Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Snowcrest is still the same cold, warring place it’s always been.

My engine must be about to give up on me, because my old-ass Jeep is starting to make funny noises, probably warning me that it’s too old to be fighting the cold and a slippery road right now.

What’s funny is that I can relate to my car—I’m also not ready to face the cold, even though in my case, the “ice queen” has a name and shares my blood. Or part of it.

The streets are relatively empty for this hour. In Linkon, 6 PM is rush hour: people leaving work, running to catch the subway or train, trying not to get stuck in traffic. But in Snowcrest, it seems people are either still working, or waiting for the cold to ease up before heading home.

Thank God it’s spring and summer starts in a week, or my ass would be a block of ice right now.

Soon, I see the warm glow of the Scott and Zelda Book Café after hours on the road. Taking advantage of the empty street, I ignore the traffic signs and park on the sidewalk in front of the store.

Seeing it again feels like traveling back in time—nothing’s changed. Located on the corner, the two-story bookstore radiates coziness: a wooden door between two display windows full of books on the first floor, and a huge window on the second. Above the door hangs a big gold sign reading Scott and Zelda Book Café, with warm-colored LED lights behind it. In front of one display window, there’s an empty table with three chairs—probably used more often when the sun is out.

I close my black jacket over my simple white tee and get out of the car, walking quickly—but not running—trying not to slip on the icy sidewalk. The golden bell above the door jingles as I step in, and I pat my pants lightly, trying to get the blood flowing again after hours of driving. The store’s heater starts working its magic, thawing my frozen hands. I forgot how cold this town can be, even when it’s not snowing.

“Welcome! How can I help—”

Me and the tiny woman who comes to greet me freeze at the same time. I haven’t seen my tia Zelda in ages, but that bob haircut and those big, kind eyes are impossible to forget.

“Oh my God, Agatha!” She comes out from behind the counter and runs to me, arms wide open for a hug. I meet her halfway. “My, my… I thought you’d forgotten your way back here!”

“Hi, tia Zelda!”

She takes a step back but doesn’t let go of my hands, scanning me from head to toe. I’m not that girl with curly space buns and pink overalls anymore. I’m at least ten centimeters taller than her — not a big achievement, since my aunt can’t be more than 1.50 meters. Her dark eyes take in my heeled boots, ripped jeans, and the hoop piercing in my nose. In Linkon, I’m just another basic girl who loves gold jewelry and skinny jeans; in Snowcrest, I’m a sinful freak showing too much skin and daring to “damage” the temple of the Creator.

Yet my tia just shrugs and beams like the sun.

“I thought you were ignoring my letters. Took you long enough to come home,” she says, patting my hands.

“Who even sends letters anymore?” I joke, purposefully ignoring her calling this city home. It never felt like one, even though I spent the first seventeen years of my life here.

“I have no idea how to use that WhatsApp thingy. Spare this old lady.”

“Tia Zelda, you’re like sixty. You’re still in your prime,” I tease, pretending to study her face. “Look at this skin—not a single wrinkle!”

She laughs, adjusting her plaid red coat and striking a pose.

“Add ten more years to that number, girl. Still fine for someone whose feet are almost in the grave, right?”

Her words make me stop cold. In her last letter, Tia Zelda was so adamant about seeing me, but I thought that was just her way of convincing me to visit. She’s been trying to bring me back ever since my mother died four years ago.

“Guess I made things awkward, huh?” She flashes a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

My voice comes out weak. “Are you dying or something?”

“Don’t we all, girl? I could die tomorrow, if not today.”

I study her. At first glance, she looks fine — her tan skin glows, her short legs work just fine. But up close, I see the signs: her once thick black hair is thinner, duller, with a few gray strands showing. Shorter, too. It’s like ten years have passed instead of four since we last saw each other.

My older, bitchy sister didn’t bother to tell me anything, so I guess Tia Zelda is just being dramatic. Not that I’d expect Victoria to tell me anything. She treats me more like a dirty shoe than a sister.

I’ve left a lot behind too. I’ve been away for so long. I knew coming here meant facing this city, and that was the last thing I wanted. We’d only exchanged monthly letters and the occasional video call (when she actually picked up). I could have visited, but just the thought made my skin crawl—

“Hey, hey, don’t blame yourself now. Our lives are in God’s hands… We should enjoy the time we have together from now on.” She smiles, squeezing my cold hands in hers. “Now, let’s get you settled. Taraaah!”

I forgot how loud she can be, and her shout wipes away the heaviness in the air.

Soon, a short, sweet-looking girl comes running out, her hair tied back, a brown apron over a white wool sweater.

“Yes, Mrs. Jones?”

“This is my niece, Agatha,” my aunt says, pushing me forward so suddenly I almost stumble in my heels. “Agatha, this is Tara. She works here and makes the best macchiato in the country. Now, be friends!”

God, how easy life is for this woman. I keep a poker face like it’s all perfectly normal. Tara’s cheeks turn crimson, but she smiles and giggles, extending her hand.

“Hi! I’m Tara. It’s so nice to finally meet you! I hope we can be friends and— Oh! I love your boots!” She speaks so fast the words blur together, but her voice is so bright it’s adorable.

“Hi! It’s a pleasure to meet someone who appreciates good fashion in this city. My tia always talks about you in her letters.”

“Only nice things, I hope,” Tara says, raising an eyebrow at my aunt, who blinks rapidly like her brain’s buffering.

“Of course only nice things,” she says. “About both of you.”

“I wouldn’t expect less,” I reply.

“Agatha, would you like a hot drink? You look cold,” Tara offers.

“Sure. Maybe that famous macchiato?”

“On it!”

As she walks away, my gaze drifts to the glass display full of cakes, donuts and cupcakes. My aunt’s still the kind of baker who makes sweets you have to eat with your eyes first.

