#sanctified

†

It was hard to decide which could be worse. Hearing it straight from him, or finding out the way you did — through other people's whispers, in passing, like it was nothing.

"Did you hear? Father Hollis asked to be transferred," one of the older women said.

"What a shame, he was so sweet," another answered.

"Maybe he got himself in trouble again."

Gossip, rumors, everyone with a theory about what led him to just flee town without a word to anyone but the bishop. Nobody had the answer. Nobody except you. You were the only person in the entire town who knew for certain why he wasn't there anymore — and that knowledge sat in you like a stone, heavy and entirely yours, with no one to share the weight of it.

It was almost like the version of him you knew had barely existed at all. Like he'd faded into something that could've been imagination only, entirely made up, a fever dream you'd talked yourself into and back out of. You had nothing left of him except the rosary he gave you. The one you kept close every night, the one you'd wrap around your fingers and squeeze just tight enough to feel the ache of it, just enough that for a brief moment you had something solid. A small thread. The tiniest proof that he had been real, and that he had been yours, even if only in the places nobody else could see.

The first time you saw him, you didn't even know who he actually was. You were in the back of the church, hiding from all the noise of the fair, busy smoking a cigarette, when a tall figure stepped outside. He froze instantly just at the sight of you.

"I didn't know this was… Didn't know there was…" He stumbled over his words. Still, his voice was steady, almost like he was putting effort into restraining himself.

You glanced his way, half a grin, while exhaling. "Relax, you can join me."

It was late afternoon. The light was starting to fade, the sky no longer orange but a deepening blue, calling the night in. Because of that you could barely make out the man who'd stepped outside with you—the only thing you caught was how ridiculously tall he was, and it only became more obvious as he stepped closer.

"Can I bum one of those?" He pointed to the cigarette in your hand.

In a small flicker of light you caught his face—a few strands of light blonde hair falling against his cheek. He had a sharp gaze that didn't match his slow, soft-spoken voice.

"Yeah… sure." Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to. You cleared your throat, grabbed the pack of cigarettes from your pocket, and held it out his way. He took one.

"You're new here?" you asked, watching him light the cigarette. The ember reflected off his face as he took a drag.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," he said, exhaling, a smile tugging at his mouth. It was a gentle smile, polite even, but it suited his face so well it had you thinking nonsense. "Don't remember seeing you around."

"I lived here my whole life, actually. Been away for a year for college but… I dropped it."

He hummed and nodded. "That explains it. I've only been here a couple of months. So yeah, I'm new."

He was cute, nodding as he spoke, with an awkward smile that made it look like he thought through every word before saying it.

"And what brought you here?" You tilted your head, not bothering to hide your smile, amused by the tall creature in front of you.

"Work." He nodded again.

"Work? Like, you work at the church?" you asked, frowning.

He was about to answer when a voice cut you off. One of the older ladies you recognized from your catechism days at that same parish appeared in the doorway.

"Ooh, found you, Father." She said, hand to her chest. You barely registered the rest — you got stuck on that one word. Father. "Father Angelo is asking for you."

"Oh, sure," he said, pressing his cigarette out against the wall before tossing it. "If you'll excuse me—?"

"Y/n," you said, still a little caught off guard.

"Thank you for the cigarette." He was already stepping away, throwing a quick glance your way.

Later that same fair, you saw him in the crowd. By the dessert table, surrounded by older parishioners demanding far too much of his attention. He offered them a polite, gentle smile, laughing lightly every now and then. He wasn't in the hoodie anymore — he was in his collar now, all black outfit, and you could finally see his face properly: pale skin, light hair. That same stiff, contained posture, but he moved with a delicacy you'd never seen in a man — slow, unhurried, the same way his voice had been earlier.

"He's something, isn't he?" one of your stepmother's friends said. "What a waste."

You heard the small circle of women laugh. Then another added, "God forgive me, but I can certainly see why he got in trouble at his last parish."

Trouble? you thought. You should have stopped the feeling right there—the curiosity, the little flame igniting in your chest as you wondered what he could have done. But you didn't. Nothing in that whole town seemed half as interesting to you as the boy a few feet away, serving cake to an elderly woman.

Later on, you were watching your little brother negotiate sandbox real estate with three other seven-year-olds when you caught him in your peripheral vision. He'd stepped closer to the kids, crouching down in front of them, laughing at their little dispute — another unhurried sound that would've seemed rehearsed if his expression hadn't been so in harmony with it. He didn't even seem to notice you. He leaned toward your brother and whispered something that made the boy grin like he'd just been handed humankind's biggest secret.

You watched him crouch beside your brother, and something in your chest went soft — annoyingly soft. He looked so natural like this. He talked to the kid the same way you'd talk to an adult — rational, straightforward. Awkward, again, in that same endearing way.

His eyes only found you when he stood up, brushing the sand off his knees. He almost flinched, something shifting across his face, like he'd been caught.

"Didn't know rescue helicopter retrieval was in the job description for a Father," you said.

"It isn't. I'm doing the diocese a favor."

"Very charitable of you."

"It's the job." He fought back a smile. You didn't bother—you smirked right at him. A whole second of exchanged looks. "Oh, I forgot, I didn't introduce myself back there. I'm Father Hollis. Or just Hollis, if you prefer, I don't know if you—"

He extended his hand while he talked, polite and diplomatic. You caught his grip, laughing as he lost his way with words.

"I prefer Father." You gave him your best falsely innocent smile. "But it's good to know your name."

"Yeah, sure." Only then did you let go of his hand. He glanced away while you kept your eyes on his face. "Well, I think I should… someone might need me."

"Of course," you said, nodding. "Go on, Father."

You didn't see him again that evening. But you thought about the word trouble more than you probably should have, and found yourself, annoyingly, looking forward to whatever happened the next time you ran into him.

†

Ran into him was a generous way of putting it, because the following Sunday you went after him. Your stepmother was surprised when you showed up at nine a.m., dressed up and ready. One thing was your father forcing you to a town fair with your stepmother. Another thing entirely was you choosing to go with her, of your own free will.

She wasn't the worst, your stepmother. Sometimes she even tried too hard—too nice, too gentle, too sweet. And just to spite your father, you treated all of that kindness with antagonism.

It had been so long since you'd been to mass, since you'd sat on those old wooden benches and watched a full ceremony. But that morning your eyes stayed glued to the altar, the words blurring together in your head while his figure beside Father Angelo stayed completely in focus. In his vestments he seemed different — a little more serious, more composed. He still had that same unhurried posture, still moved without urgency, but he carried an undeniable presence now — or maybe, by then, you were already too far gone on him to tell the difference.

You weren't sure if he'd noticed you in your seat; his eyes drifted without settling on anything in particular. But he definitely saw you when you stood and got in line for communion. You caught the exact moment his eyes widened, just slightly, at the sight of you—you weren't imagining it.

"The body of Christ." he said.

"Amen," you replied.

You opened your mouth and he placed the wafer on your tongue. One more second of eye contact before you turned your back to him. You weren't sure why, but it thrilled you all the way back to your seat. And you felt it even more once you sat down, finding out his gaze was still on you.

†

After the mass ended, you lingered nearby while your stepmother got swallowed by a swarm of women starving for gossip, or whatever it was they were doing. You glanced outside—your brother was running across the parking lot—and when you looked back at the church, you caught him stepping through a door at the side of the altar. Just like that, he became the only thing on your mind.

Curiosity won out, and like a creep—or a very curious lady—you went after him. The door led to a hallway lined with other doors. There was no sign of him anywhere, except for one door that stood half open, a flicker of light spilling into the poorly lit hallway. Getting closer, you caught sight of him taking off his stole, then the other vestments he'd worn for mass. Underneath, he was in all black—no collar, though. He folded them so carefully, his long fingers running over the fabric in a way that was almost hypnotic. He stepped out of your line of sight for a second—you assumed he was just crossing the room—but then the door swung open wider. His frame filled the doorway, his gaze settling down on you.

