the skin open with a practiced bite.

Crimson welled instantly, slow and thick.

“Drink,” he commanded, pressing the wound to your lips, voice hoarse, trembling. “Take me in, my miracle from Heaven. Be one with me. I beg of you.”

Your heart thundered, fear clawing at the edges of your mind, so many questions burning your tongue… 

But your trust—your faith in him held firmer. 

You parted your lips and slowly tasted him, never leaving his eyes, lapping at the wound like a little cat at its favourite milk. 

His blood was hot, copper and rich, bathing your tongue and sliding down your throat like forbidden wine. 

The instant it entered your system heat exploded in your veins, a frenzy unlike anything you’d ever known.

He groaned at the sight, hips driving into you once more as you drank. 

“Yes… that’s it… take me, my love. My blood, my body, my soul —they’re yours.”

The Communion bound you together in a madness both divine and obscene. 

Your body writhed against his, shaking, overwhelmed by a new hunger that mirrored his own. 

His blood fueled your heartbeat, ignited every nerve, sparked your orgasm one more time.

"You are so good to me, baby... So precious..."

You clung to him, fingers digging into his hair and clutching for dear life as your moans mixed with his growls again, your bodies moving in a rhythm almost animal, too primal and sacred to be anything less than pure worship.

In that moment, in the penumbra of flickering candles and smells of incense, there was no God above, no devil below—only the two of you, locked in your own holy sacrament, lost in the ecstasy of blood and love.

Every time Eddie ignored you or brushed you off without too many compliments, tears would fill your eyes, fogging up your lenses and making your face all red in spots.

Not that he ever noticed.

As the weeks—and months and years—and clumsy attempts passed you had less and less exuberance, less courage, almost zero optimism that one day he would look at you with interest.

You didn't want anything in particular, you didn't have false hopes... you just wanted to get to know him better, up close.

Today the late May sun was already dipping low over the forest thay surrounded the school building, turning the cracked asphalt of the parking lot into streaks of warm gold and coolshadow.

Seniors leaned against their cars blasting Bowie and Madonna, girls in pastel jersey and fluttering skirts laughed as their boyfriends teased and then kissed them, and the heavy smell of cigarette smoke floated in the air in thick clouds.

You took a deep breath and clutched a book to your chest like a shield, sneakers scuffing against the pavement as you forced yourself toward the far corner of the lot.

You knew exactly where you were going and who you were going to find...

This is the last time, I promise.

His van was impossible to miss—battered, covered in stickers and spray paint writings—a road testament to bad reputation and strange music.

And of course, leaning against it like they owned the entire town, were the guys from the Hellfire Club.

Gareth, Jeff and the others were passing a Coke back and forth, their laughter loud and careless, but it was Eddie who caught your attention.

As always.

Hair wild, ringed fingers, black inks on his forearms, ripped jeans, battle vest, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips as he gestured animatedly with his hands...

He wasn’t just in the center of their circle—he was the damn circle.

He was the gravitational pull that kept everyone else orbiting.

Your heart thundered wild in your ears as you approached, palms sweating against the fabric of your Star Wars tee.

Every instinct in you screamed to turn around, run home and pretend you never ever thought of this...

But then, it was now or never.

School was ending and with it any chance of being around him for a couple of endless, burning months.

You stopped a few feet away, trying to clear your dry throat over the lump lodged there.

“Uh—hello, Eddie...”

The whole group turned towards you, raised eyebrows and blank stares.

Eddie looked at you like he had no idea who the fuck you were.

“Ehm… Hi???”

Oh damn—

“I was just—” you pushed your glasses up with shaking fingers, fighting not to stammer. “I was wondering if… uhm—maybe I could sit in on one of your D&D campaigns? I mean... just watching... I—I’ve been reading the manuals, but I’d really like to see how it works, you know... in real life...”

The words tumbled out in a nervous rush, overlapping each other in an awkward monologue.

For a long moment Eddie just stared.

Then he snorted, shaking his head.

“Look, Hellfire isn't like... a circus attraction, Princess Layla. We don't hold open days for people who have nothing better to do than snoop around.”

A cacophony of whistles and howls rose from behind him.

Jeff muttered something you couldn’t quite catch and Gareth sneered under his breath.

Your heart sank into a pool of acid in your stomach, your face caught fire and fat tears blurred your vision in an instant.

But Eddie wasn’t done.

He leaned back, arms crossed now, trying for casual but coming off dismissive.

