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Chapter 1: Goin' up and down the rosary

Sunday was different from other days. It was sunny, but the wind carried a chill. Or so Maxwell believed, because at some point he had caved and agreed to go to Mass with his grandmother.

The drive was utterly boring. His grandmother wouldn't stop talking about the church's priest—how educated he was, how kind, how charming. Maxwell stopped paying attention after the second adjective. It wasn't interesting to learn about a priest who was probably a decrepit old man or, worse, a pedophile in a cassock.

Silence settled between them, but soon enough, the blessed question Maxwell always tried to avoid arrived.

"And Maxwell, dear, when are you going to get married? Alicia must be waiting for your proposal because you're such a catch. You two deserve each other," his grandmother declared with that knowing smile of hers.

If anyone could read Maxwell's thoughts at that moment, they'd hear him cursing his beloved grandmother in seven different languages. But he didn't. He was a professional liar, and professionals don't lose their composure.

"Oh, grandmother, things between Alicia and I didn't work out. I know we were together for three years, but unfortunately, it just didn't happen," he said with a dramatic sigh he'd practiced in the mirror for a week.

"Really? I had no idea, Maxie. Well, that girl doesn't know what she's missing."

Of course, Maxwell wasn't going to tell his grandmother that Alicia had been his girlfriend in high school and that he hadn't heard from her since. That the photo he'd shown her was of his cousin in a wig. That the name "Alicia" had been invented on the spot after spotting a clothing store sign. It was a perfect façade... until his grandmother insisted on meeting her a week ago, and the lie almost came crashing down.

"Maxwell, I want to meet this girl. Bring her over for dinner next week."

That night, Maxwell broke into a cold sweat in bed. He called his cousin, offered her 200 dollars to pretend to be Alicia, and she, bless her heart, accepted on the condition that no one asked about her personal life. The dinner was a success. His grandmother was delighted. The lie lived on.

But Maxwell knew it wouldn't last forever. And that Sunday, as the car approached the church, he felt the universe was collecting its debt.

When they arrived, Maxwell felt the urge to make a rather unfortunate comment.

"Well, at least the priest won't look at me with desire anymore."

And with that, he earned a smack on the arm from his grandmother. It was almost funny watching her defend this priest before him. Almost. A little hurtful, too, but he wasn't exactly a saint himself.

The church doors opened to reveal a vast interior, filled with families and elderly women like his grandmother. She, as always, crossed herself and ventured inside to chat with her friends, leaving Maxwell alone until Mass began.

Maxwell admitted to himself that the place wasn't ugly. In fact, it had a strange charm. Sunlight filtered through enormous stained-glass windows, painting the stone floor with splashes of blue and crimson. The ceiling was so high it made his own thoughts feel small, and the whole place smelled of clean wood and sweet incense that clung to his clothes. At the far end, the altar gleamed with golden details and lit candles, making the space feel oddly warm.

But that didn't diminish Maxwell's arrogance. He strolled through the church until he reached the second pew, where he would sit with his grandmother.

Time passed, and for Maxwell, it was already torture being there. Just as he was about to doze off, an elbow jabbed his ribs.

"Maxie, dear, get up. Mass is starting," his grandmother whispered, shaking him awake.

Maxwell was about to protest as usual, but people were already staring at him strangely. He didn't care about reactions, but since his grandmother was important to him, he figured it was better for her if he didn't throw a tantrum.

So he stood, and he caught sight of the priest.

And Maxwell, for the first time in his life, was speechless. Literally. His mouth fell open, and his brain took an impromptu vacation.

Because the priest wasn't a decrepit old man. He wasn't a pedophile in a cassock. He was...

He was fucking beautiful.

The man behind the altar had to be nearly six feet two, with a build that didn't belong to someone who spent their days praying. His black cassock couldn't hide the breadth of his shoulders, nor the way his muscular, defined arms moved with confidence as he opened the missal. His hair was light brown, slightly long, with strands falling messily over his forehead, as if he'd just walked out of a storm. His jaw was sharp, angular, and his short, well-groomed beard gave him a rugged look that clashed with the peacefulness of the church.

