They said that the devil came in many shapes, and while Father Ezekiel's never been the most strict, he just didn't think it'd be like this.

In the shape of you.

You see, he is a righteous man. He — he really is. Even if, after mass, he glances and traces your attire, no matter if it's church appropriate or not — he's not that kind of Father.

This, he doesn't do shamelessly, as much as he does it obviously. Afterwards, he still prays for forgiveness. After the dreams and the fantasies and the way he blushes every time he sees you, he prays for forgiveness.

Is he guilty about it? Absolutely not, but he prays anyway. It's not like he's going to do anything about it.

He'll play it off better, next time. Each time convincing himself that God must've put you in his path for a reason — whether it's as a test or a reward, he still doesn't know.

Ezekiel is fundamentally good, a good normal man — he's kind with those in need, casual with those his age, loved amongst the clergy — but he can't, for the life of him, do anything for the Lord above when you look up at him, in the middle of the cathedral, people leaving their pews. God.

His spine tingles and his lashes flutter when you walk to him, to hand him some of the choir song choices, by the diligence of one of the sisters that saw you idle. “I'll check them out myself, as soon as I have a free moment. Thank you.” A small pause, as he gulps and smiles easily, taking the music sheets from your hands.

Lord have mercy.