“It’s a serious thing. People are committed to it and don't want to be bothered by some gawk.”

Shame hit you crueler than any insult or mockery.

It was a hard slap right in your face and suddenly the weight of every zit on your forehead, every frizzy strand of hair, every oversized shirt and too-large jeans screamed at you from every direction.

You nodded frantically, already stepping back, desperate to disappear before your full implosion.

“Oh. Right. Yeah... of—of course,” you mumbled, hugging your book tighter. “Sorry. I—I didn’t mean to—ah!” You tripped over a small hole in the asphalt, losing your balance in a decidedly graceless manner.

Laughter exploded from the van and chased you as you practically ran across the parking lot.

You didn’t look back even by mistake and Eddie Munson, who had spent his whole life screaming about how people misjudged him, didn't even make the move to stop you and apologize for treating you like a complete idiot in front of everyone.

From that afternoon onwards you avoided him like the Bubonic Plague.

After a couple of weeks the Summer break eventually blessed you with some peace and stillness.

Maybe it was adolescence finally deciding to let you breath, or maybe you'd simply grown tired of hiding under layers of bashfulness and self-sabotage—or maybe it was the enormous emotional support your new age mom had wrapped you with—but when you walked back into Hawkins High in September it was like someone had swapped you out for a much brighter and confident twin.

Your essence hadn't changed, you had just transformed into the best version of yourself—the most faithful and natural possible.

You 'just' had to make a few small changes to your life.

Acne? Pill and skin routine. Glasses? Replaced with contacts—when you were not at home (and anyway you had bought a super cool frame).

Clothes? Let’s just say you had discovered the existence of comfortable yet cute items.

Fear of not being enough? So much, so much self-love... and a couple of enlightening books.

But the biggest one?

You had stopped chasing Eddie Munson.

Sure, your heart had still given you a little traitorous flutter when you had seen him for the first time back from holidays, but you no longer felt the urge to shove yourself into his orbit.

You had already done enough, you had already humiliated yourself enough.

If he wasn't interested in knowing you better, it was fine.

You were okay with it.

You had better things to do...

Or so you told yourself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Of course, destiny had other plans.

“Alright, class,” Mr. Clarke announced, clapping his hands in excitement. “Lab partners for the semester project. I will assign the pairs by drawing lots.”

You barely heard the rest, busy doodling galaxies in your notebook.

You just figured you’d get together with someone who wouldn’t show up for the first appointment and end up doing the whole work yourself, as always.

It was okay—now.

Better alone than in poor company.

You were halfway through a full moon phase when suddenly your ears caught something chilling: your last name and 'Munson' in the same sentence, close together.

Your pen froze mid-air.

What the fuck?!

He turned in his seat with the same expression of someone who’d just been sentenced to community service.

His bored gaze slid over the faces of the other students present, searching for yours, a frown between his brows.

When it landed on you, oddly, his pupils widened.

“…Wait!” His mouth opened like a fish out of water. “Are you really you?!”

You would have gladly strangled him.

You raised your eyebrows too. “Yeah. Hello. In case you forgot, we’ve had like... five classes together in the last two years.”

He blinked, swallowed, then blinked again.

Holy shit, you realized: he didn’t actually recognize you at first.

Eddie rubbed the back of his head, suddenly sheepish, a strange redness on his cheeks and nose.

“Uhm—well. Guess you, uh… changed your hair? And… no glasses anymore?”

You smirked. “Among other things, yes.”

The silence that fell between you wasn't awkward—not for you, at least—but for Eddie it obviously was.

He kept looking at you with those lost puppy eyes, his lips still slightly parted, his fingers drumming frantically on his knees.

Now that you noticed, he was also bouncing one foot against the linoleum in a nervous rhythm.

You sighed and got up from your desk to join him at his.

He practically jumped back with his chair to make room for you.

What a knight...

“So, how do you want to organize the project? It doesn't matter to me. I can do everything myself and put your name on it anyway if you don't—”

It took him a beat too long before realising what you were saying.

“What—why do you think I don't want to participate?!"

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at him and give a bitter laugh.

"I don't know, I was just saying. I wouldn't want my closeness to bother you."

Panic gripped him like a hyperactive demon.

"No! It's not... I wanna help, if you agree. Right? Science. Project. Togheter. Cool. Let’s—yeah... I can come to your house if that's okay with you.”

