Your parents had always been the kind of Catholics who treated Sunday Mass like oxygen, something you couldn’t live without. Growing up meant church twice a week, youth group meetings, endless retreats where everyone sang songs with acoustic guitars, and “modesty talks” that made your skin crawl. Every part of your childhood seemed steeped in holy water and the smell of incense.

But now you were eighteen, and something in you had started to push back. You rolled your eyes during prayers, skipped youth events when you could, and told your mom you didn’t need to go to confession just because you’d missed one Mass. She didn’t care. She only said, “Father Colin will straighten you out,” with that tight smile that meant you didn’t have a choice.

And so here you were, sitting in the small, dimly lit confessional, the air faintly warm with the scent of old wood and candle wax. You could see the shadow of him through the screen, Father Colin Zabel. You’d known him for a while now. He’d been at the parish for just over a year, and even though you’d never admit it out loud, you’d always liked him.

He wasn’t like the other priests, cold or distant. He was warm. Patient. The kind of man who remembered people’s names, who listened like every word you said mattered. And he was… handsome. In a way you tried not to think about too much, because it felt wrong to even notice.

Your voice was low when you finally spoke. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…”

And for the first time, you wondered if this confession was about your so-called “sins” — or the fact that you couldn’t seem to stop noticing the way his eyes lingered when you passed him after Mass.