#ST. Peter Answers! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

seospicybin · 4 months ago

Text

WORSHIP.

I.N x reader. (s,a)

Synopsis: In the quiet halls of the church and the secrecy of the night, boundaries are tested, faith is questioned, and desires threaten to consume both you and Jeongin. Some sins are easy to resist—others, once tasted, become impossible to forget. (22k words)

Author's note: This is a verrrrry late Jeongin bday fic. Have holy water ready near you and hope you enjoy it ♡

WORSHIP Playlist 🎧

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are products of my imagination and used in a fictitious manner. Be aware that there are mentions of alcohol addiction and self-harm implicitly.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The confession echoes in the empty church, absorbed by the stillness of flickering candlelight. Yang Jeongin kneels before the altar, his fingers curled together in a desperate grip, as if holding himself together.

"I have broken my vow."

The weight of those words settles heavily on his chest. He exhales slowly, but the guilt does not leave him. The silence stretches, pressing in on him, waiting for him to continue. But how does he put it into words?

How does he confess that, despite all his prayers, despite the years of devotion, he let himself want something—someone—he should never have?

Jeongin closes his eyes. Images flood his mind, unbidden and relentless. A voice, teasing yet thoughtful. Fingers brushing over the pages of his manuscript. The way you looked at him—not as a priest, but as a man. Your touch on him, your warmth around him, your heat pressed against him and that sweet, sweet taste of you that flooded his tongue.

Lowering his head, he lets out a slow, unsteady breath and murmurs—

"Lord, have mercy on me."

But mercy does not come. Not in the silence of the church, not in the warmth of the candlelight, not in the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat that refuses to quiet. He waits, as if expecting some sign, some force greater than himself to strip him of this longing, to pull him back from the edge before he falls again.

Nothing comes.

Jeongin forces his eyes open, staring at the altar before him. The crucifix looms overhead, a reminder, a warning—yet all he can think about is how your hands felt gripping the front of his shirt, how they felt against his skin. The way you pleaded so desperately to please him.

Please, please, please.

A shudder courses through him. He grips the rosary tighter, the beads biting into his skin. He should repent. He should beg for forgiveness. He should erase every trace of you from his thoughts before he condemns himself further.

And yet—

And yet, when he closes his eyes again, all he sees is you.

The scent of old paper and polished wood lingers in the air as Jeongin walks through the quiet corridors of St. Peter’s Church, making his way toward his office. The afternoon sun filters through the stained-glass windows, casting fractured colors onto the stone floor. A familiar stillness settles around him, the kind that has become second nature over the years.

He steps inside his office, closing the door behind him. His desk is neatly arranged, save for the stack of handwritten pages resting beside his laptop—his latest manuscript, still unfinished. With a quiet sigh, he glances at the bulletin board pinned to the wall, eyes lingering on the ad he had posted just days ago.

Looking for a part-time assistant. Flexible hours. Must be organized and comfortable with transcribing and editing. Contact: 010-XXXX-XXXX.

A simple request, nothing more. He hadn’t expected much, maybe a few inquiries at best. So when his phone buzzes against the desk, he barely glances at the number before answering.

"Hello?"

There’s a brief hesitation on the other end before a voice—soft, uncertain yet clear—fills the silence.

"Hi, um… I saw the notice about the part-time job? I just wanted to ask if it's still available."

Jeongin leans back in his chair, his fingers idly tapping against the armrest. There's something about the way you speak—the quiet curiosity, the faint edge of hesitation—that makes him pause before responding.

"Ah, yes. It is. Would you be able to come by this afternoon? We can talk more in person."

A beat of silence. Then, "Sure. Where should I go?"

"St. Peter’s Church," he replies smoothly. "Just ask for Father Yang when you arrive."

The pause is longer this time, and Jeongin can almost picture the way your expression must have shifted—surprise, confusion, maybe even disbelief. He waits, letting the weight of it settle.

"Father?" Your voice is quieter now, cautious.

"That’s right." He doesn’t elaborate, simply lets the word linger between you.

But despite your hesitation, you don’t back out. "Alright. I’ll be there."

"Good. I’ll see you then."

The call ends, and Jeongin sets his phone down, exhaling slowly. He isn’t sure why he feels the faintest trace of amusement lingering in his chest. Perhaps it’s the subtle curiosity in your voice or the fact that, even through the phone, he could sense the moment your perception shifted.

Either way, he knows one thing for certain: You don’t quite know what you’ve signed up for.

The church is quieter than usual when Jeongin steps toward the altar, dressed in his white and gold vestments. The scent of burning candles and aged wood surrounds him, a constant companion. He speaks with the steadiness that years of practice have given him, his voice echoing through the high ceilings as the congregation listens.

He doesn’t think much of the new presence seated at the back of the church at first. It’s only when he glances up, catching a pair of unfamiliar eyes watching him a little too intently, that something shifts. Recognition flickers.

The service continues, undisturbed, but Jeongin is aware of you now—the slight fidgeting of your hands, the way you shift in your seat, the lingering way your gaze keeps returning to him.

When the mass ends and the last murmurs of prayer fade, Jeongin descends the steps from the altar, moving through the thinning crowd with quiet purpose. He doesn’t need to search.

You’re still there, watching him.

He stops in front of you, tilting his head slightly as his gaze meets yours. There it is—the look he had anticipated. That moment of realization.

"You must be here about the job."

Your lips part slightly, a breath caught in your throat. "You’re Father Yang?"

Jeongin exhales a quiet chuckle, amusement flickering at the edges of his lips. "I am. Were you expecting someone else?"

"I—um—I guess I just didn’t recognize you right away."

"That happens." He doesn’t press further, though he can see the questions forming behind your eyes. Instead, he gestures toward the hallway leading to the back of the church. "Come on. We can talk more in my office."

You hesitate for only a second before following. Jeongin leads the way, his footsteps quiet against the stone floor, the hum of the church fading behind you.

Inside his office, the space is dimly lit by the glow of his desk lamp, the scent of ink and old books settling in the air. Jeongin takes his seat, but before he gestures for you to do the same, his gaze flickers over you—your clothes, the expensive bag resting on your shoulder, the delicate pieces of jewelry on your wrist and neck. Everything about you speaks of wealth, of a life where money is never a concern.

He doesn’t ask. Not yet. But the question lingers in his mind. Why would someone like you be looking for a part-time job at a church? If it’s just about building your resume, there are a hundred easier ways.

Still, he doesn’t voice the thought. Instead, he gestures toward the chair across from him. "Have a seat."

You do, sinking into the chair, only to immediately sit up straighter, as if trying not to appear uncomfortable. It doesn’t help that the setup feels almost interrogative—him behind the desk, composed and collected, while you sit stiffly across from him.

"So," Jeongin starts, leaning forward, hands resting lightly against the desk, "tell me a little about yourself."

You straighten, clearing your throat. "Well, I’m in my last year of college. I major in literature, and I do some freelance work—mostly editing and transcribing—so I thought this might be a good fit."

Jeongin nods but doesn’t drop his scrutiny. "Will this job interfere with your studies?"

You shake your head quickly. "Not at all. If anything, I need something to do other than just studying all the time." A small, sheepish smile. "And honestly, I need the experience for my resume."

That doesn’t explain it. Not entirely. But Jeongin lets it slide, for now. "That’s fair."

A beat of silence. Then he tilts his head. "Do you have experience working with writers?"

"A bit," you admit. "I've helped a few authors organize their drafts and notes. Are you working on a book?"

"I am." He watches your expression closely. "A detective novel."

Your eyebrows lift slightly. "Really?"

Jeongin leans back, lips curling slightly at your reaction. "Something wrong with that?"

"No, not at all," you say quickly. "I just… didn't expect a priest to be writing crime fiction."

"You’re not the first person to say that," he replies smoothly.

You shift slightly, and though you try to hide it, Jeongin can tell you’re still unsure about him. That’s fine. He’s used to being studied, just as he’s used to studying others.

He finally leans forward, folding his hands together. "If you take this job, you'll be assisting me with research, organization, and transcriptions. Some of it will be straightforward, some of it might require a little patience." His voice remains calm, steady. "Is that something you're comfortable with?"

You hesitate for only a moment before nodding, this time more firmly. "Yeah. I can handle that."

Jeongin studies you for a second longer, then gives a small nod. "Good."

You exhale, as if only now realizing you had been holding your breath.

"You can start this Monday."

Jeongin doesn’t usually like surprises, but he has to admit—watching you linger by the confession booth is an unexpected sight.

He had only been passing through the church hallways when he spotted you, standing just outside the small wooden structure, your fingers ghosting over the carved frame. Your expression is unreadable, but there’s something pensive in the way you stand there, like you’re considering stepping inside.

His lips quirk slightly. “Thinking about confessing?”

The way you jolt at his voice is almost comical. You turn sharply, eyes widening just a fraction before you compose yourself.

“I was just looking,” you reply, shifting slightly under his gaze.

Jeongin raises a brow, amused. “You sure? I can take your confession right now, if you’d like.”

For a brief second, your face betrays a flicker of flustered hesitation before you shake your head, smiling shyly. “Maybe another time.”

He chuckles softly, the sound echoing lightly in the quiet hall. “I’ll hold you to that.”

He nods toward his office. “Come on. You have work to do.”

He doesn’t wait for you to respond, simply turns on his heel, fully expecting you to follow—which, after a brief pause, you do.

Jeongin watches you carefully as you step into his office, noting how your gaze flickers over the space. It’s a little cluttered but not chaotic, a mix of stacked manuscripts, theological books, and a few scattered notes he keeps meaning to organize. The air smells faintly of old parchment and candle wax.

You don’t seem entirely comfortable here. He wonders if it’s the religious setting or just him.

Settling into his chair, he leans back slightly, hands clasped together. “Your tasks are straightforward,” he begins. “You’ll be editing, transcribing my handwritten notes, proofreading drafts, and organizing my files. Occasionally, you might have to handle emails from my publisher or literary agent.”

You nod, listening intently, but he doesn’t miss the way your eyes flicker toward his desk—toward the mess of papers he has yet to sort. If organization is part of your job, you’ll have your hands full.

“I don’t expect you to know everything right away,” he continues, watching for your reaction. “But I do expect you to be efficient and ask questions when necessary.”

“Understood,” you reply, your tone professional, composed.

He nods in approval before gesturing toward the chair across from him. “Then let’s get started.”

You settle in, pulling out your laptop, and soon enough, the only sound in the office is the rhythmic tapping of keys as you begin working through his notes.

Jeongin doesn’t speak much after that, but he keeps a quiet eye on you as he works through his own writing. The job itself isn’t difficult, but he can sense your unease.

It’s not the workload that unsettles you. It’s him. He’s used to that. Even now, after seeing him lead an entire mass, after watching him step down from the altar with practiced ease, you still seem unsure about him.

Maybe it’s because he’s younger than you expected—sharp-eyed and composed, but not in the soft, gentle way most priests are. Or maybe it’s the way he speaks, calm and deliberate, with none of the detached serenity that people usually associate with men of the cloth.

Or maybe, it’s because despite sitting across from you in full priest attire, he looks more like a professor than a man of God. Someone intellectual, analytical. Someone who doesn’t just preach scripture but dissects it.

He wonders if you even realize you’re staring. Instead of calling you out on it, he lets the silence stretch between you until, finally, he speaks.

“You don’t feel comfortable working here, do you?”

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard for a split second before you quickly shake your head. “What? No, it’s fine—”

He tilts his head slightly, a knowing look in his eyes. “You don’t have to lie.”

You press your lips together, clearly unsure of how to respond.

Jeongin exhales softly, leaning back in his chair. “It makes sense. A church office isn’t exactly the most comfortable workspace.” He twirls a pen absently between his fingers before glancing back at you. “Come to my apartment tomorrow instead. It’s where I do most of my writing anyway. You’ll be more comfortable there.”

You hesitate but then your eyes flicker around the room—the heavy bookshelves, the religious paintings, the ever-present scent of incense and candle wax—and Jeongin knows you’re considering it.

“If that’s what you prefer,” you say carefully.

His lips curl slightly. “It’s what makes the most sense. I’ll text you the address later.”

And just like that, the first day ends with a shift neither of you were expecting.

The next afternoon, Jeongin opens the door to find you standing outside his apartment, looking hesitant.

He takes one look at your face and smirks. “Did you expect me to answer the door in full priest attire?”

You blink, clearly caught off guard, and only now seem to realize that he’s not dressed in black clericals. Instead, he’s wearing a loose sweater and sweatpants, looking significantly more casual than the last time you saw him.

“No—I mean, I just…” You trail off, visibly struggling to phrase whatever it is you’re thinking.

Jeongin leans against the doorframe, amused. “I don’t wear that all the time, you know.”

Your reaction is enough to entertain him for the rest of the evening. But after a few more seconds of watching you flounder, he gestures for you to step inside.

His apartment is neat and minimalistic, lacking any unnecessary decor. But the first thing you notice isn’t the furniture.

It’s the wooden altar against the wall.