Your first instinct would have been to slap him and then laugh in his face, but you weren't a bitch.

Not like he had been with you.

Good... Science project with Eddie Munson looked like a lot of fun.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first time Eddie came over to your house, he expected—well, he wasn’t sure what he expected. Something classic, something ordinary… and instead it was a real smasher.

It seemed to have come out of one of those interior design magazines that you usually find in dentists waiting rooms.

Very simple but very cozy—very beautiful... like you, in a pair of tight cotton shorts, a t-shirt that slipped from a shoulder and a tall, messy bun.

And he definitely didn’t expect you to sit him down on the couch, crack open two Dr. Pepper, shove one into his hand and say, “So, Edward Munson. Why the hell do you always jump on cafeteria tables? Is it a height thing, or do you just like the view from up there?”

He nearly spit out his first sip of soda. “Excuse me, sweetheart?”

You grinned, sitting cross-legged on the multicolor rug in front of him.

“You think nobody notices you’re like... a one-man Broadway show at lunch? It’s impressive, really. I’ve just always wondered if it’s a power move or a hobby.”

For the first time ever, he was speechless... and in the best way.

He laughed—a real, belly-deep laugh that had you biting back your own smile. “Shit, you’re funny.”

Your chest loosened a bit, but you tried not to give in.

You hadn't—couldn't—forgot the lesson of your last intercourse in the school parking lot and you definitely were a person who learned from your mistakes.

But still, things between you started to change even without your blessing.

You joked, he pretended to be excessively offended.

You (pretended) to be serious, Eddie acted like a clown trying to break your sulk.

Sometimes you talked with such sagacity that he could only stare at you, admiring your spirit without an adequate answer.

The clear awareness of having been a complete idiot to you made its den in his stomach, making him feel like a non-so-little piece of shit.

Some work actually got done—shockingly enough—between fits of laughter and small moments of confidences and curiosities about eachother, so you scheduled to meet every Wednesday afternoon at yours to continue the project togheter.

In the following days Eddie started walking you to your locker after each class you had in common, everytime with some dumb excuse like, “well, it’s on my way,” when it really wasn’t or "I forgot the compass in my backpack".

He searched for you in the corridors or during breaks to exchange a few jokes or simply to know how you were doing.

And he looked at you.

A lot.

Really looked, as if he was seeing you for the first time every time.

After a couple of weeks he even asked if he could pick you up at home every morning and bring you back every afternoon, so you didn't have to take the bus.

"It's full of scum, honey. My van is safer, more comfortable and offers snacks at all hours."

You had accepted.

For you it was like a daydream—that closeness with him that you had longed for was finally building itself, and without you having to do anything in particular.

And yet something inside you whispered in the shadows, telling you not to get used to his presence, to his smiles, to those eyes that looked like melted chocolate...

At the end of the tenth study session, you were packing up notes and schemes when Eddie shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels in the middle of your living room.

You looked at him sideways; he had been agitated all day.

“So... uh,” he started, voice strangely nervous. “I’ve been thinking—”

You raised an eyebrow. “It is a very dangerous hobby.”

He shot you a flaming glare, but there was no anger in it, just... insecurity?

“Yeah, well... I was wondering if maybe, instead of—you know, doing this science thing all the time… you might want to do something else. With me. Like… not homework.”

Your heart skipped a beat but you tried to play it cool anyway. “Like what?”

His cheeks flushed red as he shrugged.

Eddie Munson, the guy who made entire classrooms his drama stage, actually blushed.

In front of you.

“Mh, I... Maybe you'd like to watch the next D&D campaign on Friday night? And maybe we could grab something to eat together after it? Pizza, cheeseburger... whatever you like.”

You stared at him for a long moment, savoring it—the perfect moment you've thinking about all fucking summer.

Your mum had tried every way to convince you that revenge would bring you no satisfaction, but you were of the opposite opinion.

You smiled, sweet and beaming, tasting the way he fidgeted, suddenly unsure of himself.

“I'd really like to, Eds! But I thought the Hellfire Club didn't hold open days for gawk and nosey people.”

His little, hopeful smile dropped from his lips and his heart did the same, sinking somewhere under his shoes.

“Okay, listen—yes… Well, I'm sorry for my behavior a few months ago.” He ran a hand through his curls, messing them up even more. “I've been an asshole. A stupid, insensitive and rude idiot, but I can assure you that I'm not that way. Now that we've gotten to know each other a little you can see it with your own eyes."

