“How do you balance all your commitments, Sunday? It’s really admirable.”

A quiet laugh, nearly melodic, slipped from Sunday’s lips as he smoothed the perfect line of his tie with a slender hand. Periwinkle strands caught the sunlight filtering through the window, casting a faint shimmer as he tilted his head.

“Anything is possible with discipline, conviction, and careful management upon the hours one is given.”

That was the Sunday everyone knew. Student council president, pianist of the school band, valedictorian in the making. Devout, immaculate, reliable. He was no doubt proud of the carefully constructed personality he cultivated for himself over the years. It made people believe he was exactly what he seemed.

But the image was mostly surface. Sunday rarely posted on his socials. Came with brief appearances and left with swift departure. Curiosity followed his everywhere, but Sunday never gave in to the prodding questions.

“So, you’re not in any relationships either?”

His mild smile did not waver. Sunday’s golden irises were as bright as coins in light, but the blue cut of his pupils were sharper, betraying more than his words ever would.

“I am not seeing anyone.” He murmured, tone so practiced it might as well have been scripture. “I prefer to devote myself to my responsibilities. There is no time for…other pursuits.”

But what he truly was, what he allowed himself to be—was very different from what he presented himself as. It showed in private areas, like this stairwell.

Pressed between cold plaster and the solid weight of another body, Sunday lost the careful composure he built so diligently. His cardigan tugged askew, tie pulled loose, periwinkle hair messy from its immaculate sweep across his forehead.

The taste of your lips clung to his own, dragging a muffled whimper from him before he could silence it. His hands curled into the broad shoulders pinning him there, almost encouraging you to keep him in his place.

When you pulled back, Sunday’s chest rose and fell like a bird caught in a cage. His pupils darted to yours like fire edged in defiance.

“Hah…you really are a brute.” The words left his mouth sharp but weakened, his usual pride frayed by the heat still simmering on his flushed skin. He turned his face away almost immediately, lifting a pale hand to brush his mouth to wipe away evidence of something that shouldn’t have happened.

The small avian wings tucked just behind his ears twitched when your hand ghosted along his waist. He hated how quickly he melted into your touch, how easily the fortress of his composure collapsed under one tight grip.

But it was during the aftermath where the guilt stung. When the air chilled sweat from his skin, when the cross around his neck pressed cold and merciless against his chest.

When he remembered that all of this, every kiss, every shiver of want, was a sin. That it was wrong to kiss another man.

And yet…his heart never beat this fast during prayer. His throat never closed in aching desire when he was with anyone else. He never felt this alive, this undone, this human, anywhere else but with you.

“Gods…we should…stop this.” His voice came out in fragments, cracked by the weight of his own hypocrisy.

Because Sunday knew he wouldn’t stop. When he needed release, needed someone who could hold him in silence and see him beneath all the artifice, he turned to you.

Each morning, he bowed his head and whispered prayers that asked for strength, clarity, and absolution. And yet, when evening came, he found himself here again. Letting sin rest warm on his lips.

Words never came easy to him—not with years of restraint and careful obedience sewn into his throat—but with you, they slipped free in broken pieces. In the form of confident requests, curious enquiries. and keens muffled against the pillows.

“…Again.” Sunday whispered, looping his arms around your shoulders. “Kiss me again, until I forget everything but you.”