Your eyes linger on it for a second before you turn to him, brows raised. “So instead of a couch or a coffee table, you took an altar?”

Jeongin chuckles. “It was free.”

You exhale a small laugh, shaking your head as you take in the rest of the space. He watches as you carefully observe everything, adjusting to this new environment.

Finally, he nods toward the desk by the window. “Your workspace is over there.”

You walk over, running your fingers lightly over the surface before glancing back at him. “Where are you going to work if I’m using your desk?”

He shrugs, leaning against the wall. “I’ll be doing other things around the apartment.”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “Like what?”

His lips twitch. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The first time Jeongin sees you, he knows you’ll be trouble.

Not in the way most people would think—there’s nothing outwardly rebellious about you, nothing loud or disruptive. No, your trouble is quieter, buried beneath the surface, where only those who bother to look closely can see it.

And Jeongin always looks closely.

You’re smart—he can tell from the way you speak, how you choose your words carefully, never giving more than what’s necessary. You’re meticulous, precise in your work, never making mistakes. A model assistant.

But Jeongin doesn’t trust things that are too perfect.

And you—you are undeniably beautiful. It’s a beauty so pure that it almost feels sacred, like stained glass catching sunlight or the flicker of a candle in a silent chapel. And yet, instead of making him want to protect it, it makes something inside him stir.

A need—subtle but insistent—to ruin it. To stain it. Just to see what would happen. And that is dangerous.

He’s spent years learning restraint, carving discipline into himself until it feels like second nature. But you… You tempt him just enough to make him wonder what you’re hiding.

Because there’s something—a flicker of secrecy behind your composed expression, a hesitation in your voice when you speak of your life. He sees it in the way your fingers press into your thighs under the table, in the way your smile never quite reaches your eyes.

Jeongin likes writing mysteries because he enjoys uncovering things—secrets, motives, the hidden truths people don’t want to admit. And next, it’s going to be you.

"Father?"

Your soft, melodic voice cuts through his thoughts, snapping him back to reality and God, he likes it when you call him that. Too much. The way you say it—gentle, reverent, like it means something—only makes it worse. He wonders, briefly, if you’ll ever say it in a different tone. Maybe a little rougher, maybe breathless—maybe—

"Father," you call again, stepping closer. Your hands are clasped neatly in front of you, a picture of innocence, of obedience.

Jeongin looks down at the manuscript in his hands, gripping it just a little tighter to keep his thoughts from straying too far.

"Do you mind if I leave early today?" you ask, tilting your head ever so slightly.

"Yes," he says immediately. Maybe too quickly. But he knows—knows it’s dangerous to be around you for too long.

You smile, grateful. "Thank you, but—there’s one more thing.”

Jeongin lifts his eyes, wary. "What is it?"

"Can I use your bathroom to change?"

Another easy request. Another easy yes. You excuse yourself, taking your bag with you, and disappear behind the door.

And Jeongin—he should go back to work. He should focus on something else. But he can’t. Because the only thing on his mind now is you. You, just beyond that door. Undressing.

He swallows hard, gripping the manuscript even tighter, but it’s useless. His thoughts are already running wild—imagining the soft rustle of fabric as you pull that dress over your head, imagining the bare expanse of your skin, the places he’s never seen, the places you keep hidden—

His breath catches and then his eyes dart to the crucifix on the wall. The sight of it stings, as if God Himself is watching, and Jeongin quickly reaches for the cross necklace hanging around his neck. His fingers tighten around it as he closes his eyes, whispering a quiet prayer.

But what is he even praying for? Not to stop—because he can’t stop. Not for forgiveness—because he doesn’t deserve it.

All he can do is stand there, gripping onto the fragile thread of his self-control, until the soft click of the bathroom door opening pulls him back to the present.

He turns swiftly—only to see you already pulling on your coat, concealing whatever outfit you’ve changed into. A small mercy, perhaps. But then he notices the deep red painted onto your lips. The scent of your perfume drifts through the air, warm and heady, curling around him like temptation itself.

You smile at him, utterly unaware of the war waging inside him. "Good night, Father. See you tomorrow."

And then you’re gone.

Jeongin exhales, slow and heavy, his gaze lingering on the closed door. He thought—hoped—that once you left, his mind would quiet. That he’d be able to breathe again.

But it’s harder now because your scent lingers in the room and so does everything else.

Jeongin does what he always does when temptation coils too tightly around his ribs—he leaves. He steps out into the night and the next thing he knows, it’s late, and he’s walking down an unfamiliar street, bathed in the glow of neon lights and passing headlights.

A group of girls passes by, giggling and chatting, their perfume lingering in the air. Jeongin keeps his head down, uninterested. But then—

"Father."

The word freezes him in place. Slowly, he turns around and there you are. For a moment, he isn’t even sure it’s you. The girl standing before him isn’t the same one he saw earlier in his apartment—poised, polished, careful in every movement. No, this version of you is different.

Your dress is short—too short—exposing far too much of your legs, hugging every curve of your body in ways that make his throat dry. The dim glow of the streetlights does nothing to hide the fact that you’re not wearing a bra, your nipples subtly pressing against the thin fabric. And your lips—painted that same deep red, like a mark of sin itself.

You smile at him, a little shy now, suddenly aware of yourself under his gaze. You clutch your coat tighter around your body, a small attempt at modesty, though it does nothing to undo what he’s already seen.

"I’m surprised to see you here," you say, voice light, but there’s something else beneath it—an uncertainty, a hesitance.

Jeongin exhales slowly, pulling his thoughts together. "I’m just as surprised," he admits.

A brief silence settles between you. Then, Jeongin asks, "Where are you going?"

You glance over your shoulder toward the club entrance, where bluish neon lights spill onto the pavement, casting strange shadows on the ground. Your lips part as if to answer, but the words trail off, and instead, you gesture vaguely in the direction of the pulsing music.

You don’t say it outright, but Jeongin can tell—it’s not something you want to talk about with him. So he nods in understanding.

You hesitate then, shifting slightly on your feet before drawing in a small breath. "Do you want to—" You stop yourself mid-sentence, breaking into a nervous laugh as you shake your head. "Never mind."

He knows what you were about to ask. "It’s too late for me anyway," Jeongin says instead, his voice careful, measured. "I have morning mass tomorrow."

At that, your brows lift slightly, as if the reminder of his priesthood catches you off guard. He watches your expression closely, waiting for the moment it clicks again—that no matter how different he may look outside of his collar, no matter how casual he may seem standing before you now, he is still Father Yang Jeongin.

"Don’t let me get in the way," he says after a beat. "Have fun."

You pause, your eyes lingering on him for just a second too long, something unreadable flickering in them. Then, without another word, you step away, rejoining your friends.

Before you get too far, Jeongin speaks once more. "Stay safe."

You pause, and when you respond, your voice is softer, more subdued. "Yes, Father."

And Jeongin—he stands there, watching. Watching the sway of your hips, the way the hem of your dress flutters with each step, the way the scent of your perfume lingers in the air long after you’re gone.

Jeongin doesn’t remember how it starts. One moment, he’s standing in the dim light of his apartment, and the next, you’re in front of him, close enough that he can count every slow rise and fall of your chest.

You look different—softer, unguarded, your lips stained that same dangerous red. Your dress clings to you, delicate fabric that threatens to slip off your shoulders with the slightest movement.

"Father," you whisper, and the way you say it makes something inside him snap.

His fingers twitch at his sides. Don’t touch her.

But then your hands reach for him first, trailing up his arms, slow and featherlight, until they slide over his shoulders.

"Do you want me to confess?" you murmur, eyes gleaming with something wicked.

Jeongin swallows. His throat is dry, his chest tight. You shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be looking at you like this, thinking of you like this.

And yet, when your fingers brush against his collar, your touch barely there, he doesn’t stop you.

"You tempt me," you whisper, and your breath fans against his lips. "Do I tempt you, Father?"

His hands move before he can think—gripping your hips, pulling you closer until there’s nothing between you but heat. Your body presses against his, and he swears he can feel every curve, every soft inch molding into him.

"Say it," you breathe, tilting your head up. "Say you want me."

His resolve shatters and the moment his lips crash against yours, it’s over.

You melt into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, nails grazing against his scalp in a way that makes him groan against your mouth. His hands roam down, gripping the backs of your thighs, lifting you—he doesn’t know where he’s taking you, only that he needs to feel more, needs to—

His name. You moan his name, not Father, not the careful title he hides behind, but Jeongin—breathy, desperate, yours.

Heat. Softness. The scent of something sweet, intoxicating, wrapping around him like silk. Your delicate fingers trailing over his chest, down, down—

Jeongin jerks awake.

His breathing is uneven, his body flushed with heat despite the cool air in the room. The sheets stick to his damp skin, and when he shifts, discomfort coils in his gut. He doesn’t need to look down to know.

Morning wood.

His jaw clenches as he drags a hand down his face, fingers trembling as he pushes his hair back. The clock on his nightstand glares at him, the numbers glowing an unforgiving 5:32 AM. Morning mass is in less than two hours.

"Shit."

He swallows hard, forcing himself to sit up. His body protests, his muscles taut with the remnants of the dream—the dream he shouldn’t have had.

Not about you. Not about your soft voice whispering Father in that same breathy tone. Not about your fingers digging into his shoulders. Not about the way your lips had parted for him, not in prayer, but in something far more sinful.

Jeongin shuts his eyes tightly. No. No. No.

He inhales sharply and forces the words past his lips. "Lord, have mercy."

But even as he murmurs the prayer, images of you flicker behind his eyelids—your dress, your perfume, the way your eyes lingered on him last night.

His fingers twitch, and before he can entertain another thought, Jeongin throws off the sheets and stumbles to his feet.

The cold shower does little to wash away the lingering heat. And as he stands under the freezing water, hands braced against the tiled wall, Jeongin wonders if this is the beginning of his ruin.

Jeongin exhales slowly before unlocking the door. He knows you’ll be standing there, just as you are around this time in the afternoon, but nothing prepares him for the sight of you holding out a coffee cup, your soft smile disarming.

“I got you this, Father,” you say, your voice gentle.

He hesitates only for a moment before reaching for it. And that’s when it happens. Your fingers brush—just the barest, fleeting touch, but it sends a current straight through him. He nearly flinches. Because just like that, the memory of his dream resurfaces, vivid and unforgiving. Your warmth against him, your lips parting in a breathless plea, the softness of your skin beneath his hands—

He pulls the cup away too quickly. The heat seeps through the paper, grounding him back to reality. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice strained.

You tilt your head slightly. “How are you today?”

His grip on the cup tightens. “Fine,” he answers curtly.

Your eyes search his face, as if sensing something beneath the surface. Then, the question that nearly makes him choke on air—

“You look tired. Did you sleep well, Father?”

His breath catches, and for a moment, all he can do is stare at you. Do you know? How could you possibly know? The way you ask it—so casual, so innocent—yet it feels like a cruel trick.

He forces himself to look away. “I—” He swallows hard. “There’s a list of things I need you to work on today.”

He doesn’t answer your question. He can’t. Instead, he talks—quick, efficient, filling the space between you with instructions about editing, transcribing, emails. He needs distance. Needs to push you back into the safe boundaries of professionalism.

“I have a meeting with my parish soon,” he adds, relieved that it’s not an excuse. It’s the truth. The timing couldn’t be better—he needs to leave before he does something irredeemable.

You nod, obedient as ever, listening to every word, those wide, earnest eyes locked onto his. Your lips part slightly, as if you have something to say, but you stay quiet, waiting for his command.

And for a split second—just one—Jeongin feels the undeniable temptation to close the space between you. To reach out, cup your face, and press his lips to yours just to see if they’re as soft as he imagines. He jerks his head away, breaking the thought before it can go any further.

No. He needs to go. Now. He turns, already stepping toward the door when he hears it—

“Father.”

The sound of your voice stops him in his tracks. A rush of heat curls low in his stomach, his mind flashing back to the dream, the way you had said it—whispered, breathless, desperate. He clenches his jaw before looking back at you.

You smile, completely unaware of the effect you have on him. “Please take the coffee with you,” you say, nudging the cup toward him.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. Then, with a stiff nod, he grips the cup tighter, murmurs a quiet thanks, and walks out the door because if he stays any longer, he’s not sure if he’ll be able to resist the fall.

The meeting had done its job—Jeongin had managed to push you out of his mind, at least temporarily. Discussions about upcoming church events, budgeting concerns, and youth programs had kept him grounded in reality. By the time he steps onto the street leading back to his apartment, he feels a rare sense of relief.

You would be gone by now. He had been gone for hours. The thought steadies him. No need to walk on a tightrope, no need to police his own thoughts, no need to restrain himself from—

Jeongin freezes mid-step. Through the faintly lit window of his apartment, he sees a silhouette. His stomach drops. He fumbles for his keys, unlocking the door in a rush, and steps inside.

And there you are.

Sitting on his sofa, one leg tucked under the other, completely at ease, flipping through the pages of one of his novels. You glance over your shoulder at him, smile like you belong here.

“Welcome back, Father.”