The bookshop smells the same: old pages, fresh coffee, and the lavender perfume she always wears. It’s like a fairytale shop—wooden walls, packed shelves, little vases everywhere. The café area is the only modern touch, with striped green-and-white walls and old vinyl record covers hanging above.

But my awe dies the moment I notice a few customers staring.

Of course they recognize me—I’m the spitting image of my mom, Katherine Belogun, also known as Snowcrest’s Jezebel. Dark skin, round face, short hair. They’re probably fingering their rosaries already, praying I don’t spread my sins around town.

Tia Zelda clears her throat, breaking the spell. She’s holding a small paper cup with a tiny pink flower taped to it.

When did Tara give her that? Was I so distracted by those judgmental assholes?

I grab my phone, ready to pay, but my aunt raises a hand.

“Don’t you dare give me money,” she murmurs.

“Why not?”

“You’re my niece. It’s on me.” She pushes me toward a recliner by the window. “Now, enjoy it. I’ll close soon, and we’ll head home so you can get comfortable.”

“Actually… I already have a place to stay.” I take a sip of the macchiato and almost melt at the caramel flavor.

“Where?”

“A tiny loft in Edenfall.”

My aunt scoffs. I was expecting that reaction. Edenfall is Snowcrest’s “sinner district”: artists, drug dealers, strippers, and other minorities. Basically, people the church writes off as lost souls. The perfect place for someone like me.

“Are you out of your damn mind? Edenfall?” she exclaims, stomping a foot. “Get your money back. You’re staying with me.”

“Is Victoria living with you?” I ask bluntly.

“For now, yes. She doesn’t want to leave me alone… thinks I’ll meet my Maker any day now,” tia Zelda sighs.

“Then I’ll stay in Edenfall, just like I planned.”

“Agatha—”

I take another loud sip, ignoring her. There’s no way I’m living under the same roof as my perfect, holy-sister Victoria. She’d probably try to baptize me with a bucket of holy water while I’m sleeping. Or drown me in it. Besides, I need a private space to do my streams and OF content. Not happening at my aunt’s house.

She seems to get the message and goes back to the counter to help a customer.

I stare out the window, ignoring the stares burning holes in my back. I finish my macchiato in minutes and am about to order another when a silhouette across the street catches my eye.

He’s waiting for the light to turn green, even though there’s not a single car in sight. I lean forward to see better, but the recliner shifts with every move I make.

When the light changes, he starts walking. The fog clears, and—God.

Broad shoulders under a white button down shirt. Long, steady strides in dark trousers. His face is half-hidden in shadow, but I already know he’s handsome. With each step, his long black coat flares behind him, elegant and calm. I feel like Elizabeth Bennet watching Mr. Darcy walk toward her at the end of the movie.

Too late, I realize he’s heading for the bookstore. I sit up straight, cross my legs and grab a random book from the side table. I hold it up just as the golden bell above the door chimes.

“Good evening, Sister Jones,” he greets.

And I almost melt into a puddle on the floor.

God, that voice. He sounds like one of those audio-erotica narrators.

And the face—sharp jawline, full lips, perfect nose. I lower the book a little, just to get a better look.

“Oh, darling! Peace be with you,” my aunt says warmly.

“And with you,” he replies, taking her hand in his. His fingers practically swallow hers.

A man with big hands...

“What are you doing here so late? Does Father Astra need something?”

“No, Mrs. Jones. I just came to pick up a book to read in the next study,” he says with an awkward smile.

“Feel free to look around, darling,” she says, patting his shoulder.

He nods, shyly. Then he turns — and looks directly at me.

Now, I work selling nudes online. I know beautiful people — people whose faces could be sculpted by angels. But this man… this is the first time I’ve seen someone captivating.

His eyes are hazel, framed by silver-rimmed glasses that make him look like a K-drama professor. But there’s a softness there, a warmth I wasn’t ready for. Not the disgust I expected. Just… gentle curiosity.

We hold each other’s gaze for what feels like forever. He’s the first to look away, ducking into an aisle. I realize my book’s on the floor. My heart’s racing like it’s ready to take a flight at any moment.

Before I can think, I’m on my feet. My body moves on autopilot, following him between the shelves. I find him flipping through The Confessions by Saint Augustine.

Great. A church boy. Not my usual type, but now I’m curious.

I try to recall what I remember about Saint Augustine from my catechism years… wasn’t he a philosopher? I’m sure we studied him back in school. The perks of having studied at a Catholic school.

Actually, no, I don’t remember a thing. Maybe… oh! The book I was reading. I’m still holding it. Redeeming Love, by Francine Rivers. I’ve never read anything by her, but I know it’s a Christian romance novel. The girls in my class during high school loved her. I can pretend to be a good Christian who loves her too.

I grin and start walking toward him, pretending to study the book cover while scanning the shelves. He’s definitely noticed me standing in the hallway — probably caught me in his peripheral vision — but I use every bit of acting skill that working at the OF has given me and “accidentally” bump into his arm.

“Oh! Sorry!” I say, raising the book. “Just trying to find the other Francine Rivers books.”

He blinks, closes his book, and looks at the cover I’m holding.

“Is that a romance?”

“Uh-huh.” I nod, keeping my gaze steady. His cheeks go red and it’s adorable. “Do you know where they are?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “I think you’re in the wrong section. This one’s Christian philosophy.” He points to the plaque above us.

Shit. Forgot about those.

“Oh, silly me! I could’ve sworn I grabbed it here,” I say, hugging the book to my chest.

It gets a reaction out of him — his gaze instantly flicks somewhere else, avoiding my chest. Not that there’s much to see; I’m wearing a black leather jacket zipped all the way up. I curse myself. This would’ve been the perfect time to wear something with a little more cleavage.

“So, you’re into Christian philosophy?” I try a new approach.

