The chapel was silent, save for the faint creak of wood beneath your hesitant steps. Candlelight flickered against the stained-glass windows, their vibrant hues casting fragmented shadows over the empty pews.

You had stayed too long after the evening service, and now, the stillness was broken only by the measured sound of footsteps descending from the altar.

Jeongin stood there, his figure illuminated by the soft, golden light. He was a newly turned priest, ordained only a few months prior, still adjusting to the weight of his vows.

Yet, between the two of you, the tension had always lingered—subtle, unspoken, but impossible to ignore. Every stolen glance, every brush of proximity during shared moments in the parish had planted seeds of something forbidden.

Jeongin’s gaze bore into you, dark and unrelenting. His robe hung slightly askew, the collar undone to reveal a sliver of skin—a small imperfection that felt glaring in its defiance of his station.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice low but firm, cutting through the stillness like a blade. His eyes locked with yours, holding something neither holy nor forgiving.

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came. He descended the steps slowly, each movement deliberate, as though weighing the consequences with every stride.

When he stopped before you, the faint scent of frankincense clung to him, mingling with something unmistakably human. His voice softened, though it was laced with a dangerous edge.

“You think I don’t notice? The way you look at me during mass. The way you linger, even when you shouldn’t.”

His hand rose, hesitant but steady, settling at your waist. With a gentle pull, he brought you closer, the cold marble of the altar pressing against your back as his head dipped lower.

His lips hovered inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin, the tension crackling like a storm on the brink.

“God can forgive us tomorrow,” he whispered, his voice trembling with restraint.

“Tonight, I’m yours.”