But what truly left Maxwell breathless were his eyes. Green. An intense green, almost feline, that seemed to pierce through the soul. And when those eyes swept across the congregation, Maxwell felt the priest was looking at him with an intensity that wasn't appropriate for a man of God.

And then there were the tattoos.

Maxwell blinked several times, making sure he wasn't hallucinating. The priest had tattoos on his arms, peeking out from beneath the sleeves of his cassock. On his left hand, across his knuckles, were the letters FREE. On the right, DRUG. Together, they read DRUG FREE. How could a priest have tattoos? Was that even allowed? A priest with "Drug Free" on his knuckles?

Well, who would have thought Maxwell would feel something for someone from a place he despised.

---

Mass passed like a blur. Maxwell couldn't focus. Every word that left Father Phil's mouth sounded like music, but not heavenly music. Something far more sinful. Something Maxwell shouldn't be thinking about in a church.

When the sign of peace came, Maxwell's heart nearly stopped. Father Phil, from the altar, kept looking directly at him. Not at the congregation. At him. As if no one else existed.

For a moment, their eyes locked, and Maxwell wished with every fiber of his being that he hadn't blushed over that stupid interaction. He quickly looked away, scanned his surroundings, and remembered what he had to do: offer peace to his grandmother so this would be over.

Maxwell felt like a stupid high school girl who falls for anyone who doesn't give her attention.

Mass was nearing its end; only Communion remained. Maxwell watched the preparation of the Eucharist, unable to tear his gaze away from the priest's hands. They were masculine hands, strong, veined, moving with precision as he broke the bread. And tattooed. Yes, tattooed.

FREE on the left. DRUG on the right.

Maxwell almost laughed out loud. A priest with a tattoo that said "DRUG FREE"? What kind of man was this? Where had he come from? And why the hell did he find him so attractive?

"What an interesting priest, don't you think, grandmother?" Maxwell muttered, turning his head toward where his grandmother should have been.

And to his surprise, his question hung in the empty air. His grandmother had vanished. Or rather, she was simply in the Communion line, like a devoted old lady who wouldn't miss the body of Christ for anything.

Maxwell cursed every blessed second. When had he agreed to come to Mass when this clearly wasn't his place? Literally, every time Maxwell set foot in a church, the old devotees would whisper: "The enemy is among us." And they weren't wrong.

But once his temper cooled, his eyes drifted back to the priest. Could someone so... sexy actually say Mass? Apparently, the answer was yes. Father Phil moved his hands with authority, his deep voice resonating from the altar, and his green eyes kept scanning the congregation, but each time they passed over Maxwell, they lingered a second longer than necessary.

Maxwell shivered. Not from cold. From something far more dangerous.

---

When the final minutes passed and Mass concluded, Maxwell nearly jumped for joy. His back ached from sitting on that old, cheap wooden pew. He stood quickly, ready to bolt before his grandmother could drag him over to meet the priest. He wasn't prepared for that. Not with those green eyes looking at him up close. Not with those tattoos inches from his face.

But just as Maxwell was about to make a run for his car, a hand grabbed his arm. He knew it was his grandmother.

"Maxwell, dear, where are you going so fast?" she said with a smile that was far too innocent. "I want you to meet Father Phil. I've told him so much about you."

Maxwell felt the ground open beneath his feet. His grandmother was dragging him toward the altar, toward the priest who'd been staring at him all Mass, toward the man with "DRUG FREE" tattooed on his knuckles and green eyes that promised sin.

"Grandmother, really, that's not necessary," he tried to pull away, but the old woman had a grip of iron.

"Nonsense, Maxie. Come."

And then Father Phil looked up. That smile. That damn smile that spread across his lips when he saw Maxwell, as if he'd been waiting for this moment all along.

"Good morning," said the priest, and his voice, now without a microphone, was even deeper, more intimate. "You must be Maxwell. Your grandmother has told me a lot about you."

Maxwell swallowed hard. He couldn't respond. He only managed to extend his hand, and when Phil's fingers wrapped around his, a heat traveled up his arm and settled in his chest.

Father Phil didn't let go. He just looked at him, as if waiting for something. Anything to break the uncomfortable silence.

And Maxwell, who always had an answer, who always had a clever remark, who was never at a loss for words, opened his mouth and said:

"So, do you always stare at people like that, Father? Or am I just special?"

