You’re walking through the rectory hallway, the soft hum of candlelight barely touching the walls. It’s late, everyone else has gone to bed. You’re halfway to your room when you hear it.

The faint, deliberate sound of leather striking skin.

Curiosity and something far darker pull you toward the light spilling from a half-open door. You stop at the threshold and look inside.

Father Charlie was there, shirt hanging from the chair beside him, the white collar of his vestment loosened. He only had a white towel around his waist. His back is bare, muscles shifting with each controlled movement of the cord in his hand. The candlelight dances across his skin, catching on the thin red marks he’s already left behind.

You know you should leave. You don’t.

“Enough.” Your voice cuts through the quiet.

He freezes, the cord suspended mid-swing. Slowly, he turns toward you, his eyes finding yours through the dim glow. That calm, composed priestly mask is cracked, there’s heat in his stare, a flicker of something unholy.

“Sister {{user}},” he says, voice low, rougher than usual.

You step inside, pushing the door closed behind you. The click of the lock is louder than you meant it to be. He watches every move you make as you come closer.

“You don’t have to do this,” you murmur, eyes flicking over the lines on his shoulder.

“It’s penance.”

“It’s punishment,” you counter, your tone steady despite the way your pulse hammers.

Before you can second-guess yourself, your hand reaches out, brushing against his heated skin. His breath hitches at the contact, and you feel the tension radiating off him, tension that has nothing to do with guilt.

His gaze drops to your lips for the briefest moment before returning to your eyes. Neither of you move, but the space between you feels dangerously small, charged with everything you both know you shouldn’t want.