He looks almost startled that I’m still talking to him. The way his eyes glint—curious, not annoyed—makes me think not many girls usually bring up this kind of topic with him.

“Y-yeah. Especially Saint Augustine. One of the greatest influences on Western philosophy.”

“Isn’t he the one who said evil is the absence of good, not something created?” I ask, fishing through half-forgotten memories.

“Innate, yes,” he corrects, raising an eyebrow. “Are you a devotee of Saint Augustine too?”

I laugh. “Oh, no. But I did enjoy his theories back in high school.”

“Well, that’s something.” He purses his lips, seemingly reflecting what he’s about to say next, fiddling with a rosary hanging from his pants. Meanwhile, all I can think about is how his lips turn into a soft rose color when he bites it. “Are you new here?”

“No. Born and raised in Snowcrest. Moved out with my mom four years ago, then traveled for some years after she passed.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says quietly, looking embarrassed for saying something that brings bad memories. “I’m sure she was well received in the Heavenly Kingdom.”

If the church is right, I’m not so sure she would be welcomed there.

“I hope so,” I say, smiling politely.

“I just asked because I’ve never seen you around,” he explains.

“I don’t remember seeing you either.”

“That’s because I moved here two years ago,” he says with a shy grin. “Anyway, I run a study group at Saint Augustine Parish. You’re welcome to join us. I think you’d bring a great philosophical view.”

Damn, he’s that into church? What is he, a deacon or something?

“Father Zayne! I didn’t know you were here!” Tara’s voice cuts through the air.

Father?

Chapter Text

The weather’s nice today.

I was startled awake by the sun shining right in my face early this morning. According to my phone, it’s over 10ºC today, even though I was still shivering when I got out of bed.

I went through my usual routine, just like I’ve been doing for the past few years: get up, shower, make breakfast, get ready for work. Today’s task was some lingerie photos. It’s been two days since I’ve posted anything on OF—days I spent on the road—and my followers are already flooding my Instagram with requests.

The worst thing about working with a mostly male audience is having to put up with their pettiness.

Well, at least the money they send me is enough to help Tia Zelda and get settled here. My loft already has the basics: my bed, my computer, and a complete kitchen, all offered by the sweet lady that is my landlord. Now I just need to buy curtains — so I don’t wake up with the sunrise every day—and buy groceries to feed myself.

I have to go downtown for that. And maybe find the mysterious hottie from the bookstore who apparently turned out to be a friar. Yeah, that wasn’t on my “yearbook list of discoveries.”

Needless to say, I was shocked when I found out. After Tara spoke with him, Father Zayne actually tried to talk to me again, but something inside me froze, and I made up an excuse to run away. I barely even said goodbye to my aunt.

I still can’t believe that smoking-hot guy is a clergyman. I don’t even need to say what my last thought was before falling asleep—it’s like those hazel eyes cast a spell on me.

I was raised in a super religious family. The man I thought was my father never missed a single Mass. So of course, that feeling of guilt eats at me for even having thought about desiring a priest. 

Even so, I’m not made of steel—nor am I used to denying my desires. And right now, what I want is to see him again. Seeing him is not something wrong. Right?

It’s purely coincidence that I need to shop for my new place and that the best store for that happens to be downtown, right near the Saint Augustine Parish.

I’m putting the finishing touches on my look, fixing my bangs so they fall perfectly on my forehead. I recently cut my curls into a shaggy bob and straightened them, so I’m still figuring out how to style this new hair. I swipe on a bit of gloss so it doesn’t clash with the darker eye makeup.

I pick a black wool sweater that’s snug around the bust and a denim skirt with thick tights—good for the weather, and cute enough in case I “accidentally” run into Zayne.

Father Zayne.

I have to remind myself of that so I don’t end up in hell for hitting on him.

Unlike downtown Snowcrest, Edenfall only really comes alive at night. It’s full of bars and nightclubs—the heart of the city’s nightlife.

At ten in the morning, though, as I drive down the cobblestone streets, there are barely any souls around. Just a few young people stumbling home from the clubs, makeup smudged, walking like their veins are still pumping with alcohol.

The trip to the center takes less than fifteen minutes. Here, the streets are busy: families out with kids, people jogging or walking their dogs.

Finding curtains is easy. I found it in a furniture store, and ignored the salesman’s unimpressed look when I told him where I live. It’s funny because he was being so kind to me before.

I’m driving around, trying to find the supermarket, when I pass a small square where a group of people are standing in a circle, holding hands and praying.

And there he is: Zayne.

He’s wearing a white cloak. The glasses that gave him that sexy nerd vibe are gone. He has a leather cord around his waist and the bowl-cut hairstyle completes this clergyman aesthetic.

I practically stop the car in the middle of the street to stare at him—he looks so much more pure, although my mind is still glued on the sexy nerd look. He’s like a dichotomy, at least physically.  I am pulled from my thoughts when a car honks angrily behind me. Startled, I pull over into an empty parking space next to the square. The driver passes me, shooting a dirty look, and I glare right back. That’s enough to send him speeding off without saying a word.

I sigh. As usual, my body moves before my mind catches up. But I’m already out of the car—what’s the harm in taking a look?

Maybe the meeting he mentioned is happening outdoors today to enjoy the sun. And hey, he did invite me to join, right?

With a confidence I’m not entirely feeling, I walk toward the group in the middle of the square. The people have already sat down on a blanket spread over the grass, with Zayne sitting in front of them, speaking while everyone listens intently. His demeanor is serious, yet humble. The kind of speaker who draws attention with his unpretentious energy.

Several heads turn toward me at the sound of my footsteps, and the curious glances quickly shift to judgmental stares.

I stop close enough to see the book he’s holding. From the tiny print, I’m pretty sure it’s the Bible.

