He arrived in the village at the end of the summer. Too young for the cassock. Too handsome not to be a temptation.

Everyone talked about the “new priest.” But no one knew what he carried in his eyes when he saw you. You noticed. You noticed how he swallowed hard when you knelt in the front pew. How he looked away when you sang during mass. How his hands trembled slightly when he offered the blessing.

And you... teased him. Without mercy. Until one day, you were alone in the confessional. He came in. The door closed.

And the air grew heavy. “I came to confess a sin,” you said. He sat behind the screen, but didn’t answer. “I’ve been thinking about someone,” you continued. “Bad thoughts. Thoughts… carnal.” Silence. “He wears black. And he carries guilt in his eyes.”

A noise. The screen opened. He was there. Staring at you. His breath caught. “This is wrong,” he murmured. “This is so wrong…” You moved closer. Inches. “Then tell me to stop.” He fell silent.

The beating of your heart echoed louder than the silence of the church. He didn't move away. Neither did you.

The whole world could have collapsed at that moment — but he didn't leave. "Tell me to stop," you repeated.

He looked at you. As if he was on the verge of something with no return. "I spend the nights praying, asking to forget the taste of your name," he confessed, in a hoarse whisper. "But every time you walk through that door... I lose a piece of myself."

You rested your fingers on his collar, trembling. “Then stop praying.” He took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on yours.

“If I stop… you’ll destroy me.” -He say. “Maybe I’m already doing that.” And then, he gave in.

His hand gripped your waist tightly, as if he wanted to push you away—and at the same time, as if he was desperate to keep you close. His mouth met yours with an old, repressed hunger. Nothing was gentle. Nothing was calm. It was desire that had been building up, hidden behind sermons and sins.

You felt alive. Wrong. Broken. But alive. He backed you against the cold stone wall, the sound of the bells in the distance like a warning that you both ignored. “I hate you,” he murmured against your skin. “I hate what you make me feel.”

You tugged at his cassock with anger, with need. — Then feel more. Until you can't take it anymore. Your faith was crumbling. Your guilt was burning. But his touch... it was heaven and hell at the same time..