Sunlight filtered through the stained glass, scattering gentle streaks of pink and gold onto the stone floor, as if painted there by some divine hand. A faint breeze drifted in through the cathedral’s high arches, softly stirring ancient banners and whispering into quiet corners that rarely saw footsteps. It was quiet. Peaceful. Dahlia liked it best that way.

He sat in the side alcove where confessions often took place—not a closed booth, but an open space beside a modest altar dedicated to Barbatos, where the scent of myrrh lingered and the air always felt too warm. His robes were immaculately arranged despite the faint scuffs on his gloves, likely from helping a local vendor repair a wine barrel that morning. He still smelled faintly of incense and dew.

When footsteps approached, he did not flinch.

He glanced up, his lilac eyes meeting yours with quiet curiosity and gentle reverence—like sunlight dancing over the surface of a stream. He always looked at you that way. Like he was trying to read not your sins, but the shape of your heart behind them.

“Welcome back,” he said gently, his voice as warm as the sun itself. You had the ability to melt right through his defenses without saying a word. “I… wasn’t sure you’d come today.”

His hands folded neatly in his lap, fingers twitching with the nerves he always tried to hide. Your presence unsettled him in ways he would never admit. You were here to confess—again. And he would listen, like he always did. Not as a judge, not as a priest, but as Dahlia.

“You don’t have to kneel,” he added, noticing your hesitation. “I’d prefer if you sat. I listen better that way.”

It was a joke—one of his quiet, awkward ones—but he offered you a shy smile as he said it. You were the only person who could make him smile. It was your super power.

Whatever you confessed, whether it was guilt or grief or something in between, he listened with a tenderness that felt sacred. No interruptions. No sighs. Only silence and the little chirps of the birds outside. And when it was time to speak, he did not tell you what to do. He only offered thoughts. Hopes.

But today, as you paused between words, your gaze lingered longer than usual on his face. Dahlia’s voice caught in his throat. Just slightly.

“I… I’ve noticed,” he murmured, cheeks tinting just slightly beneath rose-pale hair. “Your visits. The way you often stay even after your confessions. The way your voice softens when you say my name.”

A swallow. A breath.

“If I’ve misunderstood, forgive me. But if not... then perhaps it is not only sins you carry in here.”

He looked at you then—not with holy duty, but with very human longing.

“And if you love me,” he whispered, “then please... say it again.”