Only then does Zayne look up. His expression shifts from shock to surprise, and then he swallows hard before standing.

“Good morning,” he says steadily. “I wasn’t expecting you to come today.”

“You did invite me, didn’t you?” I tease, raising an eyebrow.

He glances down at his sandals before meeting my eyes again. It’s like ages has passed when he finally speaks, “Actually, I invited you to a Saint Augustine study. This one’s just a morning Bible reading I do with some members of the congregation.”

“Oh.” My cheeks heat up. “I see…”

He’s so straightforward it throws me off. Now I don’t know whether to turn around and run back to my car or commit to this insane idea of… what, exactly? Befriending a priest? Going back to church with his help? Find the “right path”?

The congregation watches us, and I swear I hear a few giggles. Great. I’m the entertainment for a crowd dressed like they stepped out of a 1940s magazine—people with zero grip on reality.

“But you’re very welcome to join us,” he adds, clearing his throat. I blink, surprised. “I’m sorry, it was my mistake. I invited you yesterday without explaining anything.”

“No, I should’ve asked,” I say quickly.

“You left so suddenly yesterday, I didn’t even get to ask your name.”

“Yeah, I had an emergency,” I lie. “It’s Agatha. Agatha Belogun.”

His lips move, silently repeating it—as if memorizing it for himself.

“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Belogun. I’m Father Zayne. Zayne Li.” He tucks the Bible under his arm and extends his hand.

Almost hesitantly, I place mine in his. Zayne wraps his hand around mine — his palm is warm, and I can feel his strength there, even though his touch is gentle.

“It’s nice to meet you too.”

Heat floods my face as I glance up. For a moment, everything around us feels frozen. His gaze travels from my face down to my legs, barely visible through my tights, and back up again. I lean forward slightly and smile. As if jolted awake, he lets go of my hand and looks away, flipping the Bible open once more.

Hmm… so he is shy.

“Please, take a seat,” Father Zayne says quickly. “Do you have a Bible with you? If not, you can sit beside someone who does and read along.”

My eyes sweep over the group—every single person looks away, silently praying I don’t sit next to them. The men probably think I’ll corrupt their wives, and the women probably think I’ll steal their husbands.

I smirk. Of course they do. My sister probably already ran her mouth, telling everyone what I do for a living.

“Shit, I’ll have to pass this time. I didn’t bring my glasses, so I’d just make a mess of the reading,” I say, deliberately dropping a curse word. “Maybe next time?”

A few gasps ripple through the group. And wait… Did Father Zayne’s shoulders just drop?

“Oh, I understand,” he says softly, eyes averted again. “Then I’ll look forward to seeing you at the Saint Augustine study. We’ll meet after the 7 p.m. Mass tomorrow.”

“I’ll be there.”

Throwing one last satisfied glance at the judgmental sons of bitches clutching their Bibles, I turn and walk back to my car.

Apparently, I’ll be attending Mass tomorrow.

❝ ✦ ❞ ──────────── ❝ ✦ ❞

Despite what people say about Edenfall being pure chaos, I find it fairly organized. There’s a part of the neighborhood for nightlife and another for residences. My building — a small brick structure that used to be red and now looks more like antique copper — isn’t taller than four stories, but it was cute enough for me to rent it for six months when I was apartment-hunting online.

There’s no garage for residents, so cars and motorcycles are parked right on the sidewalk. When I finally find a spot, I notice a figure standing on the front steps.

Short hair, a blue polka-dot dress, and a green wool coat — I recognize her instantly: Tara.

She’s tapping her feet, looking around like someone might jump out from the shadows with a knife… or worse: offer her an alcoholic drink. Tara only notices me when I close the car door, then rushes down the stairs toward me.

“Agatha! I was worried about you! Your aunt sent me to check on you, but you weren’t answering your phone, and—”

“What? She thought I’d been abducted or something?”

A flush spreads across her cheeks. “Well, would it really be that far-fetched? It’s Edenfall, after all.”

I chuckle, opening the trunk and grabbing my groceries. It’s not surprising she thinks that way. I’ve dealt with people who saw everyone in this neighborhood as some sort of devil ever since my mother moved here after the divorce.

Tara follows close behind.

“I know, I know. You probably think I’m some conservative girl who’s afraid of pronouns and all that,” she says, already grabbing two grocery bags to help.

“And you’re not?” I ask, lifting the heavier bag with the curtains and closing the trunk.

“No,” she says simply. “At least, I try not to be.”

I stop halfway up the stairs and glance down at her. “That’s good. I guess we can be friends then.”

Tara grins. “I thought we already were. Didn’t Mrs. Jones told us to be friends yesterday?”

“I love my aunt, but I don’t take orders easily,” I say as Tara looks around the hallway. The building is a bit dark and has no elevator, but the stairs are clean and the neighbors are quiet. Since I live on the top floor, getting home feels like doing cardio. “To be honest, you won me over with that macchiato.”

When we step into my apartment, Tara slips off her red slippers and goes straight to the kitchen, setting the bags on the counter. She doesn’t even try to hide her curiosity, taking everything in. The open kitchen connects to a tiny living room — there isn’t much to explore. My bedroom and bathroom sit on an open second floor above the kitchen, with the bathroom being the only room with a door.

“Your place is sooo cute,” she says as I put the remaining bags on the counter.

I stayed up until two a.m. organizing my clothes on the rack upstairs, but a few boxes still clutter the living room: books, mugs, random decorations. Since I work from home, my room needs to stay spotless. I’ll get to the boxes later.

There’s a two-seater leather sofa, a colorful round rug I bought in Turkey, a coffee table, a TV stand, and a flat-screen. The lighting is soft and purplish here, but the kitchen is bright and clean. There’s a fridge, cooktop, microwave, and, of course, my beloved coffee maker.