The words make his breath hitch. It takes him a second too long to remember to respond.

“What… Why are you still here?” The question comes out more forceful than intended, his surprise laced with something dangerously close to panic.

You blink, tilting your head slightly as if his reaction is odd. “I've finished what you asked me to do,” you say simply, lifting the book. “And then I got curious.”

Curious.

Jeongin exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face. He doesn’t know whether to be frustrated or amused.

“Are you enjoying it?” he asks, his voice more measured now.

Your lips curve, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “It’s different from what I expected,” you admit. “Darker.”

You skim a finger down the page, absentmindedly tracing over the words, and he wonders if you have any idea how that simple action makes his stomach twist.

“You write about sinners a lot, Father,” you muse, flipping to the next chapter. “Do you relate to them?”

Your voice is light, teasing, but something about the question unsettles him. You don’t look up right away, waiting, as if you truly expect an answer.

Jeongin forces himself to exhale, to shove down the flicker of heat curling in his chest.

“You should go home.”

The words come out firmer than he intends, but it’s the only way he can maintain control of the situation. You shouldn’t be here. Not after he had spent the entire day trying to cleanse his thoughts of you. Not when the way you’re sitting there, curled up on his sofa, reminds him far too much of—

You move. Closing the book with a soft thud, set it on the coffee table and rise to your feet. There’s something hesitant in the way you approach him, something almost uncertain, and Jeongin braces himself for whatever you’re about to say.

Then, softly, you ask, “Father… can I make a confession?”

Jeongin stills. The words send a jolt down his spine.

The dream. His dream had started like this. You, standing before him, hands clasped in front of you, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes. Except in his dream, your voice had been breathless, heavy with something unspoken. And when he had stepped closer—

No. Jeongin clenches his jaw, pushing the memory away. This is different. This is real. His fingers curl at his sides, nails digging into his palm as he inhales deeply. He reminds himself of who he is, of what this means, of the line he cannot—will not—cross.

Still, his voice is quieter when he finally speaks. “…Of course.”

The air in the apartment feels heavier when you sit beside him on the sofa. The cushions dip slightly under your weight, and for a moment, Jeongin wonders if this is a mistake—if allowing you to stay any longer is only inviting more temptation into his already fragile resolve.

You’re quiet, hands fidgeting in your lap, your posture unsure in a way he’s never seen before. The confidence you usually carry—the soft smiles, the teasing edge in your words—is nowhere to be found.

“I… I don’t really know how to start,” you admit softly, glancing at him through your lashes. “Do I have to say, ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned’ or…?”

Jeongin bites back a smile. “Not exactly,” he says, shaking his head. “You start by making the sign of the cross and saying, ‘In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.’”

A quiet, nervous chuckle escapes your lips, and you lower your head slightly. “Right. Of course. I should’ve known,” you murmur, though there’s no malice—only a kind of shy awkwardness.

You’re not someone who comes to church often. That much is clear.

“Let me ask you something,” Jeongin softens, leaning back slightly as he shifts his approach. “Why do you suddenly want to confess?” he asks, his voice quieter now—gentler, as though he’s worried you’ll shut down if he pushes too hard.

You hesitate before answering. “I… I wanted to talk about something,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “And you seemed like the kind of person I could talk to. Someone who wouldn’t judge.”

The words sit heavy in the space between you. For a second, Jeongin doesn’t trust himself to speak. Because the truth is—he is judging. Not you, but himself.

“I’m not here to condemn you,” he finally says, fighting to maintain the calm steadiness in his tone. “And if you feel comfortable enough to tell me, then there’s no need to be nervous.” He tilts his head slightly, watching the way your fingers twist the hem of your dress. “Maybe you don’t want forgiveness. Maybe you just want to be heard.”

At that, your shoulders loosen a little. The tension in your frame eases, and after a breath, you begin.

“My parents,” you start, “are… difficult. They’re strict. Demanding. Controlling.” You pause, trying to gather your thoughts. “They expect a lot from me. I always have to be the best—the perfect daughter. I do what they ask. I always do. But sometimes…” Your voice wavers, just slightly. “Sometimes, I feel like I can’t breathe.”

Jeongin doesn’t speak. He lets you keep going, his fingers curling against his knees as he listens.

“I know they want the best for me,” you continue, a touch more defensive now, as though you’re trying to convince yourself of it. “But it’s exhausting. The pressure. And the worst part is… I don’t get to enjoy anything. Being young. Being free. It feels like life is just passing me by while other people my age are out there living.”

You lower your gaze, your voice quieting. “That night… when I saw you. That was me blowing off steam.”

Jeongin clenches his jaw, the image flashing back with painful clarity—you, in that dress, with your red lips and bare skin, looking like temptation incarnate under the neon lights.

“I lied to my parents that night,” you confess, and there’s a thread of guilt woven through your tone. “I told them I was staying late for my part-time job. For you.” You glance at him briefly, your expression apologetic. “But I wasn’t. I went out with my friends instead. We drank. We danced. We—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head in frustration. “I know lying is a sin, but it’s the only way I get to do anything for myself.”

He should reprimand you. He should tell you lying is wrong, that deception is a slippery slope—but all Jeongin can focus on is the way your voice softens with something deeper. Something more fragile.

“I know it sounds stupid,” you say quietly, your fingers curling into your palms, “but sometimes, I feel… left behind.”

The words hit harder than they should. You’re not saying it outright, but he can hear what you’re implying. You’ve never had the freedom to explore. To feel things. To know the things others your age do.

He shouldn’t care. But he does. And it shouldn’t affect him. But it does. And yet—nothing tests his self-control like the question that leaves your lips next.

“Is it wrong…” you hesitate, your voice dropping into something softer, almost fragile, “to want to feel admired? To be wanted?”

Jeongin’s heart stutters.

“I like the way it feels,” you continue, eyes cast downward in quiet shame. “When I dress up, when I go out… the way people look at me. It’s like, for once, I’m not my parent's daughter and I'm just... me. I can see it in their eyes—how much they want me. And I—” Your breath catches, your lips trembling just slightly. “I like that.”

He swallows hard, the weight of your words pressing down on every weak part of him. Because God help him—he knows exactly what you mean.

And what’s worse? He wants you the same way. Maybe more.

Silence stretches between you, heavy and unspoken. The weight of your confession lingers in the air, and Jeongin feels it pressing down on him—on his chest, his thoughts, the fragile boundary he’s desperately trying to maintain.

You look at him expectantly, searching for something in his expression. Guidance, maybe. Reassurance. Or perhaps, you’re bracing for judgment, for him to tell you that what you feel is wrong. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Instead, he exhales slowly, choosing his words carefully. “I think,” he begins, voice steady, “that you’re searching for something.”

You blink at him, waiting.

“It’s not wrong to want to be seen,” he continues. “To be wanted. We all crave connection in some way.” His fingers curl against his knee, a grounding effort to keep himself composed. “But admiration—lust—it’s fleeting. It won’t fill the emptiness you feel.”

Your lips part slightly, as if to protest, but you hesitate.

Jeongin leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs as he studies you. “You say you feel left behind, but… have you ever stopped to ask yourself what it is you’re truly missing?”

You frown, your brows drawing together.

“Is it the experiences themselves?” he presses gently. “Or is it the idea of them? The pressure to have lived a certain way, to match some invisible expectation of what youth is supposed to be?”

You lower your gaze, silent.

Jeongin sighs. “You’ve spent so long following the rules that now you’re swinging in the opposite direction, trying to grasp onto something—anything—that makes you feel alive.” He pauses. “But if you’re not careful, you might mistake empty attention for something more. And that kind of emptiness… it lingers.”

You exhale softly, your fingers stilling in your lap. “Then… what do I do?”

He hesitates. He could tell you to focus on the people who truly care for you, to find fulfillment in things that aren’t so temporary. He could remind you that your worth isn’t measured by how many eyes are on you, or how much you’re desired.

But saying those things feels… inadequate. Because deep down, he knows, he knows what it’s like to crave something he shouldn’t. To want something he cannot have.

So instead, he settles for something simpler. Something safer.

“Take your time,” he says quietly. “Figure out what it is you truly want, not what you think you should want.” His gaze lingers on you, softer now. “And don’t let anyone else define that for you.”

You stare at him for a long moment, your expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a small, wistful smile tugs at your lips.

“You’re a good man, Father.”

Jeongin stiffens, not because of your words, but because of the way you say them—soft, warm, almost reverent. Like you truly believe it. If only you knew.

He swallows hard, steadying himself as he lifts his hand. His fingers hesitate for the briefest moment before he presses the pad of his thumb to your forehead.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

His voice is firm, even, betraying nothing of the storm within him. But as he traces the cross against your skin, something unfamiliar coils deep in his stomach.

You close your eyes at the touch, exhaling softly. There’s a quiet reverence in the way you bow your head slightly, in the way you let him bless you without hesitation.

But Jeongin—Jeongin feels like he’s the one being undone. Because in this moment, as his fingers linger just a second too long against your warm skin, he realizes something dangerous.

You are the blessing. And you are the temptation. Both, intertwined. A paradox that he cannot afford to unravel.

When he pulls his hand away, you blink up at him, smiling softly. “Thank you, Father.”

Jeongin forces a nod, swallowing past the dryness in his throat.

You need to leave. He wants to tell you. Now.

But you don’t. Not immediately. You linger, watching him with those wide, searching eyes—eyes that make him feel like you can see through him. And maybe you do. Maybe you know.

But then, after a beat too long, you step back, exhaling as you gather your things. “I should go,” you murmur.

Jeongin nods stiffly. “Yes.”

“Goodnight, Father. See you on Monday.” You give him one last look before turning for the door.

And just like before, he watches you leave, the scent of your perfume lingering in the air like a ghost.

When the door clicks shut behind you, Jeongin exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. Then, without thinking, he reaches for the cross around his neck, gripping it tightly as if it could cleanse the thoughts already sinking into him like a poison.

He murmurs a prayer under his breath but deep down, he knows, he knows that no prayer will be enough.

The soft click of the door handle echoes through the apartment, and Jeongin hears your voice calling his name. He doesn’t respond right away. His mind is elsewhere—on the broken showerhead, the water that wouldn’t stop spraying, the damp fabric clinging uncomfortably to his skin.

He steps out of the bathroom, running a hand through his wet hair just as he catches sight of you standing there, frozen in place. His white tank top is soaked through, the fabric outlining every muscle, and he can feel water still trailing down his arms, pooling at his collarbone before slipping lower.

“The showerhead’s broken,” he says, shaking his head with a small laugh. Then, with an amused glance, he adds, “Not that you’d be using it anyway.”

Your expression flickers—something unreadable but fleeting. Then you chuckle, a little too quickly, and Jeongin catches the way your gaze briefly drops before you avert your eyes.

Interesting.

He doesn’t comment, but he files that reaction away as he gestures toward his room. “I should go change.”

You nod, already moving toward your desk, but when he reaches his door, he leaves it slightly ajar. Maybe it’s a habit, or maybe it’s something else entirely.

As he pulls the damp shirt over his head, he senses it—a presence lingering, a gaze that wavers but doesn’t entirely look away. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge it, but the thought makes his lips twitch into the faintest smirk.

Still, he takes his time, reaching for a clean shirt, slipping it on with ease before finally stepping back out. When he returns to the main room, he notices the way you suddenly seem very focused on your work.

Amusing.

“Ready to work?” he asks, watching as you straighten up, schooling your features into professionalism.

“Yes. Ready.”

But there’s something different in your voice, a slight hesitation beneath the surface. Jeongin doesn’t comment, only opens his manuscript, shifting his attention to the pages in front of him.

The work is straightforward—revisions, editing, transcriptions—but he catches the way your eyes drift every now and then, lingering on him longer than necessary. He doesn’t acknowledge it, but he notices. He always does.

Then, after a particularly long pause, he glances up just in time to catch you staring at his hands.

More specifically, at the silver ring on his finger.

“It was a gift from my parents,” he says casually, tapping it lightly against the desk.

You blink, startled, before offering a small smile. “It suits you.”

He hums in response, but something about the way you say it lingers. A quiet observation, thoughtful but restrained. Like there’s more you want to ask but won’t.

Instead, you shift the conversation. “Father, what do you do outside of this? Writing and—” A quick glance at the cross hanging from his neck. “Priesthood.”

Jeongin leans back slightly, considering. “I play the piano when I have time,” he says. “And sometimes, I work out.”

At that, he hears the faintest murmur from you. A barely-there comment, but he catches it anyway.

“So that’s why you’re so—”

His gaze sharpens. “What?”

Your eyes widen slightly before you shake your head. “Nothing.”

He watches you for a moment, then smirks but lets it go.

Eventually, the work for the day comes to an end, and Jeongin glances at the time. “I’ll walk you to the bus stop,” he offers. “I have to head to the church for a Bible study anyway.”

You nod, and the two of you step outside. The air is crisp, the sky brushed in hues of orange and pink. As you walk side by side, he asks, “What do you want to do after you graduate?”