You might have been thirsty for revenge, but you would never have trampled on him.

You would never have given him a taste of his own bitter medicine.

"Eddie... I don't know if—"

"I beg you! —I really would like you to come. And spend some time alone, just the two of us. Please.”

“You think it didn’t hurt to see you ignoring me deliberately? Do you think an apology is enough to heal the wounds you caused me?”

You hadn't raised your voice, there was no need to.

Your calm, steady tone was better than any shout.

Eddie was starting to panic.

He wasn't used to situations like this and frankly, he thought you had already forgiven him, given your relaxed attitude toward him.

"No! Not at all! I can make it up to you! I can show you that I care about you!”

Seeing him so vulnerable hurt you, but by then Pandora's box had already been opened and your tongue was a raging river.

“You know... I didn't want anything special. I didn't expect a date, or love at First sight. I just wanted to get to know you better, share some common interests, maybe be your friend... nothing more.”

Silent tears began to stream down your cheeks, running down your neck and under your tee.

You swept them away with a quick flick of your fingers, ashamed of your reaction.

Eddie acted instinctively.

In three long strides he was in front of you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pushing you against his chest.

You let him, too surprised and happy to put a wall between you.

One of his hands rested on your nape, keeping you there, over his heart; the other arm slid around your waist, holding you without force, only tenderness and regret.

Maybe fear, too.

You could feel his pulse under your ear, the warmth of his skin under the well-worn Iron Maiden t-shirt.

His scent was an intoxicating blend of tobacco, cheap aftershave and peppermint chewing gum.

You loved it.

Your hands moved on their own, slipping around him.

You heard him inhale loud and clear, the movement of his rib cage made you imitate him.

“I’m sorry. I'm so sorry. You didn't deserved it. You don't deserve anything bad, only good things. Only the best this fucking world has to offer."

You sniffed (what a princess) and tightened your grip around his waist a little.

He ran his fingers through your hair, gently massaging your scalp with his fingertips.

"You know what, sweetheart? As punishment for being a complete jerk to you, I'm going to punch myself right in the face with my own rings on. Enjoy the show.”

Eddie let go of you, walking away a couple of steps, and a shaking but bright laugh escaped your throat, spontaneous and relaxing.

“You’re too cute, Munson. Don't ruin it.”

He blinked in disbelief, tilting his head and smirking.

“Am I, princess?”

It was your turn to blush.

You rolled your eyes as his smile turned into a grin.

“Luckily for you yes, you are... And I definitely talk too much.”

He chuckled and shoved you against him again, hugging you even tighter and making you sway gently on the spot with him.

Finally, you felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

A languid warmth spilled in the pit of your stomach, making you feel deeply connected to him.

And to the entire Universe—planets, stars, nebulae, galaxies and so on....

Long minutes passed like that, enjoying that unexpected, cozy closeness.

Then he sighed.

“Shit. I took a big risk, didn't I?”

You stopped your little weird dance to look at him straight in the eyes.

“Yep, definitely... But maybe you could really make it up to me Friday night.” You shot him a playful wink as you turned and headed for the kitchen. "But I warn you: I have very high expectations!”

He grinned, wide and wicked, following you and grabbing your hand to make you twist to him.

“So... it’s a date...”

“Damn right it is, Munson. Impress me, okay?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two evenings after, Eddie Munson was about to have a heart attack.

Or a syncope—or even a near-death experience, he didn't know.

The only thing he was sure of was that it was Friday and he was in love.

The Hellfire Club had gathered for the start of a new campaign—one he had poured his heart and soul into—and you were not there.

You said you'd be.

You two had a date right after.

Your first date.

Eddie had planned everything for you in every detail, prepared surprises that he was sure would make you squirm...

But you weren't there and your absence took his breath away.

He was loosing his fucking mind with every passing second, he could feel it.

Suddenly, the fact that you had insisted he shouldn't pick you up before heading to Hawkins High was starting to ring like a sinister and nefarious bell in his frying brain.

Six pairs of astonished and bored eyes were fixed on him, sitting on the throne he always stole from the theater group and surrounded by dozens of flickering candles.

He looked like a disgraced king without his queen, dark and tormented.

“Eddie please, can we start?” Gareth was exhausted.

“No.”

“She is not coming, okay? Let's accept it and move on as if nothing happened. It's not the first time a girl has stood you up...” Jeff was trying to make him see reason, but Eddie didn't take his eyes off the drama room door.