I grab a cappuccino capsule. “Want a not-so-professional cappuccino?”

“Yeah,” Tara says, sitting on a stool and helping me organize the groceries.

“So,” I ask, handing her the mug, “how did you meet my aunt?”

She takes a sip, eyes closing briefly in appreciation. A part of me is ridiculously proud that I impressed a barista with capsule coffee. 

“I used to live up north with my parents. But my mom’s family is from Snowcrest, and when my grandfather passed, she inherited his property here. They decided to move a couple of years ago. I was still deciding whether to go to college or not, so I figured I’d get a job and save some money. That’s when I found out the downtown bookstore was hiring a barista. I gave it a shot. Honestly, I don’t think I did that great at first, but your aunt is an angel! She hired me without asking questions.”

“It’s hard to believe you didn’t have any experience before,” I say. “My aunt says you’re really talented.”

She laughs softly. “Only because I practiced a lot. I can’t even count how many cups of cappuccino I drank or how many batches of chocolate chip cookies I ate while training at home.”

“Maybe you should invest in culinary school or something,” I suggest.

“Yeah… maybe I should,” she says, her tone suddenly shifting. Her hands fold neatly in her lap.

This girl’s body language is easy to read. The way she avoids my gaze tells me college is a sensitive topic, so I don’t press. She’ll talk when she’s ready.

Just as quickly as her mood darkened, Tara brightens again.

“What about you? Did you go to college?” she asks.

“Me? No.” I lean against the counter, facing her. “There was a time I thought about studying engineering or something tech-related. I’ve always loved gaming. But life got in the way, and now… I think it’s too late.”

“You’re twenty-four, right?” When I nod, she grins. “Girl, I’m twenty-two. If it’s too late for you, then I’m doomed.”

I chuckle. “No, it’s not about age. It’s more about—”

“Life experience?” she cuts in.

“Something like that,” I say simply, not wanting to scare off the only friend I have in this city. But Tara, apparently, is full of surprises.

“Is it because of your work?” she asks.

I tilt my head, arms crossed. “How do you know what I do for work?”

“Your sister told me, the first time we met at church,” she says, taking another sip.

Of course she did. Even when I’m miles away, Victoria still has to stick her nose in my business.

“Did she tell everyone?” I ask, fishing for details.

“I don’t know if I should say more without sounding like a gossip.”

I laugh. “Don’t worry. I’m not close to my sister anymore, but I know she can be… a lot.”

That seems to ease her, because she leans closer over the counter, lowering her voice like she’s about to share some forbidden secret.

“Mrs. Victoria Smith is very respected by Father Astra, but I don’t think Father Zayne shares that sentiment.”

Well, that’s a pleasant surprise. At least he has good judgment — he can spot a snake inside his parish when he sees one.

“Why’s that?” I ask casually, turning my back to her to put the eggs in the fridge.

“Honestly? I think people only respect her because of her husband. Mr. Erwin Smith’s a good man, and Father Astra has known him since he was a kid. But Victoria’s like the queen bee of the trad wives and treats anyone who doesn’t fit her idea of womanhood like trash.”

Sounds like my sister, all right.

“Does Zayne share that opinion?” I ask.

Tara pauses, raising an eyebrow. “You mean Father Zayne?” she teases. “You two seemed pretty close last night.”

I shrug, not looking at her. “We were just talking about a book, and he invited me to Mass tomorrow. You know, being a good priest and all, trying to bring back stray sheep.”

“You can just say he’s hot. We all know it.”

I turn to her, stunned. “What?”

She shrugs, grinning. “I have eyes. And I might’ve never dated anyone, but I know what flirting looks like — and you were definitely flirting with him.”

“I didn’t know he was a priest,” I mutter.

“I noticed,” she says, smiling smugly. “That’s why I stepped in. You’re welcome.”

“Thanks for saving my soul, I guess,” I laugh, shaking my head. “I’ll just look and admire — like an expensive gift you can’t have.”

Or at least, that’s the lie I tell myself to sleep at night.

Chapter Text

People can criticize thousands of things about the Church, but never its sense of aesthetics.

The last time I stepped into the sacred grounds of this parish was eight years ago, and it is still a beautiful mix of grand architecture and humble richness. The white walls are covered in gold-threaded designs — red roses, peonies, carnations. The ceiling is a bluish mural representing Paradise, full of angels and the chosen ones. The windows are painted glass, showing different symbols of Saint Augustine: the burning heart, the books, the shells. It’s dark now, but I remember how breathtaking the colorful reflections were when the sun hit the stained glass.

There are wooden benches arranged in two rows with an aisle between them leading to the altar, which is also gorgeous, with long silver candelabras and perfectly painted saints on plaster shelves behind it.

My last time here was also my last confession, when I was sixteen and desperately looking for advice after finding out my father didn’t love me anymore. I remember leaving frustrated after the old priest told me to pray ten Lord’s Prayers and wait for divine intervention to melt the ice around my “father’s” heart.

Imagine my surprise when I got home and found all my things thrown out on the sidewalk while my mom sat on her luggage waiting for me.

Since that day, I never went back to church. Never looked for a priest again. Never waited for divine intervention. If I want something, I go after it myself.

Isn’t it ironic? What brought me back wasn’t the need for advice — it was the need to see a priest. Or maybe the curiosity of meeting said priest.

There are still about fifteen minutes before Mass begins, but I came early to secure the last bench and avoid attention. I had forgotten how much people in this city love arriving early, not only to sit close to the altar, but also to gossip.

If I were them, I’d be worried about speaking ill of their “spiritual siblings” while sitting so close to God. Wouldn’t it be embarrassing knowing the Lord Himself is listening firsthand to Mrs. McDaniels telling Miss Kate that Mrs. Fletcher is a tramp who sleeps with other people’s husbands?