"Can I help you?" he asked. His voice was rigid, although still unhurried.

"I think I got lost." You took a step back.

"You got lost? Back here?" He raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah," you smiled, a sheepish smile hiding your embarrassment. "I was looking for you, actually."

"Sure," he said, that sharp gaze still on you — not judgmental, maybe just uncomfortable. "How can I help you?"

"Can I come in?"

"Why would—" You gave him no chance, stepping inside the small room anyway. Some kind of wardrobe room, or something like it. Later on you learned it was called the sacristy.

"It was a great mass, Father," you said, looking around, fussing with things. He stayed in the doorway, closing it almost all the way shut — almost. "Very moving. All the… fire and brimstone stuff."

"There was no fire and brimstone. You weren't listening," he said, watching you walk around.

"Must have been confused, 'cause I was listening." You grabbed one of the vestments. "What's this called?"

"It's a chasuble," he said, dry. "What do you really want, y/n?"

You kept looking around. "Can't a loyal parishioner congratulate the new priest?"

"There's nothing loyal about you," he said, folding his arms, an eyebrow arching.

"Excuse me?" You stopped, looking up at him.

"I was told you haven't been a regular at this church in a very long time."

"Yeah, 'cause I was away," you pouted, falsely innocent. He didn't even move.

"Not what they told me." He leaned against the doorframe, that same unwavering look.

"And who are they? Have you been asking about me, Father?"

Finally—something. His eyes flickered over you, his posture stiffening. He cleared his throat before saying, "Not really. Mrs. Pruitt saw me talking to you at the fair and told me she knew you, so I—"

"You asked." You grinned, victorious.

"It's my job to know the members of my parish." He was rigid now, his voice low.

"And isn't it your job to welcome back the long-lost sheep?"

"That's not—" He sighed. "You're mocking me. But you're welcome, y/n, if you're being honest."

He was being genuine—no undertone, just plainly kind despite the way you were acting—and you almost felt bad for it. Almost.

"I'll think about it, Father." You stepped closer. He leaned back, posture straightening, since there was less than an arm's length between you now.

"Will you let me go?" You looked toward the door he was still standing in front of, and his face went almost red.

"Yes, yes, of course…" He took a long step away from the door.

You almost laughed at that. Instead, you just looked down and past him. You were already a few steps into the hallway, on your way back, when you heard your name and glanced back. "You shouldn't commune if you're dirty."

"If I'm what?" You frowned, genuinely caught by surprise.

"It's the body of Christ. You have to wash your sins off to commune. I mean, if you want to return, you should know that."

"Wash my sins off?" You wore that same frown as you turned fully to face him. "And how am I supposed to do that, Father?"

"Confessing," he said, like it was obvious.

"Oh, yes, I knew that," you smacked your forehead as if it had been obvious all along. "Of course I knew that."

He let out a chuckle, unguarded and sweet, then just nodded to himself, still smiling in that endearing way that almost made you feel proud to be the cause of it. You stepped away after a second of just staring at him, said your goodbye, and as you reached the door back to the hall, you heard, "See you next Sunday."

†

Your stepmother brought it up while you were making coffee one morning. She had a basket full of laundry balanced on her hip and stopped in the kitchen doorway, talking to your father.

"Father Angelo says it's time for Tony to start catechism, since he's turning eight in the fall." Your father had his eyes glued to a newspaper, a piece of toast in hand.

"Is that so?" he said, uninterested. You almost groaned at that.

"Yes, but it's on Saturday mornings, and I have my—"

They went back and forth, your father being impossibly difficult about it, insisting he couldn't make it work, while she pushed back because she genuinely had reasons of her own. You stayed out of it—until you heard it.

"The church isn't even twenty minutes from here. It's an hour-and-a-half class, you wouldn't even—"

"I can take him." You said it quickly.

Both of them turned to look at you, surprised. You tried to hide your own reaction behind a sip of coffee.

"You?" Your father was the first to speak. "Are you ill or something?"

"That's very sweet of you, actually, y/n," your stepmother said, her tone infinitely warmer than his. "If you're sure."

You smiled cynically at your father, then turned a more genuine smile to her. "I don't have anything going on Saturdays. I can do that for little Tony."

You could see why they were surprised. You were surprised yourself — the second you heard the word church, you barely thought twice. It was a chance to be there beyond Sunday, because for some reason that small exchange in the sacristy room hadn't fulfilled your curiosity yet. Or whatever that feeling was. You were still turning the word trouble over in your head, still drawn to whatever was going on behind that collar, behind the sweet, boyish look of that servant of God.

On Friday night, you said goodbye early from a hangout at one of your friends' places. Everyone was sprawled across the couches and floor of the living room, one of your friends going on about her ex while you were too stoned to keep track. When you checked your phone, the time sent a jolt through you. Barely past midnight, and you were already on your feet, collecting your jacket.

"Hey, where are you going, girl?" Amelia, your best friend since middle school, said.

"I have something tomorrow morning, gotta go," you said, already moving. They kept frowning at you.

"You? Busy, on a Saturday morning?" some guy said, mid-laugh.

"Yeah, gonna take my brother to catechism." You didn't even look at them. You knew what was coming. The room burst with comments and laughter. "I'm being a good sister, alright?"

"Yeah, right, saintly y/n, always so mindful," someone said, and you rolled your eyes.

You almost felt embarrassed leaving—not because of their comments, but because there was nothing actually altruistic about what you were doing.

The next morning you were up before your alarm, slipped into a mid-length dress you hadn't worn since you were fourteen, and were grateful your stepmother only gave you a look before you left with your brother.

"Isn't Father Hollis who teaches?" you asked, frowning. The young woman at the front just smiled at you.

"Oh, no, dear. Father Hollis has much more to do on Saturdays than teach catechism."

"Yeah, I bet…" You nodded, a bit disappointed. The one thing you'd been hoping to see.

"Mhm," you said, then leaned down toward your brother. "I'll be waiting for you out here, alright?" He just muttered in response, too focused on another kid's yo-yo.

All that was left for you was to wander the church grounds for the next hour, clinging to a faint thread of hope that you'd find him somewhere. But he wasn't in the sacristy, wasn't in the chapel, and somehow you ended up sitting on a stone bench in the side garden, staring at the dead rosebushes and the ivy creeping up the stone wall.

"Sunday's tomorrow, last time I checked." Like an alarm going off inside you, his voice cut through the quiet like static. You turned. He was standing there, just stepped outside, barely glancing your way as he walked toward the plants with a can you figured was for watering them. He had on a long vestment, all black, the white collar at his throat, and somehow he looked even taller than usual. It took you a moment to answer. You swallowed the smoke, exhaled.

"I'm here with my brother." It was all you managed to say as you watched him water the plants.

"Don't see him anywhere," he said, direct, not looking at you yet.

"He's at class," you answered. He rolled his sleeve up past his elbow, and you felt like a creep just watching him move. "Catechism."

"Is that so? Good sister, you," he said in that same slow, unhurried way, and for a second you wondered if he knew how teasing his voice sounded.

"I try my best," you shrugged. "What about you? Is gardening also in the job description?"

There it was—a small, contained smile you caught sideways. "It's not. I'm doing the diocese a favor."

And then you were smiling too, the cigarette still between your lips. For a while the place stayed quiet, just the sound of water hitting soil, just his tall, pale figure moving like time itself was bending to his will. When he finished, he glanced your way for the first time. He didn't quite look you over, but his eyes fell briefly to your dress. No comment—but you smirked.

"You shouldn't smoke here. It's bad for the plants," he said, taking a few small strides your way.

"They don't seem to be doing very well already," you said, glancing at the dead roses.

"Fair." He chuckled, nodding in that same manner of his. "In that case, can I bum some of those?"

It took you a second, the smile growing on your face, before you grabbed your pack and held it out. "Course, Father."

