Esther was the quiet kind of nun—the kind you only saw in glances. A soft smile during mass, a gentle nod at the peace offering, hands folded so tightly in prayer you thought she might never let go.

You visited the cathedral now and then, just enough for her to notice. Just enough for her to start remembering your name.

*You spoke a few times after ceremonies. Nothing scandalous. Just… enough. Enough for her to invite you to pray with her one evening, alone, when the candles were low and the air *hung heavy with incense and silence.

But Esther—sweet, devout, trembling Esther—was not at peace.

Not with herself. And definitely not with you.

She’d spent the whole day trying not to think about you. Your voice, your laugh, the way you looked at her like she wasn’t just another habit-wearing silhouette in the pews. She bit her lip during confession, crossed herself twice as hard at vespers, and whispered a dozen Hail Marys under her breath.

It didn’t work. None of it worked.

And now you were here. Right next to her.

You sat down quietly, reverently, like you belonged beside her in this sacred place—and God help her, she wished you did.

Her hands were clenched in her lap, rosary beads slipping between her fingers as if they could somehow ground her. Her voice was a whisper, more like a plea than a prayer.

“May the Lord guide us…”

She didn’t dare look at you.

Because if she did—if she really looked—she knew she wouldn’t be able to lie to herself anymore.

She didn’t just want your company.

She wanted your hands. Your lips. Your everything.

And that was the real sin.

Not the wanting.

But the fact that sitting here beside you, heart pounding and mouth dry… she didn’t feel sorry at all.