“I want to be a writer,” you answer without hesitation.

Jeongin smiles at that. “And what do you want to write?”

A pause. A flicker of something in your expression. Then, you answer carefully, “Something like what you write.”

His smile lingers. “That won’t be too hard for you.”

You shake your head quickly. “No, I— I still have so much to learn.”

Jeongin meets your gaze, something unreadable in his eyes. “Then learn,” he says simply.

For a moment, the space between you feels different—something softer, quieter. But then the bus arrives, breaking the moment.

You flash him one last smile before stepping on. Jeongin watches as you take your seat by the window, your gaze flickering to him one last time before the bus pulls away. Only when you’re out of sight does he finally turn back toward the church.

And yet, long after you’re gone, he still feels the weight of your presence.

That morning, Jeongin is composed. Focused. His voice carries through the church with practiced ease, each word of the sermon spoken with reverence. He is leading the mass, guiding the faithful through their prayers, his heart steady in its devotion. But then his eyes sweep over the congregation, and he sees you.

You’re sitting in the third pew, dressed in black, the morning sun filtering through the stained-glass windows casting a golden glow around you. A halo of light. Divine. Tempting.

Everyone else has their heads bowed, lost in prayer. But not you. You’re watching him. And when your eyes meet, you softly smile.

Jeongin hesitates for just a second, long enough for his chest to tighten, for his grip on the open scripture in his hands to falter. It takes everything in him to look away, to steady himself before continuing, to remind himself where he is and what he’s doing. He forces himself not to think about the fact that you’re here, watching him, sitting in his church like you belong.

Thankfully, he makes it through the sermon. Through the prayers. Through the responses. Then comes the Holy Communion.

Jeongin steps down from the altar, his movements precise, the chalice steady in his hands. The congregation forms a line, each person stepping forward in quiet reverence. He should be thinking of the sacrament, of the body of Christ, of his duty to serve.

Instead, his breath catches the moment he sees you in line. There is something exhilarating about knowing that in just a few moments, you will be standing before him. That you will bow your head, open your mouth, and receive the host from his hand.

And that moment is here.

You step forward, slightly bowing your head before raising your gaze to his. Jeongin swallows. You are close enough that he can see the curve of your lips, the flutter of your lashes, the way you look at him—soft and knowing.

He whispers the words automatically, "Body of Christ."

"Amen," you reply.

Then, without breaking eye contact, you part your lips and stick your tongue out just enough to receive the wafer.

Jeongin places it on your tongue, and for the briefest of moments, his fingers hover too close, almost brushing your skin.

Most people close their eyes during this moment, lost in prayer. But not you. You look at him through your lashes, through the quiet sanctity of the church, you keep your gaze on him as your tongue retreats, taking the wafer with it. And then you smile—a soft, fleeting thing—before turning away, kneeling at your pew, your head finally bowed in prayer.

Jeongin lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His clerical collar suddenly feels too tight around his throat.

Once he's done with his duty, Jeongin finds you standing in front of the confession booth, your head slightly tilted, eyes filled with quiet curiosity.

He approaches, hands tucked behind his back, and asks teasingly, “Thinking of making another confession?”

You turn to him, smiling softly, hands clasped in front of you in that familiar, obedient way that stirs something in him.

“Maybe,” you say, your voice light, playful.

Jeongin chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s nice to see you here.”

Your smile lingers. “Maybe I should come here more often.”

It’s meant to be a casual remark, but the way your eyes flicker with something unreadable—something daring—makes Jeongin pause. He can’t let himself dwell on it, not here. So he looks away, searching for something, anything, to ground himself.

“The canteen serves good food on Sundays,” he says instead, forcing normalcy into his voice. “I could get you something to eat.”

You shake your head, the movement small but certain. “That’s kind of you, but I actually came to tell you I won’t be able to work for the next two days. I have family stuff to attend.”

Jeongin nods in understanding. “That’s alright. Enjoy yourself, and I’ll see you when you’re back.”

“Thank you, Father,” you say, voice gentle as you slightly bow your head. Then, as always, you smile before turning to leave.

Jeongin watches as you walk away, the hem of your black dress swaying with each step. He exhales slowly.

Maybe it’s for the best that you’ll be gone for a few days. Maybe he’ll finally be able to clear his head. Maybe...

Jeongin is mid-way through typing a response to his agent when the unexpected knocking pulls him away from his screen. He frowns, pushing his chair back, not expecting anyone at this hour. When he opens the door, the sight of you stops him in his tracks.

You stand there, completely soaked, rainwater dripping from the ends of your hair and down your cheeks like tiny pearls. Your dress clings to your skin, outlining every dip and curve of your body. You’re visibly shivering, yet despite it all, you’re smiling, breathless as you mutter an apology.

Jeongin exhales, his grip on the doorknob tightening. You shouldn’t have come.

He steps aside, allowing you in. “You should’ve just gone home.”

Your smile doesn’t falter. “I felt bad for not coming to work.” You rub your arms, attempting to warm yourself. “I thought I should at least get something done.”

The two of you just stand there for a moment. Raindrops patter against the windows, your soft breaths filling the silence. Jeongin knows he should move, do something—anything—to get you out of those wet clothes before you catch a cold.

He clears his throat. “Wait here.”

He turns on his heels, walking to his closet where he pulls out a clean bathrobe, then returns to you, holding it out. “Your clothes need to go in the dryer. You can wear this while you wait.”

You nod, taking it from his hands. “Thank you.”

Jeongin watches as you head toward the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind you. He releases a breath, dragging a hand down his face. You’re undressing in the next room.

He swallows. He turns sharply toward the kitchen to make a cup of tea for you. Focusing on anything other than the thought of you peeling that wet dress off your skin.

The bathroom door clicks open and he hears your footsteps coming. Jeongin barely has a moment to process the sight of you in his bathrobe before you're hesitantly handing him your wet clothes. He takes them without a word, nodding toward the sofa and the cup of tea sitting on the coffee table prepared for you.

“Sit down, have some tea while you wait.”

As he steps away toward the laundry room, he keeps his focus sharp, resisting the urge to think too much about how your scent lingers on the fabric in his hands or that he catches a glimpse of your underwear. He doesn’t even bother untangling the bundle—just shoves it all into the dryer, shuts the door, and presses start. The low hum of the machine fills the small space, grounding him.

When he returns to the living room, you’re no longer sitting but standing by his desk, cradling the cup of tea in your hands.

“You must’ve written a lot while I was gone,” you say, your voice warm, teasing.

Jeongin exhales a quiet chuckle. “I tried. My agent’s been relentlessly threatening me about the deadlines, so I had no choice but to be productive.”

You nod, taking a small sip of your tea. It’s in that moment that Jeongin notices it—a thin trail of red slipping down your thigh, stark against your skin.

His body reacts before his mind catches up. His hands find your hips as he pulls you close, lifting the hem of your bathrobe without a second thought. His first concern is that you hurt yourself—maybe you scraped your skin, maybe you tripped on the way here. His heart is in his throat, eyes scanning for the source of the blood.

Before he can see anything, you let out a sharp gasp and jerk back, pressing your hand against the fabric to stop him.

Jeongin lifts his gaze to yours, searching. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly, too quickly.

His brows knit together, unconvinced. “What do you mean it’s fine?”

“It’s just—” You shake your head, clearly embarrassed. “It’s nothing serious.”

Jeongin isn’t satisfied with that answer. He can’t just ignore it. “Sit down,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “Let me take care of it.”

You hesitate.

“Please.”

At that, you relent, perching yourself on the edge of the sofa. Jeongin disappears into the other room, retrieving the first aid kit. His mind whirls as he walks back.

Why did you react like that? And more importantly—what are you trying to hide from him?

Jeongin kneels in front of you, the first aid kit resting on the floor beside him. You’re clutching your thigh, not in pain but in an attempt to keep him from seeing.

“Let me take care of it,” he says softly, reaching for your wrist.

You hesitate before letting go, your hand falling to your lap.

Jeongin lifts the hem of the bathrobe slowly, carefully, exposing only what’s necessary. When he finally sees it—the crescent-shaped wounds pressed into your skin, fresh and oozing—his breath catches. He doesn’t need an explanation. He knows.

His hands move on their own, gentle and precise as he wipes the blood away with a clean cloth. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask why. Instead, he pulls out a cotton swab, dabs ointment onto it, and carefully applies it to your wound.

A sharp inhale escapes your lips, and instinctively, he leans down and blows a soft stream of air to soothe the sting. Your body trembles under his touch.

He keeps going, pressing gauze over the wound, securing it with a bandage to keep it sterile. The entire time, he hears your breathing grow uneven, the subtle shakes in your frame growing more noticeable. Then, he feels it—drops of warmth landing on your lap, one after another.

Tears.

Jeongin looks up, and his chest tightens. You’re crying. He says nothing but lets you cry, lets you break down in the quiet safety of his presence.

Then, with a voice raw and small, you speak. “It’s my mother.” You sniffle, a shaky exhale slipping from your lips. “She—she puts so much pressure on me. I can only take so much.” A bitter, self-deprecating laugh follows. “And when I can’t, this happens.” Your fingers graze over the bandage, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to stop it.”

Jeongin swallows, his own heart aching at your words. He shouldn’t touch you, but he does. His hand finds yours, firm yet gentle, anchoring you back to something solid.

“I just need to know,” you ask, lifting your gaze to his, “that everything will be okay.”

And that’s when he feels it—the unbearable pull toward you, toward the sadness in your eyes that he wants so desperately to replace with warmth, with something softer, purer, something that tells you that you are more than this pain.

So he lets himself. His hand moves to your face, cradling your jaw as he leans in. And then, he kisses you.

You’re softer than he imagined. Your lips taste like salt and sorrow, but beneath it, there’s something else—something fragile, something hopeful.

Jeongin is aware that he shouldn’t be doing this. But when he kisses you, truly kisses you, he feels something shift—something inside him unraveling, something he’s been trying to suppress for too long. It starts slow, soft, the press of his lips against yours nothing more than an unspoken question. But when you sigh into him, when your fingers tighten around his arms as if you’re afraid he might pull away, that quiet hesitation crumbles.

His hands move with purpose, sliding along the curve of your waist, parting the fabric of your robe like a sacred offering. His lips follow, pressing reverent kisses down your throat, across your collarbone, down the delicate line of your sternum.

Every kiss is a silent promise, an unspoken prayer. You're more than your pain. More than the wounds carved into your skin. More than the weight you're carrying on your shoulders.

His mouth worships you, his hands tracing every inch of you as if committing you to memory. When he reaches your ribs, he pauses, breathing in deeply, as though he's afraid he might lose himself completely if he goes any further. His forehead presses against your stomach for just a moment, his hands gripping your hips as if grounding himself.

“God, you're beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, the words slipping out before he can stop them. He lifts his gaze to meet yours, searching for any trace of hesitation, but all he sees is trust.

Jeongin has spent years searching for divinity in scripture, in prayer, in quiet solitude. But here, now, with you trembling beneath his touch, he wonders if he’s been looking in the wrong places all along.

Everything about this moment—the warmth of your skin under his lips, the soft gasp that escapes you, the way your fingers tangle in his hair as if you’re holding on for dear life—tells him that he's walking a line he cannot uncross.

But as his mouth moves lower, pressing reverent kisses to the fragile skin of your inner thigh, he realizes that maybe he's already crossed it. Maybe he's been crossing it since the first time he met you.

Your breath hitches when his lips linger just above the bandaged wound, and for a moment, Jeongin forgets everything else. Forget that he's a priest, forget the weight of his collar, forget the promises he made.

Right now, all he knows is that you are here, trembling beneath him, looking at him like he holds the entire world in his hands. And maybe that’s why he forces himself to pause.

His lips are barely an inch from where you need him most, his hands gripping the curves of your hips, fingers digging into your soft flesh as he fights the war waging inside him. His forehead presses against your thigh, his breath warm against your skin as he tries to remember who he is supposed to be.

"Just one taste," he whispers, almost to himself, as if saying it out loud will justify what he's about to do. "God, all I need is just... one taste."

But as soon as the words leave his lips, he realizes how weak of a promise it is and as his mouth moves ever closer, as your body arches in silent invitation—deep down, he knows one taste will never be enough.

Jeongin lingers for a moment, his lips pressed to the delicate skin of your inner thigh, his breath warm and unsteady. His hands tighten around your hips, fingers pressing into your skin like he’s trying to hold himself back, trying to steady the trembling restraint unraveling inside him.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t want this. But he does. His lips trace reverent paths along your skin, his mouth pressing slow, deliberate kisses, each one deeper, more lingering than the last. He hears the soft, shuddering sound you make—half sigh, half plea—and it undoes something inside him.

His hands slide up, parting you legs wider, exposing the thing between your legs to him, Gosh, your cunt is not just wet, it's soft and flushed, quivering right in front of his face.

He doesn't waste another second, he lowers his head, exhaling softly. The warmth of his breath makes you shiver.

“I shouldn't do this,” he rasps as he falls apart at the seams.