You handed him a cigarette, lighter already in hand. He lit up, and you watched closely as his cheeks hollowed with the first drag. In broad daylight you could see every detail of him. His eyes weren't brown—they were hazel, and when the light caught them just right, they could almost pass for mossy green, framed by a fair fringe of lashes. Faint acne scars lined his jaw and chin, making him look younger than he probably was. Plump lips that you couldn't help but notice thinning around the cigarette. And his fingers—long but delicate—held it in a loose, practiced grip, like he'd been doing it since he was young.

"Staring is rude," he said, and you almost choked.

"I was not," you said, glancing away. "I was just thinking—since when do you smoke? It's not usual to see priests smoking."

"Actually, it's more common than you'd think," he said, offering a light smile, sitting beside you. "I started in seminary. Never quit."

"Aren't you supposed to abandon this type of thing? Like vices and shit. Isn't that a sin?" You looked at him with genuine curiosity, and he cracked a smile — gentle, innocent.

"We're all sinners, y/n," he said, looking straight at you. Down at you, actually. It wasn't just his height — he seemed to look above everything, somehow. "Even me. Even Father Angelo."

"And what makes you different from a regular sinner like me?"

He chuckled first, lightly. "A regular sinner. That's a good question, actually," he said, pulling a drag, looking away. "Nothing differs us. We're all the same under His grace. I just made a vow to abandon the sins of the flesh, to dedicate my life and obedience to the Word. And to spread it."

"So you're just a bit more masochistic than the rest of us?" you said, and he laughed — that same slow sound you'd heard while he played with your brother.

"You can put it that way." He looked back at you.

"That's wild," you said, having to look away for a brief second—his gentle eyes were almost unsettling. You stared down at your hand on the stone bench, then back up at him. "That whole thing, saving others from sin while still being a sinner yourself."

"I'm not saving anyone. I'm guiding," he said, then paused. "Sinners are saved by grace through faith, not by their own good deeds."

"Those are pretty words, Father."

"It's from the Bible, y/n," he said, smiling again. You almost asked him to stop.

"Yeah, yeah, I knew that already, of course." You smiled, pretending you'd known all along, in a way that was almost funny. He laughed lightly again.

You left church that morning not feeling just the thrill of curiosity. His company, his gentle eyes on you, his soft-spoken voice — all of it combined in a way that was almost pleasing. He was actually nice. Genuinely sweet. And still, you kept wondering what kind of trouble a man like that could've possibly gotten himself into.

†

The next day, Sunday, you were at church again. Hollis was celebrating the mass alone this time. From what you'd heard, Father Angelo would be stepping away from the parish soon due to health issues—moving to the diocese, probably—and Hollis would take over as head priest, or something like that.

This time you didn't get in line for communion. You stayed in place, and after he'd given the wafer to everyone, his eyes found you. You smiled, polite, all pretend innocence. He just nodded, and you almost caught a half smile from him.

You didn't follow him after mass this time. You just watched as he collected a few pieces from the altar, helped the parishioners and the deacon. Again, you couldn't help but notice how he moved. Something about his gentleness made you uneasy. Not because it didn't look sincere, but because it looked too genuine. Like he was almost unreal. It made you feel hot without even realizing it.

"He's nice, isn't he?" Your stepmother's voice startled you.

"He's pretty… decent." You almost sighed, still watching him. "For a priest, I don't know much about priests."

You turned away, heading back to the car, hiding how flustered you were. You wondered how long you'd have kept staring at him at the altar if your stepmom hadn't interrupted you. Probably longer than you expected to. Probably longer than you were proud to admit.

†

The following weeks fell into a rhythm you couldn't quite explain.

Saturday mornings, you drove your brother to catechism. You arrived on time, leaving later than made sense — you gave an excuse that your brother was playing with the other kids just to talk to Father Hollis a bit longer. And somewhere in between you and Hollis built an unspoken little ritual — he'd always meet there, at the same time. 

"You really think you can make these roses come back to life, huh?" you said, watching him work the garden.

"I gotta try. I know they're not dead for sure," he said, still focused. His sleeve was pushed up to his forearm.

You stepped closer, curious, looking past his shoulder to see what he was doing. His long fingers pressed carefully into the soil, working in some product you didn't recognize.

"See how the stem's still a little green?" He held it up to show you, though you could barely make out any green in it at all.

"Sure, Father," you said, holding back a laugh. He looked at you, offended, or pretending to be.

"Oh, just give me a cigarette," he said, straightening up. It always struck you how big he looked up close. It did something to your insides, every time.

"Bad news, I already smoked while you were playing gardener with the roses." You held both hands behind your back, pulling a face. He cracked a smile despite himself.

"So you're just gonna leave me here alone?"

"Can't even smoke without me?" You tilted your head, daring him. You half-expected him to step back, falter, the way he usually did. He didn't.

"I enjoy your company." He said it plainly, seriously. Your smile nearly faltered — until he added, "Don't make it weird."

"I can always find an excuse for one more." You made a show of patting your pockets for your pack, handed him one, then grabbed another for yourself.

He lit his first, still watching you, and when you went to light yours, the wind seemed to mock your disbelief over the roses—it kept snuffing the flame before it caught. You tried again, and again, fingers fumbling with the lighter. "Fuck it," you muttered.

"Hey, easy. You'll only burn your fingers like that."

You watched, frozen, as he leaned down, the tip of his cigarette closing in toward yours, his hand cupped around the flame to shield it from the wind. You inhaled, but you barely registered the cigarette catching between your lips. He was close—close enough you could see every detail of his face—and he was looking back at you, staring so intently it didn't even seem like him.

"There you go," he said, the cigarette still between his lips, making his voice come out strange.

"You know what you're doing." You meant the cigarette. It could've meant something else.

"Years of experience." He exhaled, more smoke than necessary, like he needed somewhere to put the air in his lungs. 

†

You asked him things. Stupid things, mostly, the kind of questions you didn't actually care about the answers to, just wanted to keep his voice going a little longer. What's your favorite book of the Bible? Do priests get vacation days? Are priests allowed to have a favorite parishioner? — he got flustered at the last one — He answered everything with that same patient, unhurried cadence, sometimes serious, sometimes turning the question back on you until you were the one squirming under it.

"So you read through the whole thing?" you asked.

"I did, and some extra texts on top of it," he said, explaining the Bible's books to you — the old and new testaments, how and why they'd been separated. Even when you called it a scam, he laughed.

"Wow, last time I read a book I was thirteen, and it was a teen romance novel," you said, no shame in it, just laughing.

"You know, we have a library here at the church. You could borrow something, it'd be good for you." He looked down at you — you were sitting side by side, the kind of comfortable proximity you'd both gotten used to by now.

He showed you the library. A small, dusty room with a few shelves arranged into narrow corridors. You walked beside him through it, and when you turned to look at a title, he ended up right behind you, watching over your shoulder. He didn't touch you, of course, but you could feel him there all the same.

"Hey, what's this? Provocative Short Stories of Sensuality." You read the back cover out loud — a collection of sexual tales, apparently. You knew Father Hollis was watching over your shoulder as you read it. "What's this doing on church grounds?" You glanced back at him, grinning.

"It really shouldn't be here," he said, genuinely concerned.

You opened the book, flipping pages, and he stiffened beside you. That only made you smile wider.

"Ooh, check this out," you said. "When she closed her eyes she felt he had many hands, which touched her everywhere, and many mouths, which passed so swiftly over her, and with a wolflike sharpness, his teeth sank into her fleshiest parts. Naked now, he lay his full length over her. She enjoyed his weight on her, enjoyed being crushed under his body. She wanted him soldered to her, from mouth to feet. Shivers passed through her body."

"Y/n, stop that." He reached for the book, but you dodged, slipping away from him down the narrow corridor of shelves. He followed.

You kept reading anyway, giggling through it.

"'How do I look to him?' she asked herself. She got up and brought a long mirror toward the window. She stood it on the floor against a chair. Then she sat down in front of it on the rug and, facing it, slowly opened her legs. The sight was enchanting. The skin was flawless, the vulva, roseate and full…"

"Hey, lower your voice!" he hissed. You laughed.

