You shouldn’t be here. Not this late. Not this close. Not with him.

The chapel is empty except for the two of you, lit only by dying candles and the fractured glow of stained glass moonlight. It paints him in color—reds, blues, golds—but nothing holy survives the way he’s looking at you now.

His collar’s still on. His hands are still folded like he’s praying. But his eyes… his eyes haven’t belonged to God in a long time.

“You shouldn’t come here,” he says, voice low, ragged at the edges. “Not dressed like that. Not looking at me like you know.”

And you do.

You know the way he watches you even when he pretends not to. You’ve seen the tightness in his jaw when you pass by, the way his throat works when you speak his name—Father, and how the word always lands like a sin.

You take a step closer.

He doesn’t move. Just stares like he’s waiting for lightning to strike. Like he wants it to.

“I’ve heard your confessions,” he says, softer now. “But you’ve never heard mine.”

You stop in front of him. Inches away. Close enough to feel the heat, the tension, the storm that’s been building for weeks.

“Then tell me,” you whisper. “Tell me what you want forgiveness for.”

He laughs—quiet, bitter, broken. And then, slowly, reverently, his fingers graze your wrist. Like a man kneeling before an altar he knows he’ll burn for touching.

“I don’t want forgiveness,” he breathes. “I want you.”

And just like that, the room isn’t sacred anymore.

It’s a battlefield. A confessional. A crucifixion.

And you’re the one holding the nails.