But then, he smells it, the smell of your perfume, of your skin and of that delicate smell of female scent that he didn’t know he's been hungering for.

Jeongin traces his way from your clit to your cunt with his tongue and he's right, you're sweeter than he imagined, sweeter than any alcohol he ever tasted and none of them is as intoxicating this.

“Please...” He pleads, asking himself for one more taste.

He flattens his tongue against your clit and sample you again. He feels it, the way your body reacts to him, the way you arch toward him instinctively, seeking more. His resolve crumbles further, his self-control fraying as he presses a gentle kiss just where he knows you want him most. Right on your pulsing clit.

And then, finally—he gives in.

His arms curved around your thighs, fingers burrowing into the flesh and holding them open for his assault. He thrusts into you with his tongue, his lips and at times, he uses his teeth, eating you like a starving man.

A sound escapes you, something sweet and breathless, and Jeongin exhales sharply against you, his own restraint breaking piece by piece. He moves slowly at first, tasting, savoring, learning the way you react under him, how your body responds, how you whisper his name in a way that makes him feel utterly, devastatingly lost.

Your cunt is exactly as perfect as he's imagined all those nights as he lay awake on his bed and truthfully, in his sleep as well. The cause of him waking up with a hard on and all the cold showers he took after.

This is what he's been imagining of doing to you so he decides that he needs to make you come, and he will, he will make you come on his face. The thought alone is enough to make his cock jolts in his pants and there's a possibility that he may orgasm without even touching it.

Jeongin figures it's time to use his fingers next, running them between the fold and then slides two fingers inside, curling them to find the soft, textured spot that would push you over the edge.

You're shamelessly grinding back into his face now, your hand tangled in his dark locks, fingernails scratching his scalp, little sighs and moans spilling out of your parted mouth.

His arms steadily hold you in place, his touch both gentle and unyielding. He’s worshipping you, drowning himself in the feeling of you, in the warmth of your skin, in the quiet, gasping breaths that fill the air.

And when he hears you break, when your body tenses and shudders under him... everything else vanishes except you and your smell and your taste and the feeling of you clenching around his finger. And then—

Jeongin looks up and sees the crucifix on the wall of his apartment and his heart lurched as he looks at himself, kneeling as if he was praying to your cunt, kneeling with his head buried between your legs. He slowly pulls away and mutters to himself. What have I done?

Jeongin’s breath is uneven, his head is still rested on your stomach as he tries to ground himself, to remember who he is and what he’s supposed to be. But then you speak, your voice soft yet filled with something he can’t quite place—vulnerability, sincerity, maybe even wonder.

“No one’s ever done that to me before.”

He stills. His eyes search yours as if trying to confirm what you just said, and when he sees nothing but honesty reflected back at him, something inside him shifts.

“No one’s ever made me come before,” you correct your earlier remark.

He doesn’t understand how that could be possible, how no one has ever taken the time to take care of you, to taste you.

“No guy has ever gone down on you?”

You innocently nod in response to his question.

It unsettles him, but more than that, it makes him feel something else—something dangerously close to pride. He was the first. He was the one to show you.

Before he can dwell on the thought for too long, you reach for him, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt, keeping him close when he instinctively tries to put distance between you.

“Let me return the favor to you,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

He knows what you’re asking before you even say it. “You don’t have to,” he replies quickly, shaking his head as he attempts to step back, but you don’t let him.

“I know.” You tilt your head, looking up at him, your eyes dark yet pleading. “But I want to.”

Jeongin swallows, his resolve wavering. “I don't think— I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” you whisper again, the word laced with something that makes his body betray him. Your lips brush over the sharp line of his jaw, featherlight, teasing, testing. “Please, please, please.”

He exhales harshly, his hands twitching at his sides as he fights the war raging within him. The way you say his name sends a shiver down his spine, makes him feel as though you’ve wrapped yourself around him entirely, pulling him into something he knows he shouldn't give into.

“We don’t have to have sex. I just need to see you come," you coax with your low, sultry voice, one hand slipping under his sweater. “Father, please...”

One last plea, one final whisper of please against his skin, and he feels himself crumble.

You pull him by the arms, making him sit on the sofa next to you and your hands swiftly working open his slacks. The second his cock is out of its confine, you immediately claim his lap, straddling him.

The bathrobe loosely hangs around your shoulders and you do nothing to fix it. Your breasts are merely inches away from his mouth, the hardening buds inviting him to wrap his lips around it so he does. The hardness of your nipples and the softness of your flesh is all he could feel in his mouth.

You hover over his lap for a second to reposition yourself on him, allowing your slick cleft sliding against the underside of his cock and you begin stroking him that way. You feel so soft, so warm, so... wet.

Jeongin’s hands grip your hips, his touch hesitant, torn between holding you still and letting you move the way you want. His breath is uneven, his head tilted back against the sofa, eyes half-lidded as he watches you.

“This is wrong,” he whispers, but his grip tightens when you roll your hips again, slow and deliberate.

You lean in, brushing your lips against his ear, your voice sweet, teasing. “Then stop me.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he looks down to watch the way your flesh pressed against his, the way your clitoris peeking out, the way the weight of your body pressing against his cock gives him that similar feeling of having real penetrative sex and he thinks that maybe this wouldn’t count as a sin. Even if he was, he doesn’t want to stop. He doesn’t know how even if he wanted to.

Everything about it is messy yet highly erotic, the way your bathrobe hanging onto your elbows now, the way his slacks are pulled down just enough to free his erection, the way you shamelessly angle yourself so that his shaft would press on you in all the right places, the way it's just your arousal lubricating the two of you and nothing else, and God, he suddenly gets the urge to own you, make you, take you. He wants this moment to last forever.

As if you hear his thoughts and see through his head, you smile, tilting your head to meet his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched tight. You can feel how much he’s holding back, how much restraint he’s using, and it only makes you want to push him further.

You move again, a little slower this time, watching the way his breath catches in his throat. His fingers dig into your waist, a sharp exhale leaving his lips.

“You should stop,” he tries again, but it sounds weaker now, unconvincing.

You shake your head. “Not until you let go.”

His hands tremble against you, and you know—he’s close to breaking. It's pure instinct that makes him grab your hips and work you harder and faster over him and then—

Everything flooding through him, you, your body, your legs caging his body, the taste and the smell of you that lingers on his tongue, mouth and face. A low moan escapes your mouth at the sight of his seed spurting onto his stomach and it feels like hours instead of seconds that he is suspended in pulsing, total-body release.

Jeongin stays still, his breath shaky as you press your forehead against his. The warmth of your skin, the way your body molds against his—it should be comforting, but all he feels is the weight of his own actions crashing down on him. What has he done?

His hands remain on your waist, fingers flexing as if debating whether to pull you closer or push you away. His chest rises and falls unevenly, his thoughts a chaotic storm. He shouldn’t have let this happen. He should’ve stopped. But instead, he let himself fall—let himself indulge in something he swore he would never have.

His throat tightens as he opens his mouth to say something—anything—but before he can, you shift slightly, tilting your head just enough to press a gentle kiss on his cheem. The touch is soft, delicate, filled with something he can’t quite name.

And then you whisper, “Thank you, Father.”

His entire body tenses. His stomach churns. His breath catches. The title feels heavier than it ever has before, suffocating him in ways he never imagined. He swore to be a guide, a shepherd, a man of God—and yet, here he is, lost in sin, drowning in temptation, unable to resist the warmth of you.

Jeongin shuts his eyes, swallowing hard. He doesn’t know if he should repent or pull you back in. And that terrifies him the most.

Jeongin has spent the entire morning convincing himself that last night was a mistake. That it was nothing more than a lapse in judgment, a moment of weakness.

But when he thinks of you—your warmth, your touch, the way you whispered his name—it lingers in his mind like the burn of whiskey down his throat.

This… whatever this is between you and him, it feels dangerously familiar. Like alcohol. Like the thing that once consumed him, ruled him, made him forget himself.

Addiction.

Jeongin knows what addiction feels like. He knows what it means to crave something so badly that it overtakes him, that it becomes impossible to resist. And he knows that if he doesn’t stop this now, if he lets himself fall again, there will be no stopping it. He has to put an end to it before it becomes something he can’t control.

So when you walk into his apartment that afternoon, smiling as if nothing happened, acting like last night was just another moment in time, Jeongin knows something needs to be said.

You set your bag down and move toward your usual spot by the desk. “Good afternoon, Father.” There’s something teasing in your voice, light and unbothered. “Did you get some writing done?”

Jeongin doesn’t answer right away. He watches you, the way you move so effortlessly through the space, like you belong here. Like you weren’t wrapped around him last night, dragging him into sin.

“Please, sit down,” Jeongin firmly says, his jaws are clenched. “We need to talk.”

Your smile falters, but you quickly mask it. “Alright,” you say, moving to sit across from him.

Jeongin sits across from you, his fingers loosely clasped together as he exhales slowly. The weight of the past few days sits heavy on his chest, pressing down like an unbearable burden. He doesn’t meet your eyes right away; if he does, he’s afraid he’ll waver.

“I used to drink,” he finally says, voice calm but distant. “More than I should have. At first, it was just a glass or two. A way to relax, a way to take the edge off. But then it became more. I started craving it—not just the taste, but the feeling. The escape.”

Your gaze lingers on him, silent but attentive.

“I convinced myself I had control over it. That I could stop whenever I wanted. But addiction doesn’t work like that.” He lifts his hands, rubbing his fingers together absently. “Relapse is always a possibility. No matter how strong you think you are, there’s always a moment of weakness. A moment when the craving wins.”

He finally looks at you, and his stomach tightens.

“This… what’s happening between us—it’s the same,” he admits. “I told myself I could handle it. That I could keep my feelings in check. That I could stop before it became something I couldn’t control.” His jaw clenches. “But I was wrong.”

You shift slightly, and Jeongin forces himself to keep going before he loses his resolve.

“I know what I have to do,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost pained. “I have to stop before this becomes something I can’t turn back from. Before I start craving you the way I once craved alcohol.” He swallows hard. “I have to distance myself from you.”

The words feel heavier than he anticipated, but they need to be said. He waits for your reaction, dreading it. But he knows—if he doesn’t do this now, he might never be able to.

“Why are you telling me this?” Your voice is quiet, cautious.

Jeongin meets your gaze then, his expression unreadable. “Because last night… it felt the same.”

The room stills. Your lips part slightly, as if to say something, but no words come out.

Jeongin swallows hard. “It felt like something I could lose control over. And if I let it happen again… I will.”

Something flickers in your eyes—hurt, confusion, maybe even frustration—but you keep your voice soft. “So what are you saying?”

He exhales sharply, pushing his chair back as if putting physical distance between you will make it easier. “I need to stop before it becomes an addiction.”

You stare at him for a long moment, searching his face, trying to understand. And then, as if the realization finally settles in, your hands tighten into fists on your lap.

“So, you’re going to distance yourself from me.”

Jeongin clenches his jaw. He nods. “I have to.”

The silence is unbearable. When he stands, turning his back to you, it takes everything in him not to look back.

From that day forward, Jeongin keeps his word and distance.

He doesn’t fire you—doing so would be unprofessional, and more than that, it would feel too much like running away. Instead, he sets clear boundaries. No in-person meetings. Everything is to be communicated through email, with phone calls only when absolutely necessary.

And you, as always, listen.

Days pass, then weeks. His inbox fills with your messages—concise, professional, devoid of the warmth that once lingered in them. You do everything he asks, following his new rules without question.

It should make things easier. It should make it hurt less but it doesn’t. Because every time he sees your name on his screen, he remembers the way you looked at him that night. The way you whispered please like a prayer. The way your hands clung to him as if letting go would break you. And he hates himself for remembering.

Then, one Sunday, he sees you again. It’s unexpected. You’re seated at the farthest row of the church, hands clasped together on your lap, head bowed in quiet prayer.

Jeongin’s breath catches for a moment, but he forces himself to focus, to continue leading the mass as if your presence doesn’t affect him.

Yet, as he reads out the prayers, his thoughts stray.

He prays for you. He prays that you find peace, that you heal—not just from the wounds on your skin but from the ones buried deep inside you. He prays that you are happy. Truly, deeply happy.

By the time the mass ends, Jeongin searches for you again, but you’re already gone and he doesn’t understand why disappointment sinks so heavily in his chest.

Isn’t this what he wanted? To stay away? So why does it feel like he’s the one being left behind?

He retreats to the sacristy, changing out of his vestments with quiet efficiency. He folds each piece carefully, letting the steady rhythm of the task ground him. Once done, he makes his way to his office, his mind already preoccupied with what he needs to do next.

Then, he sees you standing in the hallway, waiting.

Jeongin freezes for a split second before something warm blooms in his chest—something dangerously close to elation.

You notice him immediately. A small smile lifts your lips as you give him a slight bow. “Father Yang,” you greet, your voice gentle, familiar.

And then, as casually as if nothing has changed, you ask, “Can I now take your offer to buy me something from the canteen?”

Jeongin exhales a quiet chuckle, his lips curving into an amused smile before he nods.