Only the subtle clenching of his jaw signaled that he was listening.

“Don't talk bullshit. She will come.”

Mike Wheeler rolled his eyes.

“You had treated her terribly, Eds. C'mon—she only made fun of you to get her revenge.”

Eddie rested his elbows on the table, interlacing his fingers and bringing them to his mouth; a deep, vertical line between his eyebrows.

“I said no bullshit, kiddos. You all have to wait.”

A concert of dissatisfied grunts and half-voiced curses filled the air, but he didn't give a fuck.

“Even you weren't this submissive when you met El... and that says everything.”

Eddie glared at Lucas Sinclair as if he wanted to pulverize him on the spot, but said nothing.

The worm of doubt began to gnaw at his loins, making him fidget on the throne.

Maybe those bastards were right: he had behaved so badly towards you that you would have had no wrong in returning him the favor.

Next time he saw you, he wouldn't even open his fucking mouth.

No accusations, no anger; just this hollow, gut-punch certainty that he held something goddamn precious in his calloused hands—a real, living treasure—and he fucking let it slip right through his fingers.

Like sand through a cracked hourglass.

Like smoke from a dying joint.

Like the last note of a killer solo fading into dead silence without any applause.

Gone forever.

Scattered to the wind he himself had summoned, because apparently he couldn't allow himself nothing beautiful in his tragic existence.

“I don't know... it seems quite strange to me. I don't know her that well, but she doesn't seem like the kind of girl who acts like that.”

Indeed, goddamn it!

Dustin Henderson was fucking right.

You weren't like other girls.

You weren't a vain cheerleader with a boyfriend on the basketball or rugby teams.

You weren't the classic snobbish, perfect first-of-the-class with her nose up in the air.

You were you—spontaneous, funny, brilliant, beautiful—and you would never have behaved that way.

Even if he had been a moron to you in the past.

Eddie slammed his palms on the table, making the dice and everyone present jump.

"Fuck you, man! What the hell—"

He jumped to his feet.

“Okay, I've had enough. I'm going to get her. There is surely a plausible explanation.”

Pulling on his leather jacket and patched denim vest, he paid no attention to the chorus of protests and complaints rising around him. Everything was background noise—only you were the main melody.

He hurried out of the door, almost running through the deserted corridors towards the parking lot and his van.

Maybe something happened to her... God, can you imagine if she fell down the stairs and broke something and you waited all this time like a stupid idiot to come looking for her...

He turned the last corner before the main exit and what suddenly lay before him made his blood run cold—then fucking hot.

Burning.

You were there, your back pressed against the wall, Jason Carver practically lying on top of you.

Two of his henchmen supervised the scene, cackling like brainless hyenas.

“God, look at you. You think a miniskirt and some mascara erases years of being a loser?” Jason’s drawl cut through the empty space, dripping venom and malice.

You stood your ground, though Eddie could see your hands trembling as you clutched your bag between your bodies, trying to create some kind of barrier.

“Shut the fuck up, Carver. At least I don’t spend my life riding daddy’s money and bullying people because I’ve got nothing else to offer.”

“Ohhh,” one of the goons taunted. “She even talks now!”

Jason sneered, his fingers grabbed your chin.

“You know, all Hawkins High knows about your little crush. Years drooling over Eddie the Freak Munson. How pathetic.”

Years?!

Eddie felt his stomach tighten and so did his fists.

“Guess what, sweetheart? That's what he calls you, right? Makeup or no makeup, nobody wants you. Not even him... and it's not like the King of the weirods can exactly afford to be picky...”

More silly giggles, your skin turned purple with anger.

Your breath hitched, but your chin stayed high, eyes planted in his.

That did it.

“Eddie is more of a man than you and your gang of scoundrels put together. And at least he’s not an asshole.”

"Oh yeah? And how do you know it? Has he already screw you in the back of that filthy van?" He leaned near your mouth, clenching your jaw in a pout that any other time would have been cute and tender. "And tell me... do you like to take it doggy style or to choke on it? Just to avoid wasting time and get straight to the funny part...”

Eddie didn’t think anymore—he just moved.

“HEY! CARVER!”

His voice cracked across the hall like a thunder.

You looked at him as if he was a mirage in the middle of Sahara.

All four heads snapped toward him in perfect unison as he strode forward—eyes blazing like molten steel, fists already itching with the promise of violence.

