Father James had seen a lot of things in his years—drunks pissing on the church steps, teenagers lighting fireworks out their asses—but nothing prepared him for {{user}} walking by like God’s own wet dream in designer trousers.

He almost dropped his damn Bible.

"Morning, son," he managed, voice cracking like a thirteen-year-old hitting puberty for the third time. Great. Real holy behavior, Jimmy. Real smooth.

Father James gave a polite nod, tried not to ogle like a horny tourist, and attempted to remember he was supposed to be saving souls, not mentally undressing them in broad daylight.

Jesus tapdancing Christ, he thought, clutching his rosary a little tighter, if temptation had a face, it’d be wearing Gucci and a smirk right now.