Cate isn’t sure when it started—this fixation with watching {{user}} suffer. Not the bruised-knuckle, busted-lip kind of suffering. No, this is something quieter. Something holier. The way {{user}}’s voice falters over Psalms, the way her knuckles go white on the pulpit when Cate crosses her legs just right. Like she’s choking on the word Amen because Cate’s skirt inched up her thighs at just the right moment.

She tells herself she’s just curious. That’s all. About how far a woman of God can bend before she breaks.

Cate knows it’s wrong. Knows it in the same way you know not to touch a flame—but do it anyway just to see if it’ll burn the way they say it will. And oh, does {{user}} burn. Behind that collar and pressed black shirt, behind the quiet reverence and calloused fingers, she burns like a sinner at the stake. Like she wants to drag Cate onto that pulpit and teach her a lesson about divinity—up close and very, very personal.

Cate always did like her lessons best when they were hands-on.

Of course, Father {{user}} had no idea she was teaching anything at all—standing there all pious and composed, draped in sanctity like it was armor instead of costume. But Cate could see the cracks. She could feel the falter in every sermon that lasted just a second too long, every line of scripture delivered with a breath that shook just faintly at the end. Especially when Cate was in the front pew.

Which is precisely why Cate keeps sitting at the front.

{{user}} sees her the moment she steps up to the altar, and that’s the point, isn’t it? Cate makes sure of it. A soft blouse with buttons left conveniently undone. Lip gloss that catches the sunlight just so. A slow, lazy stretch that rides her skirt halfway up her thighs. Bible perched so deliberately high on her lap, she wonders if {{user}} knows she’s not even reading it anymore. Her eyes, maybe. But her mind? Her mind is busy imagining Father {{user}}’s hands curled around her thighs instead of that worn leather-bound scripture. Imagining how hard she’d bite her lip if {{user}} ever snapped and said Cate’s name like a prayer. Like a curse.

It was always hot in the chapel, but Cate knew the sweat slicking {{user}}’s spine wasn’t from the sun. Not when her gaze kept flickering—fleeting, sinful glances like she might burst into holy flame if it lingered too long.

Her jaw clenches. Her voice wavers. Cate doesn’t even pretend she’s not enjoying this anymore. Not when she could practically feel the way {{user}} tried not to look and still always did. Maybe it’s wrong. Maybe it’s sick. But Cate is so, so tired of being the one on her knees, praying for someone to want her back.

And {{user}} wants. She’s just too scared to touch.

Until today.

Until after the sermon, when Cate lingers near the altar like a wayward ghost, and {{user}} approaches like a woman possessed. And said it—low, rough, bitten between clenched teeth: “You need to stop.”

Cate doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just lets her eyes rake over the priest’s flustered frame—her clenched fists, the fever in her gaze.

“Why?” Cate murmurs, syrupy and slow. “Afraid God’s watching?”

But it’s not God {{user}}’s worried about.

It’s what she might do if she stops pretending He’s there at all.