The canteen is bustling with people—parishioners fresh out of mass, staff enjoying their break—but Jeongin manages to secure two slices of pizza casserole and a cinnamon roll for you. With the plates in hand, the two of you step outside, choosing a quiet table overlooking the garden.

For a while, you eat in comfortable silence. The sun is warm but not overwhelming, the soft hum of conversation from the canteen drifting through the open air.

After a few bites and a sip of water, you reach for a napkin, dabbing your lips with practiced elegance. Then, you open your mouth to speak.

Jeongin already knows what you’re going to say so he beats you to it. “I’m sorry.”

But you stop him with a small shake of your head. “That’s actually why I came here,” you say.

A small grin tugs at his lips. “So you didn’t come here to pray?” he teases.

You chuckle, a soft, genuine sound. “I did. But… I also wanted to apologize.” You pause, eyes flickering down for a moment before meeting his gaze again. “I’m sorry for what happened that night. I—I guess it was because you were there, because you were kind and…”

You don’t finish your sentence, you look down at your plate and

Jeongin exhales, lowering his voice. “I appreciate you saying that. Because it means you know and understand what you're apologizing for,” His fingers graze the rim of his cup, a nervous habit. “I have a vow to uphold, I have to honor God. The oath that I took. But that night…” He swallows. “I blame myself for that night. I took advantage of you.”

Your eyes widen slightly, a flicker of frustration crossing your face. “No.” Your voice is firm. “You didn’t.”

You place your napkin down, sitting up straighter. “I may have parents who control me, but I’m also my own person and I'm old enough to know what I want. That night, I chose to let you do that. I wanted it.”

Jeongin stays silent, watching you, searching your expression for any hesitation. He finds none.

After a second, you add, “But I'll respect your vow, Father. I won’t bother you again.”

And Jeongin—he should feel relieved. He should feel grateful that you understand, that you accept the boundary he’s desperately trying to reinforce.

But instead, it stings. It stings more than it should.

Jeongin reckons that if his hands are occupied, if his mind is filled with scripture, if his days are structured down to the hour—there will be no space for thoughts of you.

So he keeps himself busy. He leads mass three times a week, his voice steady as he delivers sermons, as if he truly believes that his words can wash away the impurities he carries. Sundays are the most demanding, yet the easiest, because the church is full and there are so many people that it’s easy to forget the empty space inside him.

He leads Bible study once a week, listening to discussions about faith and virtue, nodding along even as a quiet voice inside him whispers: You’re a hypocrite.

He assists the youth group, guiding young minds, helping them find their path before they can stumble into temptation. Before they can become him.

And every afternoon, he sits in the confession booth, listening to whispered sins through the lattice, offering absolution in the form of quiet reassurances and memorized prayers.

It’s been going on like this for a week now. Jeongin does not give himself a chance to rest, because rest means silence, and silence means space for memories to creep in. For your voice. Your touch. The way you felt beneath him, the way you looked at him like he was something more than just a man wearing a collar.

Jeongin grips the edges of the wooden pew in front of him, his knuckles turning white. He bows his head, inhaling sharply, as if he can exhale you from his lungs.

He has been strong. He has been devoted. He has repented. Or so he thought until his temptation shows up in front of him.

Jeongin stops in his tracks. His breath catches, his fingers twitch at his sides, his heartbeat kicks up to an unforgiving pace.

He thought—no, hoped—that drowning himself in devotion would cleanse him of you. That if he buried himself in scripture, in sermons, in the confessions of others, he could somehow wash away the imprint you left on him. But now, standing here, looking at you, he knows it was all in vain.

Jeongin exhales slowly, his fingers tightening around the strap of his bag as he takes in the sight of you. His apartment door feels a thousand miles away, and yet you—you—are impossibly close.

His heart betrays him before his mind can intervene, a rush of longing surging through his veins. You’re clutching something—a big paper bag. He can’t tell what it is, not when his focus keeps flickering to the way your hands tremble slightly, the way your eyes lift to meet his with that same quiet intensity that undid him before.

Jeongin swallows. This is it. A fight or flight situation.

But what exactly is he trying to fight? You? Or the part of himself that so desperately wants to take a step forward instead of back?

What exactly is he trying to run away from? Sin? Or the possibility that he doesn't regret it the way he should?

Jeongin doesn’t move because the real question isn’t whether he should fight or flee. It’s whether he has the strength to do either when all he really wants—all he truly, desperately wants—is you.

All of a sudden, you shift, standing upright from where you were leaning against the wall, clutching a bag in front of you. And then you smile. “Hello, Father.”

It’s just a greeting—nothing unusual, nothing improper—but coming from you, it stirs something deep inside him. Something he has spent nights praying to silence. Something he has drowned himself in work to forget.

For a moment, he is back in the confessional, back to the first time he heard those words from your lips. And then, he is back in that dimly lit room, back to the way you had whispered Father in a voice so delicate, so devastatingly sweet, that it had unraveled something inside him.

He swallows thickly and keeps his voice steady. “How have you been?”

You tilt your head slightly, as if surprised by the question. “I’ve been doing well.” A soft pause. “How about you?”

Jeongin doesn’t know how to answer that. He doesn’t know how to explain the countless hours spent in the church, the prayers that never seem to be enough, the guilt that clings to him like a second skin. So he lies. “I’m doing okay.”

You nod, as if accepting it. Then, gently, you ask, “Do you mind if I come in for a while?”

Of course, he minds. Of course, he should say no. But instead, he unlocks the door, pushes it open, and lets you inside—knowing full well that he’s stepping into temptation itself.

You place the bag you were carrying on the small dining table and carefully pull out a box, lifting the lid to reveal a cake inside. “I wanted to congratulate you,” you say softly. “For finishing your book.”

Jeongin nods, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. “Thank you.” His voice is quieter than he intends, like he’s afraid speaking too loudly will break whatever fragile restraint he has left.

He smiles, and it’s genuine—he is grateful for the gesture—but he’s afraid. Afraid of what will happen if he lets himself be grateful. Afraid of the thoughts in his head, the ones that threaten to spill out if he isn’t careful.

He forces himself to focus, “Have you received the last payment for your work?”

You nod. “I have, Father. Thank you.”

“You shouldn’t thank me,” he replies, shaking his head. “You earned it.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and uncertain. Jeongin isn’t sure how to carry this—how to hold this moment without it slipping through his fingers and becoming something he can’t take back. Should he stop it here? Should he say something that will make you leave? Or should he just let it happen?

Then, before he can decide, you speak. “Father, can I make another confession?”

His breath catches. He should say no. He should tell you to come to the church like everyone else, to sit in the booth and let the wooden partition separate you like it’s meant to. But that would be a lie.

Because the truth is, he wants to hear it. Whatever it is, whatever words you’re about to give him, he wants them.

The two of you sit facing each other. Jeongin sits motionless, hands folded neatly in his lap, as you take the seat across from him. The room feels too quiet, the kind of quiet that magnifies everything—the sound of your breathing, the weight of his own pulse.

"Are you ready?" he asks, voice steadier than he feels.

You nod and together, you make the sign of the cross, murmuring, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

Your hands lower, folding over your lap, but your fingers fidget slightly, twisting together.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The words hit him harder than they should. He has heard them countless times from countless lips, but from you, they settle differently—carrying something heavier, something more intimate.

"I'm not sure how to start but I'm okay," you continue. "I’ve been doing well. I still feel the pressure from my parents but I’ve managed to handle it without... hurting myself."

Jeongin exhales slowly. Relief is a strange thing—something he should embrace, something he should hold onto, but instead, it mixes with something else. A quiet, aching guilt.

"That’s good to hear," he says, and he means it.

"However, there’s something else," you admit, voice softer but carrying an edge. "Something that’s been bothering me."

Jeongin doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He only listens.

"I’ve been thinking about why I took this job in the first place." A pause. You lower your gaze for a brief moment before lifting it again, searching for something in him. "Clearly, I didn’t need the money. I have more than enough."

The way you say it—it’s not an explanation. It’s a confession.

"I think… I was looking for something. A distraction. An escape." Your voice lingers in the space between you. "And of all the flyers on the bulletin board, I saw yours first and I don’t think that was just a coincidence. I think it was fate that I found it. That I found you."

Jeongin feels something coil in his chest. Fate. It’s a word that should comfort him, should feel divine, but instead, it makes him afraid.

"I liked working with you. I liked being around you." You pause, your voice almost fragile. "You made me feel… safe. At peace. Like you kept my darkness at bay."

Jeongin wants to hold onto those words, wants to accept them without letting them mean too much. But how can he, when they already do?

Then there’s a shift in your expression. Something deeper, something almost… dangerous.

"But then that night happened."

The silence that follows is unbearable.

"It awakened something in me," you say, voice softer now. "A different kind of darkness."

Jeongin swallows, but it does nothing to ease the dryness in his throat. Because he knows. He knows exactly what kind of darkness you mean and worse—he feels it too.

Jeongin sees it all—the way your thighs press together, the way your fingers twist at the hem of your skirt, the way your voice lowers, softer now, edged with something dangerous. He can hear it in your breathing, in the hesitation before you speak. And then, you say it. "I've been thinking about you."

Jeongin swallows, but the dryness in his throat lingers. He keeps his expression still, unreadable, though his heart betrays him, beating faster, harder.

"Just the way you look at me," you continue, voice almost fragile. "The way you speak to me… the way you say my name."

He exhales slowly, discreetly, as if releasing the pressure in his chest will steady him. It doesn't.

Then, your voice drops even lower, as if confessing something far worse. "Lately, I can't seem to focus on anything. I think about you constantly, and sometimes... sometimes that isn't enough."

His brow lifts—just slightly—but the movement feels like stepping closer to the edge of something irreversible.

"I've been getting off while thinking about you."

Silence. A deafening silence. Jeongin clenches his hands into fists in his lap. If restraint had a form, it would be the rigid line of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. The part of him that should shut this down, that should guide you back into the light, is nowhere to be found.

Instead, he asks, "You've touched yourself thinking of me?"

Your nod is small, innocent, sinful.

"Mostly," you murmur, "I think of the way you look at me. Like you're trying to—" You stop. But he knows.

Jeongin exhales sharply, tilting his head ever so slightly, studying you. "And why did you come here tonight?"

You bite your lip. Hesitate. Lie.

He sees it before you even speak, and it almost makes him smile. "Remember, lying is a sin," he says, leaning forward, voice quiet but commanding. "So tell me—why did you come here tonight?"

The silence stretches between you. You hesitate, fingers twitching toward your thigh—the same spot where he knows you like to dig your nails into the flesh. The moment you realize he's watching, you quickly clasp your hands together in your lap.

"I want you to give me one more," you finally whisper.

His fingers twitch. "One more what?"

You shift in your seat. Your lips part, but no words come out at first. He watches, listens to the silence, lets it stretch until you can’t take it anymore.

"I want you to make me come again."

A slow exhale leaves him, steady, controlled, but something shifts inside him—something that tells him this moment has already spiraled past redemption.

Leaning back in his chair, Jeongin lets the tension settle into something almost… triumphant. He had suffered alone for too long, questioning whether he was the only one plagued by this torment.

And now—now, he knows. You wanted this. You wanted him.

His lips part, exhaling a quiet chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. His voice is calm, but edged with something darker. "You came here tonight, lying about your intentions. You said all of that in the middle of a confession." He tilts his head. "Do you know what that means?"

You lower your gaze, eyes on your clasped hands as if you've only now realized the weight of your actions.

"It means," he murmurs, "that you are willfully leading another person into wrongful action or thought."

A pause.

"And that," he continues, "is a sin."

Your breath shudders, fingers tightening around each other. "What do I have to do for my penance, Father?" you whisper.

Jeongin leans back in his chair, spreading his legs slightly, tilting his head back just enough to catch the crucifix on the wall in his peripheral vision.

Forgive me for I am about to sin again.

When he lowers his head again, his gaze finds yours—watching, waiting. And then—

"Get on your knees," he orders.

And you obey.

Jeongin looks down at you, his breath unsteady despite the effort to keep himself composed. You kneel before him, your hands resting on your thighs, waiting. There’s a flicker of hesitation in your gaze, but beneath it, something far more resolute. A silent plea. A challenge.

His fingers find your jaw, gripping firmly—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you look at him, to ensure you understand the gravity of what you’re asking for. He tilts your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet his. They are wide, expectant, full of something he shouldn’t acknowledge.

"So you want to me to make you come, huh?" His voice is lower than intended, almost hoarse.

You nod and he tightens his grip. "Use your words."

"Yes," you breathe, almost too quiet. "I want you to make me come."

He exhales sharply, his thumb tracing the seam of your lips, smearing the carefully applied lipstick as he studies the way your mouth parts under his touch. His restraint is thinning. He should stop. He knows he should. But your breath hitches, and something in your expression—so innocent, yet so utterly brazen—unravels him further.

"You know this is wrong to ask me that."