The silence that followed was deafening. His grandmother let out a nervous little laugh. Phil's smile didn't waver, but his eyes flickered with something unreadable.

"I apologize if I made you uncomfortable," he said, finally releasing Maxwell's hand. "It's just... your grandmother spoke so highly of you. I was curious."

Curious. That was it. A neutral, measured response. But the way Phil said it, the way those green eyes lingered a moment too long, made Maxwell feel like curious was doing a lot of heavy lifting.

"Right. Well. I have to take my grandmother home," Maxwell muttered, already backing away.

"Of course. It was a pleasure meeting you, Maxwell," Phil said, and his voice carried a warmth that shouldn't have felt so personal.

Maxwell didn't respond. He turned and walked out of that church as if the devil himself were at his heels.

---

The drive back was torture. His grandmother wouldn't stop talking about how wonderful Father Phil was, how young he was to be a priest, how much he'd liked Maxwell.

"He was very taken with you, Maxie," she said, a sly smile playing on her lips. "I think he even blushed when you shook hands."

Maxwell gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles went white. He didn't respond. He couldn't. His mind was still trapped in those green eyes, in that smile, in the way Phil had looked at him like he could see through every single lie.

He dropped his grandmother off at home, kissed her cheek, and promised to come back next week. As he drove toward his apartment, the image of Father Phil wouldn't leave. Those hands. Those knuckles. FREE. DRUG.

He got home, closed the door, and leaned against it, breathing deeply. He was alone. He could think. He could process what had happened.

But it didn't work.

The hot shower didn't help. Water streamed down his body, but his mind was stuck on those hands. Those damned hands marked with ink that had held his with a firmness that shouldn't have affected him so much. He closed his eyes, and without meaning to, he imagined how those hands would feel elsewhere on his body.

FREE on his hip. DRUG on his chest.

Maxwell's eyes shot open, embarrassed with himself. But the image was already there, burned into his mind. He dried off, put on his pajamas, and crawled into bed, determined to sleep and forget that stupid encounter.

But he couldn't.

He tossed and turned for an hour. The sheets tangled around his legs. His body was tense. Hot. Uncomfortable.

And then, almost without thinking, his right hand drifted down to his stomach. He bit his lower lip as his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers. His treacherous mind took him back to the church. To the altar. To those green eyes that had looked at him with an intensity that was far from holy.

He closed his eyes and let himself go. His left hand, the one he always used for this, moved with the urgency of someone who'd been holding back for hours. And then, just as he was about to reach the edge, his brain played a cruel trick on him.

FREE.

The word flashed in his mind like a spark. FREE. Father Phil's left hand. The same one that had shaken his. The same one that, in his imagination, was now sliding across his torso.

Maxwell arched his back and came with a stifled groan that sounded ridiculous in the silence of his apartment.

He lay there, panting, staring at the ceiling. His left hand was still sticky, and for a moment—just a moment—he felt the absurd urge to laugh.

FREE. His left hand. The same word tattooed on that priest. As if the universe were playing a cruel joke on him.

He got up, cleaned himself with a damp towel, and went back to bed. But this time, instead of peace, what he felt was a strange emptiness. It wasn't the first time he'd masturbated, obviously. He'd done it hundreds of times, with thoughts of far more appropriate people (or less, depending on the case). But never, never, had it been a priest.

And the worst part—the part that truly turned his stomach—was that he'd enjoyed it. Guilt mixed with residual excitement, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He felt dirty. But not entirely bad.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" he whispered into the darkness.

There was no answer. Only the echo of his own voice and the image of green eyes that kept watching him from the shadows.

Maxwell closed his eyes, and for the first time in a long time, he didn't know what his next lie would be.

Chapter 2: When the sun drops out of sight, it reaves me free.

Six days had passed since that Sunday. Six days in which Maxwell's life went on with agonizing normalcy. He went to work, made his sarcastic comments, annoyed his coworkers, and came home to his empty apartment. Everything was exactly as it should be.

Except it wasn't.

