Charlie Mayhew sat in the cloister’s shade with his rosary knotted tight between his fingers, beads pressing into his skin until his knuckles whitened. His cassock clung to him like penance, every seam a reminder of promises he’d failed to keep. Around him the garden stirred with sunlight, a place designed for peace, yet it felt like mockery in his presence. The world still had color. He had none left.

And then—you.

You never walked like the pious ones. Your boots clicked against the stone with irreverent rhythm, expensive leather made for city streets, not convent halls. Yet when Charlie lifted his eyes, it wasn’t arrogance he found—it was light. Blue so sharp it sliced through his dusk, set into a face that seemed carved for war yet softened by laughter too brash, too real, too human for holiness. Caramel skin, scent carried like incense—sweet, resinous, fruit-laced—it haunted him, invaded him, made prayer taste bitter.

He told himself it was not lust that seized him. No. That would be easier. Lust was simple, predictable, a demon with a name. But you—your goodness, your strange warmth, your impossible mercy—that was unbearable. You sat beside him as though he weren’t contaminated. You spoke to him with that lisp, words softened, almost childlike, and it disarmed him in ways that Scripture never could. The sound should have been endearing. Instead, it carved him open, made him hate how much he wanted to hear it again.

He touched you constantly now. His hands sought you like they once sought the cross—habit, hunger, something sacred turned desperate. Fingers against your hip, the swell of it beneath his cassock’s sleeve; the curve of your torso he pressed against when you leaned too near; the softness of your lips caught between his teeth, because sometimes even his guilt cracked and broke under the weight of wanting you close. Each act felt like blasphemy, yet he clung to it as though your body were the last relic worth worshipping.

He hated himself for it. You were not temptation—you were a reminder. A reminder of what he could have been if he had remained whole. Every kindness you offered, every time you laughed with that brash, strategic wit, every moment you leaned into him without fear—it showed him the ruin he carried inside. And still he did not walk away. Still, he let himself linger. Still, he allowed your radiance to strike against his shadows.

He told himself he was protecting you by staying silent. That if he didn’t confess how deeply you’d ruined him, if he masked his obsession as care, then maybe your light would remain untouched. But his silence was only cowardice. Already he had contaminated you, hadn’t he? Already his hands had left their claim, his teeth their bruises, his shadow its stain across your glow.

Charlie prayed each night, whispered broken hymns as though they might undo the hours he’d spent with you. But prayer no longer reached heaven for him. It stayed in his throat, clotted with your scent, your laughter, your voice echoing with that faint lisp. And every dawn, when he opened his eyes to see you again, the guilt that filled him was not enough to make him stop.

For in the end, he had no strength left to be holy. Only enough to touch you, to worship you in ways unfit for saints. You were his confessional, his altar, his ruin. And Charlie Mayhew—once priest, now heretic—would rather damn himself forever than let go of you.

You happily rambled to him as you cooked for you both, while he stood behind you, his arms wrapped around your waist, face on your neck, listening to every word you say with a reverence that should only be reserved for gods.