Another nod. "Yes"

Jeongin drags his thumb down, over the soft curve of your chin, his touch lingering before he lets go, sitting back. He should feel disgusted with himself. He should feel regret. But all he feels is this terrible, consuming desire.

"You're a filthy, filthy girl," he mutters, somewhere between scorn and wonder.

The words are barely out of his mouth before he sees the effect they have on you. Your lashes flutter, your breath stutters, your fingers tighten against your thighs. As if you’d been waiting for him to say it. As if you wanted to hear it.

The realization makes something dark coil inside him. Jeongin leans back, spreading his hands over his thighs as he watches you, watches the way you anticipate his next words, his next move.

"Take off your dress," he orders, his voice smooth, controlled, betraying nothing of the war waging inside him.

You hesitate only a moment before reaching behind you, unzipping the fabric and pulling it over your head. The dress pools at your knees, leaving you in delicate, cream-colored undergarments. His gaze sweeps over you, slow and deliberate, but his first instinct is not to linger where he shouldn’t—it’s to search for what matters most. Your thighs.

He looks for the marks, the wounds he knows too well. The evidence of your pain, your struggle. His jaw tenses until he finds them—faded now, healing. No fresh ones. No new pain.

Only then does he allow himself to truly look at you. Every curve, every delicate line of your body—so fragile, yet so unyielding in your desire. You kneel before him, and for the first time in three years, Jeongin feels something crack inside him.

Temptation has never been this human. This devastating. This inevitable.

Jeongin rises from his chair, slow and deliberate. The air between you shifts, thickens, as he steps forward, his presence looming over you where you kneel at his feet. His sharp, foxy eyes bore down into yours, and you meet his gaze without hesitation—bold, unwavering.

He exhales through his nose, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then, with practiced ease, he lifts his hands to the collar of his shirt, loosening it just enough to ease the tightness constricting his throat. His fingers move lower, unfastening the first button, then the second, a calculated pause between each. Not out of hesitation. No, Jeongin is in control. He just wants you to wait.

His hands drop next to his belt, gripping the leather before he yanks it free with a sharp, deliberate pull. The sound slices through the silence, and he doesn’t miss the way your breath catches—just for a second. His lips twitch, but he says nothing.

Instead, he takes his time working the buckle open, then the button, then the slow, almost lazy drag of his zipper. He does it methodically, making sure you feel every second pass.

Anticipation is a game, and Jeongin plays to win.

When he finally pushes the fabric down, baring himself completely, he doesn’t miss a thing—the widening of your eyes, the quiet hitch of breath, the way your tongue darts out, wetting your lips like a creature starved.

Something about that look—hunger, reverence, surrender—makes his control slip, just a little.

Because, for all his restraint, for all the rules he’s tried to follow, Jeongin has always known one thing. He was never strong enough to resist you.

He watches you for a second, reveling in the way your lips part, how your breath quickens, how your pupils darken with need. But it’s not enough. Not yet.

His hand moves with purpose, fingers curling under your chin before sliding up to grasp your jaw, firm yet controlled. He tilts your face up, forcing your gaze to lock with his. “Eyes on me,” he murmurs, voice low, steady. It’s not a request—it’s a command.

You obey, though he can feel the way your breath hitches under his grip. He doesn’t loosen it. Instead, he presses his thumb against your lower lip, parting your mouth open wider. He holds you there for a moment, letting the weight of it settle, watching your lips quiver slightly under his touch.

“Keep it open,” he instructs.

And then, without warning, he slides two fingers past your lips, pressing them onto your tongue. Your lips wrap around them instinctively, your cheeks hollowing as you suck, slow and deliberate. He watches, fascinated, as your tongue moves against his skin, warm and wet, taking him deeper.

His breath comes heavier now, his restraint fraying at the edges as he feels the way you work your mouth around him, as if you’re showing him—wordlessly—just how much you want him, how much you crave him.

Jeongin swallows hard, his grip tightening ever so slightly before he pulls his fingers out of your mouth, hard enough that it makes a loud popping sound.

“Let's try that again,” he mutters with jaws clenched.

You keep your mouth open for him, ignoring how your saliva is dribbling from one corner of your mouth while keeping your eyes on him.

He wraps his hand around his cock, hard as it possibly gets and hot inside his palm. He gently rubs the tip with his thumb before aiming it toward your mouth.

“Keep it open,” he voice has an edge to it, rushed.

He puts his length inside and watches as his length disappearing into your mouth, little by little. When he deems he's deep enough, he swallows air.

“Now, close it.”

A hiss escapes his mouth the second you close your mouth around it. He's forgotten how good this is, how hot and slick a woman’s tongue could be, how perfect it feels around him. His eyes flick down and catches your hand going between your legs, caressing your clothed core.

For a second, he can’t believe this good girl, a trust fund baby and a taste for expensive clothes is nothing but a bobbing mess of head between his legs. He suddenly gets the urge to thrust into your mouth, he suppresses it but he decides to indulge himself just a little. He runs his hands through your hair, using it to keep your head still as he pushes deeper until he hits the back of your throat and immediately slides it back out.

Oh, he's never been harder than this before and when he pulls away, he can see every vein, he can feel the painfully swollen crest as it flares out. His cock is throbbing with so much need and that’s when he knows he has to feel you

But before that, he needs to taste you again.

"Get up and take everything off." His voice is steady, unwavering, though inside, restraint coils tightly around him like a vice.

You obey without hesitation. Standing up, fingers move with quiet precision as each article of clothing falls away, baring yourself to him piece by piece. He leans back in his chair, allowing himself a moment to take you in—the curves, the softness, the way candlelight casts flickering shadows across your skin.

Your body is a vision. His heaven. And yet, his ruin.

"Go to the altar," he instructs.

You turn, stepping forward toward the structure pressed against the wall, your back facing him. There’s something about the way you carry yourself—so trusting, so willing—that stirs something darker inside him. He waits, watching as you reach the altar, as your breath subtly hitches in anticipation as he makes you wait.

Slowly, deliberately, Jeongin begins to undress, shrugging off layers until only the dark fabric of his shirt remains, parted in the front, exposing the rise and fall of his chest. The cool air does nothing to ease the heat simmering beneath his skin.

He moves toward you. "Hands on the altar," he orders, his voice lower now, softer but laced with something unmistakable.

You comply instantly, palms pressing flat against the surface, body bowing slightly forward. He closes the space between you—not enough to touch, but enough for his presence to be felt.

Jeongin places a hand at the nape of your neck, his fingers spreading over your skin. The moment he makes contact, he feels the shiver that ripples through you, sees the way goosebumps bloom in his wake. He likes that. Likes the way you respond to him without a word, without even seeing his face.

His hand drags downward, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine at a maddening pace. You exhale sharply, your body betraying you in the way it subtly arches, in the quiet whimper that slips past your lips.

He lets his touch linger before withdrawing, dropping to his knees behind you. The first press of his lips against the back of your thigh is featherlight, a mere ghost of contact, yet your legs tremble as if he’s already undone you. And he hasn’t even started yet.

Jeongin lingers there, kneeling behind you, his breath ghosting over your skin. He watches the way your fingers curl against the altar, the slight tension in your shoulders, the way your body anticipates him without a single word being spoken.

He starts slow. The press of his lips trails higher, along the backs of your thighs, over the curve of your hips. He savors the way you shudder, the way your breath falters. His hands follow, gliding over your skin, fingers kneading into flesh, learning every dip and softness like a prayer.

Then, with a firm grip, he coaxes you apart. A sharp inhale from you. A deep exhale from him.

Jeongin leans in, burying his mouth between your ass cheeks. The first touch of his tongue on your cunt is tentative, almost reverent, but he quickly finds the rhythm that has you trembling against him. His hands tighten on your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wants you. He works you open with slow, unhurried precision, as if he has all the time in the world, as if he’s making up for every moment he’s denied himself this.

Your hands grip the altar tighter, your breathing turns uneven, your body tilts just the slightest bit forward. He takes it as permission. As confirmation.

The sounds you make, the way you try to stay quiet yet fail, send something dangerous surging through him. His nails dig into your skin as he holds you still, refusing to let you escape from the pleasure he’s giving you.

He used to kneel here, in front of the altar, hands clasped in prayer, head bowed in devotion. But tonight—tonight, he kneels for something else entirely. He kneels before you. Not in prayer, but in worship.

You're shamelessly arching your back more and as a test, Jeongin pulls away, he can almost hear your groan of complaints from the sudden loss of contact. He gets up, looming behind you, his breath measured, his control razor-thin and then he presses his mouth to your ear to whisper. "Turn around and sit on the altar."

You hesitate but obey, turning around to face him and lifting yourself onto the altar, your legs hanging over the edge. The contrast is almost poetic—the sacred and the profane, colliding in the dim glow of candlelight.

He steps closer, his hands bracketing you, his body caging yours. His gaze lingers on your lips before he tilts his head and presses his mouth to yours. Soft at first, testing. But you don’t yield. You keep your lips sealed, eyes flickering with something untamed, something that dares him to take more.

And Jeongin—God help him—rises to the challenge. His hand finds your throat, fingers wrapping firm but not unkind. He feels the pulse beneath his palm, fast and unsteady, matching the rhythm hammering inside his own chest. A push, just enough to make you tilt your head back until it meets the wall behind you. He leans in again, this time kissing you with purpose, swallowing the sharp breath you take in surprise. He kisses you until you have no choice but to part for him, until resistance crumbles and submission tastes sweet on his tongue.

His body follows, pressing against you, his hips meeting yours in a slow, deliberate roll. The friction is intoxicating, pulling a soft sound from your lips that nearly undoes him. He pulls away just as abruptly, his hand still firm at your neck, his lips hovering close enough that his breath fans over your parted mouth.

“Behave,” he murmurs, voice low, edged with something dangerous.

You nod, obedient, but it’s not enough. His fingers tighten, just for a moment—a reminder.

“Words!”

A breathless whisper. “Yes.”

Jeongin releases you, only to slide his hands down, pushing your legs apart with the same authority. His eyes drop, and for a moment, he forgets himself—no scripture, no vow, nothing exists but the sight of you bared before him.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, his breath coming a little heavier. He grips your thighs, pressing your feet to the edge of the altar, opening you further. Every muscle in his body coils tight with restraint, but when he drags his gaze back to yours, the weight of his next words settles between you like a confession.

“Stay still.” He tilts his head, voice softer but no less commanding. “Stay very still.”

You nod, and this time, he doesn’t correct you because he’s already too far gone.

He leans his forehead against your and both of you looking down to watch as his tip presses against your entrance, and then slowly, he slips it inside. He stops when the crest of his cock is in you, and then freezes, muscles quivering.

And just like that, he has his first bite of the forbidden fruit and barely able to keep himself from eating it all.

Another moment passes with the two of you just stare down at it, at the sight of his cock inside you. You look away first, looking at him as you ask, “How do I feel?”

You're so tight it's squeezing him and honestly, there are no words to describe what that wet, velvety walls is doing to him. All he can think about is sinking deeper into you, deeper into this hell disguised as heaven.

Jeongin has to force his brain to work to form a coherent answer, “You feel... heavenly.”

Then, unable to help yourself, you move forward just the tiniest. Impulsively, Jeongin grabs your neck again and quickly calming himself down, refuses to come from that little movement. Instead of fear, he sees the glint in your eyes, wild and daring, you're enjoying this a little too much.

“I told you to stay still,” he reminds you.

Your eyes going back to the place where you and him connected. Then together, you watch as his big hand pressing into your delicate flesh, watching it quivering around the tip of his cock. His thumb hovers over your clit before rubbing on it.

As you draw a sharp breath, he feels you clenched around him and he hisses, grabbing the countertop to keep himself from losing it.

He knows you're trying to stay still and you want to see yourself come around him as much as he does. He quickens the pace of his rubbing, of his thumb applying gentle pressures on your clit.

You have your lips pressed into a thin line until you can’t help it anymore but moan and plead. “Please...”

“Please what?” He asks, his voice dark and heavy.

You can barely talk as moans constantly spilling out of your mouth, your head lolling to the side, you arched back shoving your breasts closer to him. He doesn’t waste the opportunity to lower his head and sucks on your nipple, loving the feel of it hardening on his tongue.

He drags his mouth to your neck, kissing and about to bite on the skin when you suddenly come undone before him. Your body rolls as if you move along to the waves of pleasure washing over you, again and again, all the while you keep tightening around him.

The thought that he can make you come with only the shallowest of penetrations drives him wild. You slump in his arms as you slowly come down from your high and resting your head on his shoulder.

Jeongin is about to pull out but you grab his hip, stopping him. You shake your head as you take another second to compute words. “I want you to come inside me next.”

“You know that I can't,” he breathlessly mutters, his hand grips the edge of the altar.

“You don’t have to worry, I'm on the pill,” you assure him, your hand grasping at his shirt now, afraid that he'll try to get away again. And then—soft, breathless—you say it. “Please, Jeongin.”

You’ve only ever called him Father. The title has lingered between you, a constant reminder of what he is, what he shouldn’t be. But now, with his body tangled with yours, the weight of his name sits heavy on your tongue, waiting to be spoken.

