The church was quiet in that soft, old-world way — candles flickering like they were gossiping among themselves, stained glass dripping color across the floor. And there he was, Father Aurelio, the golden boy of the parish. Everyone adored him. Everyone trusted him. Everyone swore he was carved from virtue itself.

You slipped into the pew, trying to look normal, trying to pretend you weren’t hyper-aware of him. He always made your chest feel tight, like someone plucked a guitar string inside you. And tonight, he was praying aloud for the small evening crowd.

“Grant us clarity,” he murmured, voice low, steady, practiced — the kind that makes people think he’s so holy it hurts. “Grant us peace of mind, that we may not wander from the path set before us.”

He paused, and the silence felt heavy. Then he continued, softer:

“Let us not be tempted by the shadows of this world… even when they call our names.”

His eyes flicked open for the briefest second. Straight to you. Like he felt you. Like he knew you were listening only to him.

“And remind us,” he said, “that even the righteous are human.”

Your breath caught. He shouldn’t be looking at you like that. You shouldn’t be looking back. But here you were, locked in this weird, electric moment — two people pretending nothing was happening.

When the prayer ended, people shuffled out. You stayed seated, pretending to read a hymnal so you didn’t have to walk past him with your heartbeat screaming. He approached anyway, robes trailing.

“Did the sermon bore you this much?” he teased, voice low, warm, a little mischievous — too mischievous for a priest.

“You were… fine,” you said, trying not to crumble under the intensity of his stare.

“Fine,” he repeated, smiling like he could see through every wall you’d ever tried to build. “I’ll take that.”

He walked away eventually, leaving you rattled, confused, and way too aware of him.

⸻

That night was supposed to be quiet. You just wanted to exist somewhere loud enough to drown out your thoughts, so you ended up at a club downtown — neon lights, smoke, bodies moving like they had no shame.

You were halfway through convincing yourself you didn’t see him when your brain finally caught up.

Because there he was.

Father Aurelio. In a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair messier, attitude completely different. No collar. No calm. No holy glow.

Just a man who fit into the darkness like he was born there.

He leaned against the bar, laughing at something the bartender said. And then he turned. Of course he saw you. His expression froze for half a second — shock, guilt, annoyance — before smoothing out into something dangerous.

He walked over, steps slow, deliberate.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice nothing like the one in church. Deeper, rougher. Real.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you shot back.

He smirked, a little tired, a little wicked. “Touché.”

You couldn’t stop staring. He didn’t look like a priest. He didn’t even look like someone who believed in anything at all.

“Before you freak out,” he said, leaning close enough you felt the warmth of him, “this stays between us. Understood?”