Because every night, when he closed his eyes, he saw green. Every time his left hand brushed against something, he heard the echo of a word: FREE. Every time he tried to forget, his brain conjured up the image of a man in a cassock with tattooed knuckles and a smile that made Maxwell feel like he was the only person in the room.

It was infuriating. It was ridiculous. It was...

It was Saturday, Maxwell reminded himself as he parked his car in front of his grandmother's house. I'm here because I'm a good grandson. That's all.

He knocked on the door, and when it swung open, his grandmother's face lit up like Christmas morning.

"Maxie, darling! What brings you here?" she exclaimed, pulling him into a warm hug and pressing an obnoxiously loud kiss to his cheek.

Maxwell endured it with the patience of a saint (ironic, given recent events).

"What, a grandson can't visit his grandmother anymore?" he barked with exaggerated sarcasm.

His grandmother raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

"No, dear, but it's strange of you. You usually come for something."

Maxwell wished he didn't look like an idiot with the slight blush creeping up his neck. He wasn't usually so transparent. What was wrong with him?

"Okay, fine. Maybe I thought you'd like me to accompany you to Mass tomorrow. I know it sounds stupid, but sometimes it's good to step out of your routine, right?"

His grandmother stared at him for a long moment. Then she laughed, a warm sound that made Maxwell feel both relieved and deeply embarrassed.

"Ay, Maxie, why are you so embarrassed? I appreciate that you want to come with me. You're always invited if you want to come."

And with that, Maxwell felt a stupid smile spread across his face. The kind of smile you get when you see a baby animal. Soft. Unguarded. Completely unlike him.

He hated it. He also kind of loved it.

The conversation stretched into the afternoon. They talked about everything and nothing: his grandmother's garden, the neighbor's new cat, the terrible state of the world. Maxwell listened more than he talked, something he rarely did, and when evening fell and the sky turned orange, he finally stood to leave.

"Tomorrow, then?" he asked, hovering by the door.

"Tomorrow, Maxie. I'll save you a seat."

He kissed her cheek, walked to his car, and spent the entire drive home trying to figure out what the hell he was doing.

---

Sunday morning arrived with all the grace of a hangover. Maxwell's alarm blared at an ungodly hour, and he spent a solid five minutes staring at the ceiling, questioning every decision that had led him to this moment.

I could just stay in bed. She'd understand. I could say I got sick.

But his body was already moving, already heading to the bathroom, already standing in front of his closet.

And that's when the idea hit him. A terrible, dangerous, absolutely idiotic idea.

If I'm going to be tortured by this, I might as well make it interesting.

Maxwell pulled out his favorite black jeans—the ones that fit just a little too well, hugging his thighs in a way that was almost obscene. A tight black t-shirt that stretched across his chest and left little to the imagination. A leather jacket, because why not. And just to be extra, he added a silver chain necklace that rested against his collarbone, catching the light.

He looked in the mirror. He looked... dangerous. Deliberately so. The kind of outfit that said I don't belong in a church and look at me anyway at the same time.

Perfect.

He arrived at his grandmother's house, and she gave him a long, appraising look.

"You're very... dressed up, Maxie."

"It's a special occasion," he said smoothly, holding the car door open for her.

"Is it?" she asked, but she didn't push further. His grandmother knew when to leave things alone.

They arrived at the church. The same stone walls. The same stained-glass windows painting colors on the floor. The same incense smell that clung to everything.

And there, at the altar, was him.

Father Phil was setting up the missal, his back half-turned to the congregation. He was wearing the same black cassock, the same simple cross around his neck. His light brown hair fell across his forehead, and when he turned, Maxwell saw the tattoos peeking from beneath his sleeves.

Then Phil looked up.

And Maxwell watched those green eyes travel over him. Slowly. Deliberately. From his face, down his chest, to the jeans that hugged his thighs, and back up again.

It took less than three seconds.

It felt like an eternity.

Maxwell's heart hammered against his ribs. He noticed. He definitely noticed.

Phil's expression didn't change. No smile. No nod. Just a slight tilt of his head, like he was filing the image away for later.

Interesting.

Maxwell slid into the pew next to his grandmother, a smirk playing at his lips. The game had begun.

---

The Mass was a blur of words and rituals. Maxwell couldn't focus. Every time Phil spoke, his voice seemed to wrap around Maxwell like a physical touch. Every time those green eyes swept the congregation, they lingered on him just a moment longer than they should.