Jason smirked, though Eddie caught the flicker of uncertainty at the sight of his furious face.

“Well, speak of the devil... We were just talking about you, Munson.”

He didn't wait and grabbed him by the jacket, pushing him hard away from you.

“Yeah?” Eddie spat, his voice low, dangerous. “Then let’s skip the gossip and cut straight to the point where I tell you to back the fuck off.”

Jason stumbled and laughed, trying to play it cool.

“What are you gonna do, freak? Cast a spell on me and—”

The punch landed before he could finish the sentence.

Bone met bone and rings with a sickening crack and Jason fell against the opposite wall, thick floods of blood spurting from his broken nose.

Eddie didn’t flinch—he shook out his fingers and glared at all three of them like he’d burn them alive if they even breathed wrong.

The other two idiots grabbed him, wide-eyed and ass-kisser until the very end.

"You're dead, son of a bitch!"

“Don't you ever dare talk to my girlfriend like that again, or I swear to God I’ll make you regret it.” Eddie’s voice trembled with pure rage. “Don’t even look at her—got it, assholes?”

Jason groaned something clutching his ruined face, but no one had the courage to argue back.

They only lifted their boss from under his arms and practically ran, vanishing into the dark outside.

The hall fell silent again, save for your labored breathing.

You didn’t let him finish, launching forward, arms wrapping tight around his neck, your face buried into the crook of his shoulder—his perfect scent immediately grounding you through the chaos.

Eddie turned to you, heart still hammering, adrenaline making his hands tremble.

You looked so beautiful in that tartan skirt, thin stockings, super tight top—and that fucking moron had dared to say horrible things to you...

“You ok, love? 'cause I need to step away for a second. I'm afraid I went too soft on 'em and—"”

He hugged you right away, his lips resting on your forehead.

“Thank you Eddie,” you whispered, voice little and shaky.

Without realizing it, you began to sway without moving your feet—exactly like he had done just a couple of days earlier in your living room.

Eddie recognize it right away and followed you, a small chuckle escaping his throat.

It was your own little dance.

"I'm sorry for what happened. I'm sorry I was late."

You shook your head, enjoying the smell of his skin and the rough caress of his hair. "You weren't late. You were just perfect."

His grip around your waist tightened softly. "I still want to kick their asses until they get to Alaska..."

He was caught off guard—something that only happened with you this often.

You laughed, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes—a mischievous grin tugging your lips. “Not worth it, you'd hurt your feet. Let's talk about serious things instead... since when am I your girlfriend?!”

His mouth opened and closed, then curved into his signature cocky smirk.

“Since right now, sweetheart.”

And before you could tease him again, he kissed you.

It wasn’t shy.

It wasn’t tentative.

It was every ounce of pent-up want and regret and relief, crashing into you like a tsunami.

His hands framed your face, your fingers fisted in his shirt, and when his tongue asked permission to enter and caressed yours in a warm, wet wave, your legs almost gave out.

When he pulled back—too soon, in your opinion—both of you were breathless, flushed, lips swollen and dreamy eyes.

You laughed and cried at the same time, so happy it doesn't seem real.

He chuckled, pressing his forehead on yours.

“Let’s get out of here. First date: greasy dinner at Benny's and horror movie at the drive in. A mountain of popcorn and liters of Coca-Cola. The whole nine yards. My van’s got your name on it. And so my heart.”

“Sounds perfect to me, but what about your Hellfire folks?”

“Don't worry, they'll survive without me for once.”

He took your hand, intertwined your fingers carefully with a satisfied smile and leading you outside, across the parking lot.

The night was warm, clear, perfectly starry.

He winked, opening the passenger door for you with a small bow.

“I want to dedicate myself only to you tonight. And all the other nights, or evenings, or mornings, or afternoons you want me to.”

Your eyes were two bright, pulsating red hearts as you get comfortable onto the well-worn leather seat.

“I must admit it: this is a dream come true. The most beautiful, perfect one.”

Eddie kissed you quickly, laughing like a happy child as he ran to the driver's side and started the engine.

“And the best thing is it will never end. I promise you, sweetheart.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's Notes: this oneshot was born from an anonymous request sent to @ashwhowrites, who wrote her delightful story—which I recommend—inspiring me to write my own version.

I apologize for any errors, but since English isn't my first language I tried to do my best.

Let me know if you liked this story and if so, please share it so I can expand my little circle of readers. Thank you! 💗 🤟🏻