"This is too much fun, Father, that's exactly the kind of book I—" You stopped mid-sentence, your eyes catching on a line further down the page. Something about it didn't feel like a joke anymore.

He came up right behind you, reaching to take the book, but his eyes landed on the same line you'd just read, and he stopped too, just for a moment.

He didn't read it out loud. But you both knew exactly what was written there.

He had not touched me. He did not need to. His presence had affected me in such a way that I felt as if he had caressed me for a long time.

"You can keep this one," he said after a while, handing it back to you. "I wouldn't know what to do with it anyway."

"Thanks, Father," you said, quiet. Small. He just nodded and walked away. You followed him in silence.

That single exchange made you start to ponder the thought that maybe it wasn't just you pushing. It wasn't just in your head. It wasn't just curiosity at all. It was growing into a fixation you couldn't move on from. 

†

Some other Saturday, Hollis didn't show up at the garden at his usual time. You couldn't help but wander around, searching like you'd lost something. You ended up discovering a small chapel on the exterior part of the church grounds. It looked older than the church itself, cracks running along the white walls, and when you stepped inside you caught his frame easily.

His back was turned to you. He was kneeling at the altar. It felt intimate, like he was in a state that shouldn't be interrupted, and you almost considered leaving. But then you heard his voice, deep and low, muttering words you couldn't make out—praying. You'd never heard his voice sound so deep and frantic at once.

"Y/n." His voice echoed, and your heart jumped. How had he even noticed you?

"I'm sorry, didn't mean to interrupt." You felt genuinely embarrassed.

"Not the first time." It could've been playful, but his voice was too serious for that. You didn't remember any other time you'd interrupted his praying.

Father Hollis stood, slow and unhurried as always, but this time he looked tired. He turned to face you.

"You didn't show up at the garden, so—"

"You came looking for me." He tilted his head, hair falling to the side of his face.

"Something like that." Pride shattered somewhere in your chest at the admission. "You pray a lot."

"I'm a priest." He said it without much humor, almost cynical. "It's part of the job."

You glanced down at his hands. He held a rosary — a wooden one.

"Is that a rosary?"

"For the looks of it..." He grinned.

"Rude." You folded your arms, and he chuckled. Then an idea struck — a stupid one, just for more of his attention. "Can you teach me?"

He blinked. "Teach you?"

"The rosary. I never quite learned."

He stared at you, not smiling anymore, a bluntly restrained look that almost had you bracing for a refusal. But then: "Sit with me."

You knelt beside him, in front of a pew. His frame next to yours was breathtaking as always, and up close you caught the faint scent of him — cigarettes, something clean and sweet underneath.

"Here," he said, holding the rosary out to you. "Take it."

You took it, expecting him to simply explain. Instead his hand came over yours. "You hold it here."

You glanced up at him, then down at his hands as they positioned your fingers over the crucifix. His grip was firm but light, gentler than you'd imagined. It left your hands tingling.

"We'll do it together, alright?" You nodded, lips pressed together. "You're actually paying attention. Never seen you this quiet."

You smiled, looked down. "Yeah. I want to learn, Father."

The truth was you were about to hyperventilate just from him holding your hand.

"Make the sign of the cross," he said, and you did. He did the same, watching you the whole time. While you crossed yourself, his eyes dropped briefly to your chest.

"Here we pray the Apostles' Creed," he said, recomposing himself. "With me, alright?" You nodded; he smiled, amused.

I believe in God, the Father Almighty…

You followed his words, followed his hand through each bead, listened as he explained the mysteries to you. The repetition might have been tedious under any other circumstance, the ache building in your knees from kneeling too long might have annoyed you any other day — but right then, you couldn't get enough of it. His warm grip around your hand. His voice just above you. His eyes finding yours every time you professed the words together. Something unspoken running beneath all of it, lingering between you.

O merciful, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary.

You finished the last bead alongside him, your hand moving to make the sign of the cross before he could prompt you, and this time he followed your lead instead, mirroring you.

You expected him to let go once it ended. Instead, his hand slid up to your wrist, his finger tracing along the inside of it, pressing right over your pulse. When you looked up at him again, he wasn't looking at your face — just your hand.

"Father?" Your voice came out low, airy.

"Do you know why I pray the rosary?" he asked, still holding you.

"Why?"

"To keep my head focused." He was still looking down, fixated on your hand, his thumb now brushing slow circles against your skin. "Where it should be."

"Does it work?" You didn't dare move. Whatever trance he was in, it felt wrong to break it.

"It used to." Only then did he look up at you.

You tried not to read too much into that, but it was impossible — he'd said it while looking at you, while still tracing your skin. It killed you, the way he wouldn't just say what he was thinking outright.

"I like them," he said, his fingers following the line of your veins, his eyes almost fascinated. "Your hands."

"You— what?" You stuttered.

"Mhm. We should—" He let go of your hand abruptly, like he'd just woken up from something.

"No—yes, of course." You looked away. "My knees are killing me."

He stood first, offered you a hand, and you took it for support, even though you didn't really need it.

"Thanks for teaching me, Father." You looked up at him.

"You did good. You learn fast." His cheeks were flushed—you could see it plainly now.

It felt awkward to part ways after that, half-finished words traded back and forth before you finally walked away. But the small touch at your wrist stayed burning for hours after.

†

After that, things sank in an almost ridiculous way — you thought about him in the most random places. Smoking with your friends, at hangouts, drinking. One time you even thought you saw him in some stranger's face at a bar and had to double-check.

The most embarrassing time was when you were making out with this guy — some long-term, on-and-off fling. He was decent, he was hot, and he touched you the way you needed to forget. You were on his couch, his body pressing you down, his hand sliding up your thigh, lifting your skirt. Your mouth was too busy with his to make any sound, but he pulled back just to whisper something dirty against your mouth — something about how good you felt, how he'd missed your body. Your mind blurred it out, and you went stiff. Right there, uninvited, a quick flash of Father Hollis.

The guy noticed your shift, pulled back, asked if you were alright. You kissed him again, tried to push through it, but the feeling held on. His hand stayed on your thigh, but all you could feel was the ghost of someone else's touch — long fingers, careful, deliberate. You pushed him off. In a hurry, you grabbed your jacket off the ground.

"What's wrong?" the guy asked.

"Nothing, I just really gotta go," you said, barely glancing his way as you stepped out.

He didn't insist, gladly. He just looked at you like you were insane, and while you walked home in the middle of the night, you started to think maybe you were. You definitely were. Rushed steps, trying to outrun your own head, and as if irony itself were steering you, you ended up on a street parallel to the church. You could see it across the way—the tall bell tower, the dark brick walls standing hauntingly above everything.

In the blink of an eye, the yellow lights of the streetlamps turned into the warm yellow light of a church. It was empty—just you, the haunting images of saints on the walls, the windowpanes darker than usual this late, and the altar, where the cross stood above everything: Christ crucified. You walked slowly toward it, so slow it felt like you were under a trance.

"Y/n?" His voice reached you, echoing off the walls.

You looked up. He was coming from another room, collar on, a heavy gold chain hanging over the cassock he wore. A Bible in hand.

"Is everything alright?" he asked, since you hadn't answered.

It took you a minute to put yourself together. "Yeah, all cool. I was just heading home and thought about stopping by."

He chuckled. "You must have a good reason, 'cause not even our most faithful parishioners come here this time of night."

"I'm sorry." It was all you managed. "I don't really have a reason, I just… came."

He stepped closer. You must've looked actually terrified, because he approached with the same caution you'd give something easily spooked. "It's no problem. Maybe it's the Holy Spirit calling you in. But what's really troubling you?"

He offered a gentle smile, so sweet it ached, how naive he looked. The Holy Spirit. And it was his image you kept seeing, all around you, every time you closed your eyes.

