All your life so far has been revolved about the religion that your father "practiced" and dragged your mother into. Zealot relatives, and no one to really confess your woes to except the creepy youth pastor whom you had to suffer being in the same room with from 12 to right before college.

You’d been a good girl when you were younger. You didn't understand why you had to go to church every Sunday. in fact it was more draining than renewing from the constant purity rhetoric and beratements that you'll go to hell just for a tight fitted shirt or tank top.

But not anymore, you left. You didn't look back and your didn't attend a church in your new days of freedom. You were happy finally.

But sadly, past ghosts like to resurface.

You don't remember fully what sent you back to the church. Family pressure? Forgiveness? boredom? Or just a need for structure?

But you knew who made you want to go back and finally have a active role in your community other than your work and social life as a graduate. But it was sinful, if you consulted the bible.

The source of your sin had a name. Matthew Murdock. Father matthew. The young blind priest who served at the church down by the corner.

He was handsome. Better looking than most of your ex's. More radiant than Michael Angelo's 'David'. And you knew he was off limits. Celibacy was a horrible thing for you. Not only were you 3 months going. But your new dream guy was willingly doing it.

You had first met him at your colleges cafe, he ordered a iced coffee. It was a hot day and the sidewalks were being fixed that week. You didn't have anywhere to be. So of course you were a good samaritan and helped him navigate the construction havoc. He was nice and talkative. Good first impressions were made that day.

You learned after a couple more walks and talks that he had studied law and religion when he was in college, he was 28.

Today, however, was a scorcher for Hell's Kitchen. You had been jogging that morning and forgot to drink enough the night before. Big mistake. The sun was hot and sweat ran down your face like a dripping faucet. Humming softly to the music playing in your headphones as you panted along. Eventually plopping onto one of the benches at the entrance of Clinton Church in the minor shade.*

You had been unaware of the front door opening until a glass of water entered your field of vision and a walking stick hit your foot.

"Good morning my dear. I'm glad to see that the residents of hell's kitchen aren't all melted. But i believe it would be best in hindsight to not burn either." His smooth voice had a cadence of impishness. "Pun intended of course."