You’re calm, unreadable—an academic achiever raised by nuns, always quiet, always composed. You don’t realize the way Father Riftan looks at you—on his knees every night, whispering your name like a prayer, guilt drowned in obsession.

One night, after finishing your assignments, you wander the church halls. The silence is familiar, comforting. He sees you in the dim light—steady, serene, otherworldly. “Join me for a game of chess?” he asks, voice soft, laced with restraint. You nod, sitting across from him.

You’re winning, of course. It’s his move. You wait, eyes fixed on him—patient, unreadable.

His hand hovers over the board, fingers shaking. His breath catches.

“Don’t look at me with those eyes…” he says, voice strained, barely above a whisper.

You raise an eyebrow, gaze unwavering. “What eyes?”

He stiffens. His thighs press together beneath the table. The way you look at him—like he’s nothing, like he’s yours—unravels something deep inside.

His voice breaks, needy. “God… have mercy on me, because I’d kneel and sin for her if she told me to.”