"Father, I think I'm going insane," you said quickly. He was close enough now you had to lift your chin to look at him. "I'm feeling things, seeing things that aren't there, hearing, thinking… is that the Holy Spirit?"

That smile again. Impossibly understanding. "We all experience faith differently. Maybe being so removed from it for so long makes feeling it again seem like insanity."

He didn't get it, and he couldn't get it—if you told him you'd been picturing him as a man touching you, you couldn't imagine what that would do to him. So you forced a smile. "Is it also in the job description, offering comfort to a random skeptical girl on a Monday night?"

He nodded, a low chuckle escaping him. "This time, yes. If not me, who's gonna comfort you?" His gaze held yours, easy at first—then his words landed differently, and he noticed it too. His expression faltered. "I mean, about faith issues. And God."

You couldn't speak for a moment. If not him, who would've comforted you? That landed more honestly than anything he'd said about faith or the Holy Spirit. "Don't make it weird, Father." You grinned, and your humor loosened the dread on his face. He relaxed again.

"Can I offer you something?"

You frowned, until you saw him reach into his pocket — a cigarette pack. Your smile widened.

The garden looked even more dead at night, the dark making the rosebushes look diseased, the ivy almost ghostly, choking the stone wall brick by brick, slowly strangling the whole structure of the church.

You leaned against the wall together, a cigarette between your fingers, silence stretching with an ease that should've felt strange and didn't. You glanced his way more than once; he never looked back, just stared ahead, sometimes up at the sky. You watched his fingers, then his relaxed face, like you'd missed the sight of him without realizing it. You sighed, defeated. You were doomed. Completely undone by a priest, of all people. He could've been an asshole, could've been cruel—God knew you'd given him every excuse—but he was sweet, gentle, and entirely oblivious to the filth running through your head just from looking at him.

"Father, do you have doubts?" You looked at him again. For the millionth time that night.

"About what?" He finally looked back, his eyes so dark in the night they looked almost black.

"Faith. The path you chose." You pulled a drag. "I dropped out of college because it wasn't for me. Came back home, and now I feel like home isn't for me either."

"My vocation, you mean." He nodded, pulled his own drag, exhaling away from you. "Sometimes I doubted. The seminary, the rules, the vows—every boy my age was out living his life while I studied theology to exhaustion. But I had a reason for it."

"And the reason was faith." You said it like it was obvious.

"You think you have me figured out." Something playful in it. "It wasn't faith. I learned faith. My reason was to escape whatever life I was doomed to have back home."

That quieted you. You stared at him a moment, then looked away, your chest going heavy for no reason you wanted to name. "That's a good motive," you said, softer now.

"Don't make it weird." His shoulder bumped yours, light. You laughed, faint.

"Wish I could escape too, Father." You sighed. This time he was the one who went quiet, for a long moment.

"I know of a convent you could apply to. I don't know what they think of big-mouthed girls with little to no modesty, but you seem like you learn fast."

You looked at him to see if he was serious, but the grin gave him away, and you opened your mouth, offended, bumping his arm with your shoulder. He laughed.

"I'm sorry, I think I'm better suited for sin," you said, joking. But he went serious, pulling a drag while staring at you, exhaling just past your head.

"You're a good girl, y/n," he said, and you almost choked on the urge to laugh. You tried to wave off the heat climbing your neck. Thought to yourself, again, how much of a pervert you were. "You don't need to escape anything. Just embrace what you're feeling."

He had no idea what you were feeling.

"Bad advice, Father." You finished your cigarette, tossed it, stepped away from the wall. "But I hold you to too high a standard not to listen to you, so I'll take it."

You were about to walk off when you felt his hand close around your wrist. Quick, unannounced — and it burned instantly, the same place his thumb had pressed days before. It must've burned him too, because he let go the second you stopped moving. You turned, waiting.

"I just wanted to say," he said, his voice a little heavy. "If you're still considering confessing, I take confessions Thursday nights. Not that it has to be me—Father Angelo does Wednesdays, so—"

"I'll be here," you said. "Thursday."

Your gaze held his for only a second, but it felt far longer than that.

He walked you out, silent the whole way, which somehow made everything feel heavier than if any of you kept talking. You glanced back once to catch him still watching you from the altar. Your blood was still running hot from everything that had happened that night, but underneath it, for the first time in days, something in you had gone almost calm. Like you fed off those small exchanges.

†

The confessional looked like a large wardrobe tucked into one of the church's rooms past the rectory. You opened the wooden door, stepping into that small, almost claustrophobic space. You sat, looked at the small screen, and could just make out his shape through the little holes of it.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," you said. It sounded awkward coming out of your mouth.

"How long has it been since your last confession?" You could barely see him — just his shape — but his voice felt intimate, like it resonated just for you.

"Mhm… about seven years, or more. It was when I first communed."

"Right." He said it with humor in his voice. "Proceed."

"I need to tell you my sins, right?"

"Yes," he said plainly.

"Ooh, that's a lot," you sighed.

"Maybe stick to what's bothering you now."

"Sure, sure." For some reason, you felt nervous. Your hands folded in your lap. You knew he could barely see more than a shadow of you, but you still felt exposed. "Is imagination a sin?"

"Not really," he said. He sounded so serious — different from anything you'd heard from him before.

"Even if imagining makes you want things?"

"Not a sin, either."

"What defines sacrilege, Father?"

"Profaning or disrespecting what's sacred. An object, a place, a rite… a person." It took him a second to say the last one.

"So if I'm doing it in my head, is it sacrilege yet?"

You heard him clear his throat, his posture shifting. "It depends. How often do you do that… in your head?"

"To the point of thinking I'm going insane." You looked at him, his blonde hair catching the small flicker of light inside the booth. You didn't know if it was the cramped space, but it felt hot — hot enough that you were almost panting. "I see it in places I go, I see it on strangers' faces, hear it in voices, I dream about it, I feel it in my body… last time, someone touched me, and I ached for it to be something else."

You couldn't bring yourself to give it a proper name, so you left it vague, a thing without a shape.

"What is this... thing? God? Jesus?" he asked, voice tense.

"You told me it was the Holy Spirit. But I don't think there's anything holy about it, Father."

Silence. For maybe too long. Enough to make you want to run from there. Just run and never come back.

"I fear I could actually be turning insane. Like my mom, like when she left. Everyone says I look like her. What if I'm actually turning into her?"

"You're not insane," he said, maybe too fast, like someone trying to head off a disaster.

"How'd you know that?" You could see, even through the screen, that he was looking at you.

"You're not her," His voice was still unhurried, but airy now. "Feeling things is what makes you human. You're allowed to feel, and it's beautiful that you feel."

You pressed your lips together, your heart dropping. "Father, can I ask you something?"

"Anything." His voice was welcoming.

"Do you ever feel things you're not supposed to?"

The silence stretched longer this time. You leaned closer, not looking at him, just resting your face against the screen, a helpless search for proximity. And then: "Yes."

Just that. No scripture, no comfort, no deflection. Just the truth, low and unguarded, sitting heavy in the small space between you.

Neither of you said anything else for a while. The candle outside the booth flickered, throwing a thin shifting light through the lattice, and you stayed there.

"For your penance," he said eventually, voice rebuilding itself, brick by brick, back into something steady, "say three Hail Marys. I presume you know that by now."

It almost made you laugh, after that tension. "Yes, I know."

You left confession soon after, heading straight to the prayer room. For some reason, you felt like going through with it—not out of faith, not out of desperation. Out of obedience. Maybe not to God, but to his words.

Each word slipped from your lips in low whispers, your voice airy and unsteady. Eyes closed, mind elsewhere. It was him again, right in your head.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.

And again. And again. Three times, like he said.

You opened your eyes expecting at least a small flicker of relief, something to lighten the weight on your shoulders. But there he was again, watching you kneel at the altar. You didn't know what that look on his face was, but it wasn't just sweet, it wasn't just gentle.