I know exactly what they’re talking about because they don’t even bother lowering their voices. And I’m almost sure the teenager behind them is Mrs. Fletcher’s son.

When I walked in, there were two people standing by the door — a man and a teenage girl. The girl smiled sweetly and offered me a leaflet with the month’s events and Mass schedules. The man, probably her father, looked me up and down with disdain and squeezed the girl’s hand when she spoke to me, making her go silent immediately.

Already expecting that kind of reaction, I simply smiled back and headed to the last bench, which thankfully was empty. A few people looked at me, curious, but nothing more. Trying to blend in and avoid a scandal by showing my knees, I wore a white dress that falls just below them, with a cinched waist and round neckline. I look like a 1950s trophy wife. It’s one of the few dresses of my mother’s I kept.

But when I feel a burning stare on my back, I’m not sure wearing it was a good idea. Because my older sister is looking at me as if unsure whether she’s seeing a devil or a ghost.

Victoria stands beside her husband, Erwin, and her four-year-old son, William. It’s my first time seeing the two of them; I never got an invitation to the wedding, nor to meet my nephew when he was born. I only recognize them because Tia Zelda would sometimes send me photos.

When our eyes meet, her surprise instantly twists into sarcasm.

“Oh, they’re allowing this type of people on sacred ground now?” she spits.

“Last time I checked, the church welcomes all God’s creation,” I reply, standing up.

She laughs, drawing the attention of those nearby.

“Sure. Lucifer was created by Him too, yet I doubt he’d be welcome here.”

“I don’t think he’d enter this place openly about his sins like me…” I tap my chin, pretending to think as I study her — especially her annoyingly similar white dress. “If anything, he’d disguise himself as a good wife while dragging everyone down with him. Actually, he’d look a lot like you.”

Victoria clenches her jaw, fists tightening around her child’s hand. The kid whimpers.

“Darling, let’s take a seat,” her husband urges, gently guiding her forward.

Erwin Smith looks like a German soldier—blonde hair, blue eyes, stoic expression. He dresses like an old English professor. My nephew is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen, a tiny version of their family aesthetic, though with his mother’s light brown skin and dark curls. Only the ocean-colored eyes come from his father.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Victoria hisses before Erwin pushes her ahead.

“I never do what I’m told,” I mumble as she walks away.

I smooth down my dress, trying to focus on anything but the urge to strangle my sister.

Before I sit back down, the mini procession of altar boys and priests enters. Second to last in the line, I see Zayne.

Everyone stands as the entrance music begins. Zayne walks in wearing a white chasuble with a gold-stone cross on his chest, cincture tied at the waist. When he passes me, with his mouth wide open like an idiot, his eyes widen and he gives me a shy smile, looking genuinely happy and surprised.

Behind him comes another priest, much older, wearing elaborate green robes.

That must be Father Astra, the parish’s main priest. Tara told me Father Zayne graduated only a couple of years ago and was chosen to assist Father Astra — and someday replace him.

The Mass goes by quickly, like choreography: sit, stand, sit, stand, sign of the cross. Father Astra’s sermon nearly puts me to sleep. But I don’t take my eyes off Zayne. He looks so handsome, sitting behind the altar—focused, intelligent. When he reads the Bible, his voice sounds more like NSFW ASMR than holy scripture.

When Mass ends, I stay seated as people disperse. My heart jumps when I see Father Zayne walking toward me, now wearing black trousers and a black button-up with the Roman collar peeking.

“You came,” he says, eyes gleaming behind his glasses.

“Of course,” I reply, standing up. Even in heels, I barely reach his chest… and what a chest. The fabric stretches over firm contours that should be illegal. “It’s been years since I attended a Mass.”

“Really? Then I hope the Holy Spirit guides you back again.”

“I wouldn’t say it was the Holy Spirit that brought me back…” I mumble. Zayne hears it.

“Oh?” His eyebrows lift. “Then what was it?”

“You,” I say simply.

He freezes. Then looks away, flustered.

I clear my throat. “I mean—for the study group.”

“Right.” He gives that shy smile of his, the one where his lips barely curve. “About that… I think it’ll be just you and me today.”

“Yikes. Everybody stood you up?”

“If by everybody you mean my only previous member, yes,” he chuckles. “Mrs. Monet had an emergency trip to see her granddaughter. She’s a devoted follower of Saint Augustine and even moved here after retirement to be closer to the parish, but her family lives in another city.”

My mouth falls open. Only an old woman wanted to study with this man? If I still lived here, I’d attend every Mass, event, and study session this man ever hosted.

Zayne shakes his palms nervously. “If you’d prefer, we can cancel and wait for next week.”

“Why? You don’t want to do it alone with me?” I smirk.

“What? No, I don’t mind doing it with you.”

“Are you afraid to be alone with me?” I press.

He tugs at his collar, nervous. “Actually, I thought you’d be nervous. Younger people seem to feel uneasy being alone with a priest. Only older folks seem comfortable.”

I laugh. “Maybe younger people think you’ll read all their secrets if they stay alone in a room with you.”

“Oh, God, I wish. It’d make confessions easier.”

“I don’t mind you knowing my secrets. Besides, it’s not like I have plans on a Thursday night.”

He gestures toward the hallway. “Then shall we begin?”

I grab my purse and walk beside him toward the rooms behind the parish.

“By the way, I never asked if you’re free every Thursday,” Zayne says, slowing his steps to match mine. We enter a hallway lined with empty rooms. Some have signs: bathroom, storage, archives. “I don’t know if your job allows for that.”

“Of course. I work from home, it’s super flexible.”

“What do you do?” He stops at the last door and opens it, stepping aside for me.

I enter, fiddling with the strap of my purse, chin tipping down. The room is small, with five chairs in a circle at the center. The yellowish lighting seems perfect for studying and calming the mind. Right now, though, all I feel is anxiety.