If this is the last time that he gets to do it then yes, he's going to give it to you, to himself and frankly, he would agree to anything, no matter how wrong it is because for some reasons, that's what makes it sweeter so Jeongin nods.

A sly smile blooms on your face as you lean back against the wall, digging your heels to the edge of the altar. The little maneuver doesn't move him any deeper inside, but it makes you tighten around him, and nudges him closer to his climax.

You run your hands to the undersides of your breasts, circling your thumbs on your stiff nipples and then pressing them together to the middle, showing him how luscious and ample they are.

God, he needs to move, needs to thrust. He needs to fuck.

He watches as your fingers go to your clit and you start to get yourself off again. You drown out your moans by shoving the other fingers and pumping them in and out of your mouth, the same mouth that has gotten his cock hard as rock.

And then, you move your hips ever so slightly, rocking them just enough to let him slipping in and out of you. Oh, he's only an inch and half inside you but he can feel how wet, how tight, and the next thing he knows, he shudders as pleasure is taking over him. His legs trembling, he can barely breathe as it rips through him, his first time coming inside a woman in years.

He does all his best to stay composed, not wanting to miss out on anything, he wants to imprint it in his memory, the sight of his seed filling and then dripping out of you.

Jeongin pulls out just enough as his arms still wrapped tightly around you as if letting go would mean losing something he can’t bear to lose. Your breath is warm against his collarbone, your cheek pressed against his chest, and he can feel the faint, rapid beat of your heart against his skin. His own pulse is just as frantic, yet his body is still—both of you caught in the quiet aftermath of what you’ve just done.

His hands skim down your back, fingers tracing over the curve of your spine, grounding himself in the reality of you. He notices that the two of you knocked a few things off the altar but all he can focus on is the way you fit against him, how perfectly you mold into him, like you were meant to be here, like this.

Jeongin exhales slowly, his lips pressing against the top of your head, almost unconsciously. A thought creeps into his mind, unbidden yet undeniable—sin has never tasted this sweet before.

Jeongin watches as you remain on the altar, your body still bathed in the afterglow of everything you’ve done. He knows he should step away, put distance between you, but instead, he moves with purpose—retrieving a damp cloth from the bathroom. When he returns, he kneels before you, his touch slow, deliberate, as he cleans the mess he made. He does it with care, with reverence, as if making up for all the ways he has defiled you.

Afterward, he gathers your clothes, shaking off the weight of sin that clings to them as if the fabric itself remembers. He helps you dress—zipping up your dress, smoothing the wrinkles. Every movement is unspoken penance, his way of giving back what he took.

When he finally meets your gaze, he braces himself before saying it. “This is it.” His voice is steady, but inside, something cracks. He brushes your hair to the side and holds it there as he continues, “There’ll be no more of this.”

To his surprise, you only nod. “I know.”

Something about your acceptance unsettles him more than if you had fought it. Before the weight of it can crush him, Jeongin pulls you in, one last time, pressing his lips against yours. It’s not hunger, not desperation—it’s something gentler, something deeper. A kiss that lingers, that memorizes. A kiss that means goodbye.

When he pulls away, instinct guides him. His fingers brush over your forehead, and before he can stop himself, he traces a cross against your skin. A blessing. A final act of absolution.

He then looks at you, memorizing every detail—the way your lashes flutter as you blink, the way your lips are still slightly swollen, the way your chest rises and falls with each quiet breath. He wants to believe that this is mercy, that ending it now is the only way to save both of you. But as he watches you, standing there in silence, he wonders if salvation was ever meant for him at all.

“Go in peace,” he whispers.

You hold his gaze, searching, waiting. But there is nothing left to say. Slowly, you turn and step away, your presence fading like the last flicker of a dying candle.

Jeongin stands there, unmoving, as the air between you turns cold. He has given you his final blessing, but as he watches you leave, he realizes—

He may have absolved you. But he has damned himself.

Jeongin's manuscript has been approved. His agent gave him the green light, the final stamp of approval before it moves toward publication. This should be a moment of relief, of pride. He’s worked tirelessly, pouring himself into every page, yet all he can focus on is what this truly means. He has no reason to see you again.

And he should be grateful. This is his chance to break away from his biggest temptation, to put you behind him, to return to the disciplined, righteous path he chose for himself. But instead, he feels devastated.

The feeling sits heavy in his chest, like an ache that won’t go away so he does the only thing he can think of. He goes out of the door and starts walking.

The cool night air bites at his skin as he drifts aimlessly, his feet leading him through familiar streets, turning corners without much thought. It isn’t until he stops that he realizes where he is.

Here. The street where he met you that night. Jeongin’s breath catches in his throat as memories flood his mind, as vivid as if they had just happened.

The way the neon lights cast a bluish glow across your face, making your skin look almost ethereal. The delighted surprise in your eyes when you spotted him. The way your dress hugged your figure, your coat slipping off one shoulder, baring just enough skin to make his stomach clench. And your voice—sweet, teasing, full of something sinful when you looked at him and said that word.

Father.

Jeongin squeezes his eyes shut, willing the memory away, but when he opens them, he’s still staring at the neon signs flickering in the distance. And then, something tells him to go inside.

He doesn’t know what it is. Curiosity, perhaps. Or maybe it’s something far more dangerous. His feet move before his mind can stop him.

The bass of the music reverberates through his chest as he steps inside the club, past the flashing lights and the scent of alcohol thick in the air. There are people everywhere—bodies pressed together, laughter spilling from lips, fleeting touches and lingering gazes exchanged under dim lighting.

But Jeongin isn’t looking at any of them. He’s searching. His eyes scan the crowd, craning his neck, looking for a face.

That’s when he realizes the truth. It isn’t curiosity that brought him here. It’s you.

He stands frozen in place, the chaos of the club fading into a dull hum around him. The neon lights flicker, casting a bluish glow over his skin, but he barely notices. His mind is too full of you.

You, with your soft voice and knowing smiles. You, who looked at him like he was more than a man of God, like he was just a man—fallible, weak, yours. You, who made him forget every vow he swore to uphold.

He should have known from the very beginning. From the moment you stepped into his life, there was something about you that made him uneasy in the most exhilarating way.

You weren’t temptation in the way sin usually was—dark, indulgent, full of guilt and regret. No, you were something worse. You were sweetness, a warmth that melted into him, that made him crave more, that made him forget why he was supposed to resist in the first place. And that was far more dangerous.

Because even now, standing in a place he has no business being, it isn’t the alcohol that tempts him. It isn’t the fleeting touches of strangers, the bodies swaying in reckless abandon.

It’s you. It has always been you. His greatest sin. His sweetest sin.

And if he were to fall again—if he were to let himself be weak—he knows, without a doubt, that it would be for you.

Four months since that night. Since the lines blurred between faith and desire, between duty and the undeniable pull of something he should have never allowed himself to feel. Since he last saw you. Since he let you go.

Now, Jeongin’s life has settled back into its rightful order. His book has been published, his parish duties continue as always, and the weight of his sins remains locked in the quiet chambers of his heart. He has done what is necessary—repented, prayed, convinced himself that he has moved forward.

The confessional is his sanctuary, a place where he is not Jeongin but Father Yang Jeongin. Here, he is not a man burdened by past mistakes but a servant of God, a listener of sins, a guide for those seeking absolution. Today has been like any other—whispered confessions of impatience, dishonesty, lapses in faith. Forgivable sins.

Jeongin shifts, preparing to leave, when the door creaks open. Another parishioner. He waits. For a moment, there is only silence. Then—

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

His breath stills. It is a voice he knows. A voice he has spent four months trying to forget. Yours.

His hands curl into fists, hidden in the folds of his robe. You. Of all the people who could have entered this booth, it had to be you.

Your voice is steady, but he can hear it—the tremor beneath the surface, the weight pressing down on every syllable.

“It has been… four months since my last confession.”

Four months. The exact amount of time since that night. Since you were beneath him, your hands gripping his shoulders, whispering his name like a prayer. Since he felt your warmth, your skin, the unbearable gravity of something he should have never allowed himself to want. Since he let you go.

Your voice cuts through the thick silence. “I have tried to forget. To move forward. But I think of someone I cannot see again. Someone I cannot meet again.”

Jeongin’s chest tightens. He already knows. But hearing it—hearing you say it—makes it real in a way that nothing else has.

“And I know that when we are together, it will only lead to more sin.”

The weight of your words settles deep inside him. He should not ask. He should not pry. He should do what is expected of him—forgive, counsel, absolve. But he is weak when it comes to you.

“Sin is not merely in the presence of another,” he says carefully, his voice calm, even. “But in the intent, in the heart.”

A pause. The air between you tightens. “Do you believe that being with this person is wrong?”

Silence. Then, so softly that it almost doesn’t reach him— “Yes.”

Jeongin’s grip on his robe tightens. There is so much he could say. So much he wants to ask. But this space does not belong to him—it belongs to God. And Jeongin, despite everything, still clings to his duty.

“You must seek absolution,” he murmurs. “To let go of what burdens you.”

A sharp inhale. A shift in the air. “I don’t think I can.”

Jeongin’s composure cracks and then—softer, more fragile than before—you speak again.

“I need to be around him,” you admit, the words raw, unguarded. “Because he gives me peace.”

His heartbeat falters as your voice wavers, thick with something unspoken. “I feel comfortable with him. I feel safe.” A breath. “And I... miss him.”

His eyes squeeze shut. You miss him. The ache in his chest sharpens into something unbearable. This is not just sin. Not just temptation. It is something deeper, something neither of you have been able to name, something neither of you have been able to let go of.

And God help him, he misses you too.

Jeongin swallows, his throat tight. “Then pray,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “And I will pray for you.”

You sniffle before saying, “I don't think that will be enough for me.”

Then, the faint rustle of fabric. A shift. You do not say goodbye but he hears the door clicks shut.

Jeongin remains seated, staring into the silence, knowing full well that no prayer will erase you from his thoughts. He should let you go. He should let you leave. But he can’t.

His body moves before his mind can catch up. The door swings open, and he steps out, scanning the dimly lit hallway. You’re already walking away, your pace hurried, as if putting distance between yourself and the confessional will make what just happened any less real.

His feet carry him forward. Faster. And then—he reaches out. His fingers wrap around your wrist.

You stop. Slowly, hesitantly, you turn to face him and when your eyes meet his, Jeongin feels his breath catch. Your eyes are glassy, unshed tears clinging to the edges of your lashes. The sight of it—of you, standing there, hurting—nearly undoes him.

His grip tightens, just slightly. Just enough to ground him, to remind himself that you are here. That he has you for this fleeting moment. Then, before he can stop himself, before he can think about what is right or wrong—he tugs you forward.

His fingers slide from your wrist to your hand, threading together, and he leads you down the hallway. Past the rows of pews, past the flickering candlelight of the sanctuary, past the open space where the weight of divinity looms overhead.

The door shuts behind you with a quiet click, sealing you both inside his small, dimly lit office. The air is thick with something unspoken, something fragile yet impossible to ignore. Jeongin lets go of your hand, but the warmth of your touch lingers, burning into his skin like a memory he’s afraid to hold on to—yet even more afraid to let go of.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

You stand there, watching him, your eyes still glassy with unshed tears. And Jeongin—he stands before you, his breathing uneven, his pulse an unsteady rhythm beneath his skin.

What has he done? What is he doing? He should send you away. He should open the door and tell you to leave before this goes any further, before this fragile moment fractures into something neither of you can take back.

Deep down, despite everything he has told himself, despite every prayer whispered into the hollow of his chest—he wants you to stay. He swallows, his voice hoarse when he finally speaks. "You shouldn't be here."

A small, broken smile flickers across your lips. "I know."

Silence settles between you like a weight too heavy to bear.

And then, softly—almost pleadingly—you whisper, "Tell me to leave."

Jeongin stands there, staring at you, knowing exactly what he should say but unable to force the words out. If he were a stronger man, he would. But he isn’t. And the moment he steps forward, closing the space between you, he knows he’s already lost. His hands reach up before he can stop himself, fingers brushing against your face as if memorizing the shape of you—soft, warm, real.

You don’t move away. You don’t flinch. You just look at him, wide-eyed and waiting, as if you knew this would happen all along. And then, before he can second-guess it, before reason can drag him back into the light—he kisses you.

The second his lips meet yours, his resolution shatters. He was a fool to think he could resist you, a fool to believe that time and distance would erase the pull between you. Because the moment he has you again, everything else ceases to matter. The weight of his priesthood, the vows he swore, the life he built—it all dissolves into nothing compared to the way you feel against him.

You gasp softly, your hands clutching at his shirt, and that sound alone undoes him. He deepens the kiss, his fingers tangling in your hair, his breath shaky as he pulls you closer—too close. Closer than he should.

But he can’t stop. Not when you’re here, not when you taste like longing and quiet desperation, not when every fiber of his being is screaming for more. And in this moment, he knows—he will never be able to let you go.

Because this—you—is a sin he cannot repent.

And God help him, he doesn’t want to.

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