He stepped closer, silent. You felt yourself burning with every step he took. You stayed kneeling, and he came close enough that he was facing you from above.

And then his hand came to your forehead — a small sign of the cross. A blessing. He offered you his hand after that, and it took a while, but you took it. Skin to skin — he was warm, soft, and big, big enough that you felt embraced by just that simple touch. Before you rose, you brought his hand to your lips, the back of it. He didn't stiffen, didn't flinch. He watched you do it, his face giving nothing away. Your lips to his hand.

“Bless me, Father,” The words came out wrong — too intimate, too deliberate. It should have been minor, a habit. But it was way more than that.

When you rose to your feet, he was still staring. Your heart was hammering now, your whole body heating up. The heat was coming off him.

"I—" You tried, but he cut you off.

"Don't." His hand came to your shoulder, his thumb brushing your throat, your jaw — he almost held your face. You felt his touch everywhere, shivering. He wasn't breathing, instead he was looking down on you, your throat, your chest moving up and down and he stared bluntly for too long. He stepped forward, eyes to your face again, fingers still on your neck. 

You felt stuck in place. You felt stunned by his presence. His other hand came to your face, your cheek, the air left his lungs like it relieved him to finally touch you. And it did the same to you. For how long you had imagined his touch like this, the warmth of his fingers against you. His thumb traced the line of your lips, pressed your inner lip. You parted your mouth, just barely, and he let out a breath that was almost a whimper.

“I don't know what I'm doing,” he whispered under his breath. His voice was wrecked.

“Me neither,” you said.

His thumb pressed deeper — just slightly — and you felt the heat of it, the intimacy of it, like he was claiming something he had no right to. Then his hand left too quickly, and you felt the loss like a wound.

"I'm sorry—" you started, but he turned.

He was suddenly erratic. "It's not your fault, I let myself— Your confession, you—" His hand ran through his hair, frantic.

"Hey, it's no biggie." You reached for his arm, and he flinched — truly flinched.

"It is big, y/n." He looked at you. For the first time, his eyes looked unsettled. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

He didn't wait for you to answer. He left in rushed, heavy steps, his cassock snapping behind him like a flag in a storm. You watched him go. He didn't look back. But you saw the way his hand shook as he pushed the door open.

It felt wrong. It felt impossibly hollow. And worst of all, the small touch at your throat still burned. You could still feel his fingers — where they'd pressed, where they'd lingered.

You left church with the feeling in your gut that something was wrong, that something had shifted and you couldn't go back from it. And you were right.

Saturday morning, he didn't show up at the garden. You sat on the stone bench, waiting until your brother's class ended. No sign of Father Hollis. On your way out you saw him passing through, not even a quick glance your way, like you weren't there at all.

Sunday, he performed mass as always, went through the motions as always, and afterward you watched him the way you always did. Except this time he didn't look at you. Not even once.

And that was worse than his usual friendly presence, worse than the gentle stare you'd gotten used to. He gave you nothing — not even a pitiful look — and that sent you spiraling into thoughts far more maddening than if he'd actively played with you.

Still, you felt his touch burning you all week. You lost interest in your daily life, your friends, your family — simple things you used to enjoy just didn't spark the same in you. Something kept gnawing at your chest. The unsettling feeling of having wronged him. The unsettling feeling that he was disgusted by you. 

That feeling only deepened the next Saturday, when you searched for him through the church — the backrooms, the library, the rectory. You were stepping out of one of them when you caught him in the hallway. A small flicker crossed his face before he recomposed himself. He was about to pass you by when you stepped into his way. He glanced down — the first time he'd looked at you in almost two weeks — but you almost wished he hadn't. His eyes were cold. Distant. None of the gentle, soft, naive look he usually wore. Like you were simply something in his path.

"Would you excuse me," he said, squeezing himself between you and the wall, slipping past you like you were something he desperately needed to avoid.

You said nothing. Stood there a full minute before leaving. If you'd needed any more confirmation that things had crossed a line, that was it.

†

That Sunday you didn't show up at mass. The following Saturday you didn't drive Tony to catechism. The Sunday after, you missed mass again. You pretended you weren't feeling well. Your stepmother looked at you, half surprised, half saddened by it.

 You'd resigned yourself to that excuse until she came home and went up to your room, talking to you with a casualness that surprised you—you two didn't usually have that kind of intimacy. Then, in the middle of conversation, like it was nothing:

"Even Father Hollis came asking about you, can you believe that?" Your heart dropped. It couldn't be it. "He's so sweet. Even though he's new, he's already paying attention to the community like that. I'd never have imagined someone so young to be—"

"He asked about me?" You cut her off, quickly.

"Yes," she said, smiling, a little confused. "Asked why you'd been missing mass. I told him you weren't feeling well, and he sent his best wishes. It's nice, isn't it?"

"Oh… yeah, of course. It's just… We only talked once. I wasn't expecting him to notice."

"I figure that's why the bishop recommended him to our parish, despite the controversy at his last one, and despite him being so young, he seems so dedicated, doesn't he? Like it's really his vocation. Like he's heaven-sent." She giggled. You smiled faintly. Maybe he had that effect on people. Maybe he really was that magnetic.

"Yeah, or maybe he has no other choice," you said, so quietly she didn't catch it.

"What?"

"I said, maybe he made the right choice. Also, do you know what happened that got him transferred here?"

"Well, it's a bit shady, no one actually knows. The church keeps it covered, you know how it is. But there are rumors. They talk about some girl he got involved with, some say she got pregnant, though no one knows if anything actually happened between them. But you know… a priest isn't supposed to—"

"Yeah, I know." You cut her off again, eyes drifting away. That stirred something in your gut. His reaction. His avoidance. It was deeper than you'd thought.

"Do you think he did it?" You looked back at your stepmother. "I mean, he's a young man, he could—"

"No." You shook your head, the images blurring together in your mind. "He's not a man, he's a priest. He wouldn't… If he had, at least he would've been excommunicated, wouldn't he?"

"I don't know," your stepmother shrugged. "I think so. But the bishop seems fond of him, so, who knows?"

That stayed with you for days. The rumors, the half-story, the gossip, the image of him with some shadow of a girl. What if this was a pattern for him? What if you were just one more girl he'd messed with? But then you thought of his usual gentle self, his almost naive way of being, the way he flustered over small things. If he'd meant to play with you, he wouldn't run; he wouldn't avoid you like the plague. But would he ask about you, either way?

Fuck, that was driving you mad. You tried to go on with your life — stayed more present at your friends' hangouts, drank past the point of comfort just to fall asleep without thinking too much, tried to stay busy, stay around people — anything to keep your mind from wandering back to him, to the crumbs you had left of him.

One of those nights, you drank too much. Alone, at home, while your father, stepmother, and brother were all out. You brought a whole bottle of wine to the couch, flipping through channels without finding anything that held your attention.

It was like adding fire to the pile of logs you'd been stacking in your mind all week. And it caught easily. It was raining outside, but that didn't stop you. You put on your jacket, pulled your hoodie up, and walked in rushed steps toward the place you'd been avoiding for your own good.

Under the rain at night, the church looked even more haunting — something out of a horror movie. Inside, it felt cold, like the wind could slip straight through those thick brick walls. It sent shivers down your spine with every step toward the altar. Christ on the cross looked down at you like he was judging you. You crossed into the back hallway, passing dozens of doors on your way to the outside chapel. Somehow, you felt he'd be there.

But he wasn't. Not yet. You stood there, pulse frantic, breath heavy, your heart pounding loud enough to fill your ears.

"What are you doing here?" His voice echoed through the room. You looked back. He stood by the door — collar on, that black cassock that made him look almost like a ghost, and a gaze you couldn't quite read.

"Why did you ask about me?" It was the first thing that came to mind. He walked in, passing you on his way to the cross in the chapel, and made the sign of the cross over his chest.

"You didn't show up. Thought something was wrong."