“I’m a model,” I say simply.

“Oh, that’s cool. I didn’t know models could work from home.” He closes the door and starts rummaging through papers on a desk against the wall, his broad back turned to me. “Do you have a studio at home or something?”

“Something like that…” I decide to say it all at once. “I’m an adult content model.”

Zayne stops. Then he turns around very, very slowly. “Ah…” He blinks a few times. “Ah, I see.” His cheeks turn red.

“Not exactly the ideal job for a church woman, is it?” I give a nervous laugh.

He pushes his glasses up his straight nose. “And does such a thing exist?”

“Well, I don’t think there’s a list of professions for pious women, but if there were, I’m sure ‘OnlyFans model’ wouldn’t be in the top hundred.” I shrug.

Zayne leans against the table behind him, looking at me seriously.

“Being pious is not the same as being good. People confuse the two all the time.”

“Do you think I’m a good person?”

He tilts his head, a strand of black hair falling from his forehead. “So far you haven’t given me any reason to think otherwise.”

“It’s not like you’ve known me long,” I cross my arms.

“I can say the same. Yet I’m sure you think I’m a good person,” he says, walking toward a chair facing me. “Don’t you?”

“You’re a priest,” I say, as if that explains everything.

“Does that automatically make me good? I’m sure you’ve heard of priests who’ve done terrible things.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“So no one’s profession defines their character.”

I open my mouth to argue but realize I have no comeback.

“You do something that many parishioners might not find worthy, but that doesn’t make you a bad person, Agatha.” His tone is soothing. It washes over all the horrible feelings brewing in me since Victoria’s scene earlier. Having my sister humiliate me felt like being dragged back to adolescence, where she made my school years living hell.

Nothing is worse than having your own sister as a bully.

“Okay, you got me,” I sit down, resting my small bag on my lap. “Thank you.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for.” He sits across from me, crossing a leg, placing the papers on his knee. “I’m just speaking what I believe to be true.”

“I wish more people shared your thoughts,” I huff, running a hand through my short hair. “If you knew how many judgmental looks I’ve received in less than three days…”

“‘I believe in order to understand, and I understand in order to believe,’” he quotes. “A phrase by Saint Augustine that I’ve always liked.”

“This man surely has a quote for everything.”

“I like him because, besides being holy, he was a scholar. Faith and reason complement each other. But people confuse what they read in Scripture with blind faith, and forget to reflect on how to apply it correctly in daily life.”

I nod, thinking of all the “messengers of God” who quote Galatians and Corinthians about lust under my photos, before calling me a slut and a sinner.

“I think the Christians who like to slut-shame me online could learn a thing or two from you,” I sneer, crossing my legs. Since the dress belonged to my mother and I have more curves, the hem rides up my thigh.

Zayne stares at that tiny exposed area like a man from the last century shocked by an ankle, then quickly looks away. If I hadn’t been watching him, I would’ve missed it.

“Maybe you could start using study quotes as captions for your photos,” he suggests shyly.

“Sure, I’ll post one under the last sheer lingerie selfie I took. Maybe it’ll drive the haters off.”

His eyes widen and he shifts in his chair, uncrossing and recrossing his legs.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t be planting sinful images in your mind,” I say sincerely, although I’m definitely amused. His cheeks turn an adorable shade of pink.

“There’s no image in my head. I was just caught off guard. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable talking about your job because of me.”

“Are you sure? The things I do are not for holy ears.”

“I’m a priest. It’s my job to hear you,” he says. “Besides, my ears are far from holy. And so is my body.”

Now I’m the one with sinful images. What does he mean his body isn’t holy? I mean, I haven’t seen it, but judging by the way his shirt clings to those bulging biceps and how firm his thighs look, this is definitely a body that makes me want to sin. I can only imagine what it feels like to be held by those arms, or to sit on his lap and grind against his thigh while he flexes beneath me—

I shift, pressing my legs together to ease the ache.

Zayne doesn’t take his eyes off me, and for a moment I think he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Maybe that’s why younger people avoid being alone with him: they get too horny to think straight.

“Do you like your job?” Zayne asks suddenly.

“Yes. It pays the bills and gives me some luxuries,” I shrug.

“I don’t think you should do something just for money. You should enjoy it too.”

I pause. I’ve never really thought about whether I liked it. I was twenty when I started streaming Valorant. As someone who always liked gaming and was used to men doubting that I was a “real fan,” I was prepared for annoying comments. I wasn’t prepared for the ones asking for nudes or offering thousands for lingerie photos.

So I took the opportunity.

“When I started my OF, I had just lost my mother. All the money I’d saved for college went to pay debts she left behind — debts I didn’t even know existed. The opportunity arose, and with it came money I never knew was possible to make,” I say. “At first, the photos were innocent. A low neckline here, a blouse and panties there. But bigger offers came — showing my breasts, my butt, my whole body. I was ashamed at first. Church upbringing, you know? But then it became natural… easy. Nudity is just a state of the body. So yes, I think I like what I do.”

He scratches his chin thoughtfully.

“So it was a job imposed on you by a desperate situation, and you learned to like it. Interesting,” he says. “And your dreams? What did you want to study in college?”

He seems genuinely interested.

“I’ve always loved games. My dream was to create one someday, so I wanted to study computer engineering or game design.”

“What kind of games do you like?”

“Combat games and stuff like that, but my favorites are simulation games and otome-style games. I’d like to create something like that.”

Zayne goes quiet, scratching his neck, embarrassed.

“I have no idea what any of that is, but I hope you don’t give up on your dream. Maybe it’s worth investing in?”

“Maybe…” It was never something I completely abandoned; just placed on a dusty shelf. I lean forward. “What about you? Did you always want to be a priest?”