Maxwell returned the favor. He let his gaze drift over Phil's form—the broad shoulders, the strong hands, the way the cassock moved when he walked. He made sure Phil could see him looking. Made sure it was obvious.

Look at me, his eyes said. I know you want to.

When the sign of peace came, Maxwell watched. Phil didn't leave the altar. He extended his hand to the altar servers, exchanged the ritual words with them, and then turned back to the congregation with a serene smile.

Coward, Maxwell thought, but there was no malice in it. Only a dark, delicious anticipation.

He leaned forward, catching Phil's eye. And then, slowly, deliberately, Maxwell offered him a smile. Not a nice smile. A dangerous one. The kind of smile that said I know something you don't and come find out at the same time.

Phil's hand hesitated on the altar. His eyes flickered with something—surprise? Interest? Maxwell couldn't tell.

But he knew he'd gotten a reaction.

Got you.

The rest of the Mass passed in a haze. Maxwell kept his eyes on Phil, his expression carefully crafted between boredom and provocation. He crossed his legs in a way that made the jeans stretch. He ran a hand through his hair, making it messier. He licked his lips once, just once, when Phil was looking.

Phil didn't look away.

Good.

When the final blessing came and the congregation began to shuffle out, Maxwell stayed seated. His grandmother had already spotted a friend in the courtyard and was making her way toward her.

Maxwell waited. He watched Phil move around the altar, collecting the sacred vessels, his back to the nearly empty church.

And then, Maxwell got up. He walked down the aisle slowly, deliberately, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

Phil turned.

"Maxwell."

"Father."

There was a tension in the air that hadn't been there before. Phil's green eyes scanned his face, searching for something.

"You came back," Phil said quietly.

"Did you think I wouldn't?" Maxwell replied, his voice low.

Phil's jaw tightened. Just a fraction. Just enough for Maxwell to notice.

"I wasn't sure. You seemed... uncomfortable last week."

Maxwell laughed. A short, sharp sound that cut through the quiet.

"Uncomfortable? No, Father. I was curious." He took a step closer. Close enough to see the faint lines around Phil's eyes. Close enough to see the way his chest rose and fell. "Curious about a lot of things."

Phil didn't step back. He held his ground, those green eyes boring into Maxwell's with an intensity that made his skin prickle.

"Like what?"

Maxwell smiled. The kind of smile that had made business associates nervous and rivals furious.

"Like how a priest gets a tattoo that says 'Drug Free' on his knuckles." He let his gaze drift down to Phil's hands. "And how those hands feel when they're not shaking yours."

Phil was silent for a long moment. His expression was unreadable, but Maxwell could see the pulse beating in his neck. Fast.

"That's a very personal question, Maxwell."

"I'm a very personal person."

Phil studied him. Those green eyes seemed to see through every layer, every carefully constructed mask.

"You're dangerous," Phil said finally, and there was something almost like admiration in his voice.

Maxwell's smile widened.

"I've been told that before."

Phil didn't respond. He just looked at Maxwell, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

Then, slowly, Phil extended his hand. Not for the sign of peace. An offering. A gamble.

Maxwell took it without hesitation. This time, he didn't let go. He held Phil's hand, feeling the warmth of his skin, the roughness of his palm, the subtle tremor that ran through his fingers.

"You know, Father," Maxwell said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "I don't believe in God."

Phil's expression didn't change.

"I know."

Maxwell's breath caught. He knows. He's been watching me too.

"But I'm starting to believe in other things."

Phil's thumb moved over his knuckles. Slow. Deliberate. Just like before, but this time Maxwell knew it was intentional.

"Like what?" Phil asked, his voice low.

Maxwell leaned in. Close enough to smell the incense on Phil's skin. Close enough to see the way his pupils dilated.

"Like temptation."

Phil's hand tightened around his. A warning. A promise.

"Temptation can be a dangerous thing, Maxwell."

Maxwell pulled away, his smile sharp and satisfied.

"I've always liked dangerous things, Father."

He turned and walked away, his heart pounding, his hand still burning from the contact. He didn't look back. He didn't have to.