Something about that struck you wrong, irritation creeping in. It made you cry even if you hated it. "Thought you wouldn't even notice. I was practically invisible to you these past weeks."

"You're a member of this community. You can't be invisible to me."

"Is that what I am?" You laughed. He was looking straight ahead, at the lit altar, the candles, the small angels surrounding the cross.

"Yes. That's what you are." Dry. Straight to the point.

"That's not fair." Your voice hitched. "I didn't even do anything wrong. I didn't. I did what you told me to. You told me to embrace what I was feeling, I did. You told me to confess, I did. You told me I could tell you anything, I did. You told me to pray, I did. What else can I do?"

"I was guiding you. Not asking anything of you. And please, keep it down," he said, only then glancing back — stiff, contained, like he was calculating every word.

"You touched me, Father!" You stepped forward; his eyes stayed on you. "You called me. You—" Your voice failed. "You told me I was good."

"Lower your voice," he commanded, and you almost laughed through your teary eyes.

"Why? 'Cause God's watching? Or 'cause you don't want to get caught again?" You realized what you'd said the second it left your mouth, and instantly regretted it. His face shifted too — for the first time you saw him angry, and you didn't like the sight of it.

"You don't even know what you're talking about," he said, looking away. You could see him trying to hold it back. “But if that’s how you see me, then be it.”

Shame crawled up your spine. You couldn't look at his face. You looked down instead, and that's when you saw it — the wooden rosary in his hand, wrapped so tightly around his palm it had gone white. But more than that, you caught the reddish mark of wounds beneath it, like he'd been gripping it harder than he should. Like this wasn't the first time.

You stepped closer in silence, so quietly he didn't notice until you caught his hand. It didn't look right — those wounds, over the same hand you'd watched so fondly before. He looked at you but didn't pull away. Instead, he watched as you unraveled the rosary from his grip, brought his hand to your lips, and kissed it. The rosary hit the ground the same moment your lips touched his skin, the sound echoing through the room.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry… I don't— I don't see you like that." You were still holding his hand with both of yours when you felt his palm find your cheek, his thumb tracing it, so light, so delicate.

"Y/n—" Something in his gaze held you still. He stepped closer. You felt your body respond, warming all over.

"Wash my sins off again, Father." You weren't crying anymore, just a few tears left drying on your cheeks, your eyes still sore, but calming. "I can be easy, I can be better, if that's what it takes to keep me near you. I can confess every day, and I can—" You sighed. "Just don't go cold on me again, Father."

His hand on your face held you with more firmness, tilting your chin up toward him. His eyes flickered across you — your mouth, your eyes, your whole face.

The way his body leaned down over you, the way his frame blocked the light — it was the kind of moment you'd remember for the rest of your life. So heavenly, those hazel eyes pulling your gaze in like he could actually magnetize it.

"Close your eyes, please," he said. You could see how nervous he was, but you could also see the anticipation in the way his eyes dropped to your lips.

You obeyed. Closed your eyes. His hand left yours, sliding to the small of your back, pulling you closer. His other hand brushed away the wet hair sticking to your face. And then, one by one, you felt his warm breath against yours, his nose brushing yours, his body drifting in. You were already shaking when his lips finally covered yours.

It felt like the last rupture breaking between you. It felt like a vivid dream. His soft lips fit slowly against yours—the taste of him—and then you pushed forward, deepening the kiss. His grip tightened around your waist, holding you like he needed you to stay exactly there. You didn't dare move. For a while your hands stayed still at your sides—you felt too numb, like you couldn't function. But the kiss picked up pace, deepened, and your hands finally reacted, reaching for him—his chest, his shoulders, then the back of his neck, his hair. You could feel him everywhere—between your fingers, in your mouth. You sighed faintly against his lips, and felt him smile.

The kiss stretched until neither of you could bear it any longer. Breaths heavy, bodies burning, Hollis rested his forehead against yours, eyes still closed. You were about to say something when he spoke first.

"Don't say anything yet." He sounded serious. You watched his closed eyes, trying to guess his thoughts. 

"I can leave if you—" You started to step back, but he held you still.

"Don't," he said quickly. "I just want you to know that you're not just one more. This has never happened before. What happened at my last parish was a misunderst—"

You kissed him, quick and brief. "You don't have to explain like that. If you want me to stay, I'll stay. But don't ruin the mood, Father."

"You can't help it, huh?"

You caressed his nape, and it worked on him — he closed his eyes for a second, mouth half open. "So you want me to stay?"

"I do," he said, that unhurried voice back.

"And I can kiss you again?" you asked, feeling your face go warm for even asking.

"You—" You saw the color rise in his cheeks too. "Please."

The second kiss was slower. Deliberate. You let yourself feel him — the softness of his lips, the warmth of his breath, the weight of his hands on your body. He pulled you closer, and you felt his hand travel down your body. You almost flinched when his knuckles brushed your chest. He felt uncertain, so you guided him through it, pressing his palm flat over your ribs, up to cup your breast. He broke the kiss, looking at you, then down at your body, his hand squeezing you, almost shyly.

"You can touch me," you said, your voice airy, weak under his touch. "Please, touch me."

And he didn't back down. His lips found yours again, briefly, before trailing down to your chin, your neck — kisses and small sucking marks against your skin. He kept groping you, firm, a little awkward, obviously out of practice, pressing his body into yours. So rushed you'd have laughed if it weren't rude. You could feel him against your stomach too, getting hard.

"Father," you called, smiling lightly. "Slow down."

He stopped, looking at you with a confused, almost clueless face. It was impossibly sweet, impossibly soft. You looked back at him with the same gentleness, smiled.

"Tell me what you want." you said.

He looked at you, his eyes dark, his breath ragged. "I want—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I want to feel you. All of you."

You started by reaching for the buttons of his cassock, your fingers working them open one by one. He let you, his hands falling to his sides, watching you with something like wonder. When you pushed the fabric off his shoulders, it pooled at his feet. He was standing in just his undershirt, his chest rising and falling quickly. 

You pulled off your own shirt, then your jeans. He reached for you, his hand finding the fastener of your bra. "Can I?" You nodded. 

He fumbled, but he managed, and when your breasts were exposed, his gaze lingered there for a long moment. His hand came up, hesitating, then finally cupping you. His thumb brushed over your nipple, and you gasped. 

"That's good," you whispered. "Keep doing that." 

He did, his touch growing bolder, his eyes never leaving you

"Tell me how to do it," he said, and you almost asked what he meant when you felt his hand slide between your legs. Right over your panties. You were already soaking wet, obviously —that whole stupid confrontation had gotten the best of you. "Is this because of the rain, or—"

"Shut up," you said, hiding your face against his neck. He laughed lightly.

He began to rub your folds, his fingers moving back and forth, slipping just above your most sensitive spot but never quite stopping there.

"Here." You reached for his hand, guiding it to your clit. "Can you feel me?"

It was still covered by your panties, but you guided him, rubbing yourself in slow circles. He didn't answer right away—instead, he pulled your panties aside to find your nub directly. "Yes, I can feel you." You whimpered, low, when he began rubbing you on his own.

As he touched you like that,. You reached for him, your hand sliding beneath the waistband of his pants, finding him hard and ready. He gasped at your touch, his hips instinctively pressing forward. He was big, big enough that you found yourself stroking up and down over him, your fingers tracing him over the fabric of his pants.

"I want you," he said, and it came out almost as a plea.

You pulled back from his chest, looked up at his face, and felt like you could've come just from that sight alone — his eyes gleaming like a puppy's, his mouth pressed tight so he wouldn't moan even more. You would never say no to that.

You grabbed his undershirt by its hem, lifting up his body, and he helped you take it off. He proceeded by pulling off his collar and tossing it somewhere. You felt even more perverted just staring at his body — his long arms, his pale skin, the small moles scattered across his chest and stomach. You didn't stop yourself; you kissed his chest, the small mole just above his nipple, as your hands worked to open his pants. You finally knelt in front of him, pulling his pants down, freeing his cock right in front of you. Just like you expected, he was big, like the rest of him.

You looked up once more before touching him. You worked both hands over him, slowly, squeezing along his veins, spreading the small amount of precum leaking from his tip. He whimpered under his breath through it, which had you smiling before you joined your mouth to him. You kissed the tip, licked it, then took him in your mouth, taking as much of him as you could. Hollis's voice was impossibly lewd—sighing, whimpering softly, the same slow way he spoke. And you did the best to take more and more of those sounds from him. Diving your head onto his length, enough to make you gag in it. Eyes watering when you pulled back and looked up at him.

"Y/n, if you—" he said. It was cute, his hand not knowing what to do, his face flustered. “Please.”

You stopped, stood up, still stroking him with your hand. "Have you ever done it?"

"Yes," he almost stuttered. "But it was long ago."

"Mhm." You pouted, the only sound between you the slick work of your hand on his cock. "I really want you, Hollis."

"I do want you… too." You smiled at that, at him fumbling over his words.

"Come here," you said, leading him through the small chapel to the front bench. You pushed him lightly to sit, and he did, so easily. You took off your panties before straddling him. You did most of the work, and he watched you with half-lidded eyes. You lined him up with your entrance, slowly lowering your hips onto him—slow, and it broke you. Every inch throbbing inside you, stretching you open, going so deep you cried out softly.

His hand found your cheek, warm, his thumb tracing your skin. You looked into his eyes again. "You feel so good," he said, his voice weak.

"Do I?" you asked, no more smirk left, just sensitive as hell. He nodded, found your lips in a brief kiss. You cried out again as you rolled your hips on top of him.

He smiled, still sweet. "Yeah, it's so tight, so—" He moaned when you moved faster.

You couldn't help it either—sounds escaped your mouth the more you moved, riding him in a slow rhythm that had him gasping, his hands sliding up your back, your breasts. And when you started to bounce on top of him, it had you nearly rolling your eyes. Somehow he reached deeper and deeper, hitting spots you didn't even know existed, unraveling you in ways you'd never felt before.

It was even better watching him come undone beneath you, his grip on your thighs growing tighter, his voice hoarse and needy every time you sank down on him. Every place he touched added to how helplessly your body reacted to him.

He came unannounced. You were just heating up, closer and closer to your own edge, when you felt him spill inside you. His release dripped out of you as he hugged you tight, head pressed to your shoulder, and still you kept moving.

"Y/n," he whimpered your name, almost stuttering. You just kept moving, feeling him spill, feeling him still releasing. "I'm sorry—"

"It's alright." You caressed his hair, softly.

You slowed down, hips barely moving now, just feeling his last spills run out of you. He was still so deep, still pulsing. You kept stroking his hair while his head stayed hidden in the curve of your neck.

"Did you—?" he asked after a while.

"Not yet," you whispered, the thrill of it still making your chest rise and fall quickly.

Hollis said nothing. He lifted you off his lap with an ease you weren't expecting, settled you on the bench beside him, and got off the seat to kneel in front of you.

"What are you—" He parted your legs, and you felt his hand find your cunt. Like you'd shown him earlier, he rubbed your clit, slowly.

"Show me how you like it," he said, softly, looking up at you. His head dipped nearer, and the way he looked up at you made you feel so exposed — a mix of shame and anticipation. "Should I use my mouth?"

God, it was impossible not to melt for him. "Please," you pleaded. "Do it like you're kissing my lips."

And he did, his tongue dragging over all of you, even his own release still trailing from you. All the way up and down until he brushed your clit, the cluster of nerves there reacting instantly to him. You gripped his hair, and he looked up as you did it. His lips sucked your nub while the tip of his tongue played with it, so overwhelming you had to drop your head back.

His hand trailed up your body — from your thighs, to your stomach, to your breast. He squeezed and massaged like he had earlier, no longer rushed, like he was getting off just from feeling you.

"Faster, please," you begged, your voice so messy you weren't sure he could understand you. But he did.

He went faster, his other hand gripping your thigh tighter as he buried his face further into you. You didn't need much more. That fuzzy feeling came tingling up from your stomach through your whole body until you were shaking, curling your toes as you cried out under your breath.

He kept going even after that, like he hadn't realized what he'd just done. Overstimulation got the best of you. "Hollis…" you whimpered. He was still going. You tugged lightly at his hair, and he looked up. "It's enough, Father."

He stopped just then, and when he pulled away, you saw his chin wet from you. You felt flustered all over again. Behind his shoulder stood the image of a saint you couldn't name, and the sanctuary beyond it. Your first thought was: I'm going to hell. But when you looked at him again, he was coming up toward you, still kneeling, wrapping his arm around your body. His face filled your whole vision as he held you and it was heavenly. 

For a while he said nothing, just held you, naked in his arms. Then he reached for his clothes—the long black cassock you'd undressed him from—and wrapped it around your body. Still silence. You didn't know what to say either. But as the minutes stretched, fear crept into your heart.

You were both sitting half naked in the dimmed light of the chapel. Your mind quietly spiraling onto the consequences of the aftermath. Will he freak out? Will he back out again? Leave? But his fingers found yours shyly, then his whole hand covered them. You looked up at him; he was looking up at the sanctuary.

Silence settled for a while as both of you recovered from it. He said nothing for long enough, but his hand on yours kept you from drifting back to guilt or whatever other feeling that was dreading you.

He took you back to his bedroom, a place you've never been before, a small room in the back of the church, a wooden church on top of his bed, but you barely got time to take in the view before feeling hims wrapping his arms around you again. Bolder than before, like that first time was enough for him to get comfortable with it. 

“Father,” you giggled while he kissed your neck, your shoulder, and unwrapped you from his clothes.

“Hollis,” he corrected you, hand on your waist firmly. “I'm Hollis.”

He said, walking you to bed. You wouldn't argue with him, not when he was kissing down your body again, turning you into something messy and noisy in his bed. 

†

Later on, lying in his bed in the dark, you felt his hand find yours again. He played with your fingers in silence, tracing slow lines against your skin.

You were the one who brought it up, watching your hands intertwined.

“Hollis… What happened? At your last parish." Your voice came out quiet. "If you don't want to—"

"No, it's fine." He paused. "I don't know what rumors you've heard, but people have been saying things. Senseless things."

"Yeah." You hesitated. "I heard something about a pregnant woman, and that you—"

"No. There was nothing like that."

"Then what was it?"

He took a deep breath, stilled his fingers against yours, just holding on instead. You didn't look up. Didn't look at him.

"There was a woman, from the other parish. Older than me, married," he started. "She developed… feelings for me. It started when she came to me for counseling—something about her marriage. But it escalated. Drastically. I tried to avoid her, but she followed me places. She even—" He squeezed your hand. "She came to my room one night, threw herself at me. That's when I made my first complaint to the bishop. He told me it was my choice—stay, or leave. I tried to stay, tried to talk her out of it, but somehow her husband got involved. She told him she was in love with me. And he beat me up."

"What? He beat you?" You looked up at him, startled. He gave you a sad smile. "I'm sorry, but you just let him?"

"I'm a priest. I don't throw punches." He laughed, hollow. "Well, I wouldn't have. Guess now I just did something equally bad instead."

Bad. Whatever the two of you had just done — it was bad, wasn't it? Something must have shifted across your face, because he noticed almost instantly.

"No, not bad like that." He reached for you again, pulling you closer. "I mean—"

"I know what you mean."

You leaned in and kissed him again, slower this time, taking him in, your own taste still lingering on his mouth. His hands pulled you in tighter, like there was still more distance left to close.

"I've never done anything like this," he whispered against your mouth. "But I don't regret it."

You hummed low, nodding, even though some part of you wasn't sure you believed him yet. You wanted to. But somewhere in the tangle of his hands and the dark, you already knew what this would cost you—that you'd spend the next six months trying to explain it to no one, holding onto a rosary instead of him.