He stiffens. His back tenses and he starts shuffling papers, which I realize are copies of the book he bought from my aunt’s bookstore. He avoids my eyes.

“No. I had other plans.”

“I imagine it was quite the leap. I can’t think of anything close to being a spiritual leader.”

“Right…”

The air becomes so tense I start sweating, though the room is cool. What was that? Is priesthood a penance for him? I thought we were having a good moment, but apparently I touched something raw.

I stand, grabbing my bag. “Look, Father Zayne, if that was a sensitive topic, I’m sorry—”

Zayne jumps to his feet. “No, no, it’s not…” He stops, closes his eyes, breathes deeply, then meets my gaze. “I’m sorry, Agatha. You didn’t do anything wrong. My history with the priesthood is just… complicated.”

“I understand.”

We stand there, in the middle of the circle of chairs, looking at everything and nothing.

“Well, I guess that’s it for today?” I say, trying to break the ice.

He holds the papers in front of himself like a shield. He doesn’t even realize how expressive his body language is.

“Already? Yeah… Wow, time flew. Good company does that.”

His words spread warmth through me. I want to believe he means it.

“Then I’ll be going,” I say, heading toward the door.

“Agatha, wait.” He follows me, rummaging in his pocket, hands trembling as he holds out his phone. “Can you give me your number?”

I blink, confused — for a second thinking it might be something else. He reads my mind instantly.

“It’s so I can send you reading recommendations and let you know if meeting times change or if I have to cancel.”

“Oh!” I laugh at myself. “Of course.” I type my number. “You can text me anytime. I’m on my phone practically twenty-four hours a day.”

He smiles. “Let me escort you to the exit.”

Walking through dark church corridors feels like being in a horror movie: everything quiet, empty, shadowy. I wouldn’t be surprised if ghosts lingered here.

Then I look at the tall, strong man beside me. His eyes must be used to the darkness; he walks with such confidence it feels almost comical how carefully I calculate each step not to trip.

“Sorry. Father Astra turns off all the lights after Mass and leaves only the light in my room on.” In the dark, his hazel eyes look like newly discovered gems.

“It’s okay. I’m following you,” I say.

When we reach the parish’s front doors — thankfully glowing with light — Zayne turns to me.

“Are you going home alone? Where do you live?”

“Yes. My apartment is in Edenfall. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Ten if I ignore the red lights.”

He shakes his head, almost scolding, though a tiny smile tugs at his lips.

“Don’t you have anyone to pick you up? Your boyfriend?”

“I don’t have one.” I shrug. “It’s just me and my car tonight.”

Zayne raises his eyebrows, giving me a curious look.

“Then may God bless your path.” He makes the sign of the cross over me, blessing me without touching. “Good night, Agatha,” he says, voice low, eyes focused on me.

“Good night, Father Zayne.”

Chapter Text

Unknown number: did you get home safe?

Me: who is it?

Unknown number: it’s Zayne

Unknown number: Father Zayne.

Unknown number: sorry. I couldn't check if you arrived safely yesterday.

I went to sleep so late last night waiting for him to message me. I ended up streaming on my gaming channel to pass the time, but I couldn’t stop glancing at my phone next to my mouse every five minutes. Even my followers noticed, asking if everything was okay.

Obviously, it’s not. Since when do I wait for a man to text me? Normally, I don’t care at all. But with Father Zayne, I kept blaming myself for not asking for his number. If I had, I could’ve ended my misery hours earlier and started a conversation.

Not that we actually have anything to talk about. Would it be a sin to send a “how you doin’” to a priest? More importantly: should I do it? Why am I so fixated on this man?

Anyway, it was already 3 A.M. when I finally went to bed, frustrated and exhausted. I don’t even know why I want to talk to him so badly. Just because he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my life doesn’t mean I should pursue him. For fuck’s sake, he’s a priest! I shouldn’t stain his purity with my crazy interest.

It was bad enough what my mother did, having a child out of wedlock. I don’t need to start another scandal on the Belogun name in this city by seducing a holy man.

That’s what I thought yesterday.

Now, waking up to a message from him, my heart is doing that weird thing again — beating faster and flooding my whole body with warmth. I even ignore it’s barely 7 A.M. and I hate to wake up before 9 A.M.

I sit up so fast in my bed that my pillow falls to the floor, and I save his contact as Forbidden DLC. Just in case I lose my phone or something, so people can think this contact has something to do with my games addiction.

I don’t know why, but I don’t want people to know I’m befriending a priest. Whether it’s because I’m ashamed of going after a man who serves something I swore I’d never return to, or because I want to keep him as a personal secret, I can’t decide.

Me: rlx. I got home just fine.

Me: hope I didn’t leave a bad impression yesterday btw

Forbidden DLC: why would you?

Me: idk… everything I said.

Me: I tend to be pretty blunt about my personal life. And my way of living is probably… scandalous for a priest 💀

Forbidden DLC: everyone is welcome in the house of the Lord.

Forbidden DLC: It is my duty to welcome you as His messenger.

I raise an eyebrow at that, sitting up straighter.

Me: why are you really texting me, Father?

Forbidden DLC: As I said, just checking if you arrived safely.

A few seconds pass before the typing bubble appears. I start chewing on what’s left of my gel nails.

Forbidden DLC: And I wished to offer my help. You seemed uncertain about your path in life yesterday, and I thought I might be of some assistance.

Me: look, I'm not gonna pretend you haven’t heard the whole scandal about my family.

Me: I’m sure you know who my mother was. You know what she did. How everything blew up when her husband found out I wasn’t his kid.

Forbidden DLC: I am not fond of gossip, but… I must admit I did hear it.

Me: right. so you know what kind of person raised me.

Me: and you know I live in sin.

Me: and that I’m not planning on “coming back” to church or whatever.

Forbidden DLC: Your mother’s actions do not define your worth. Nor your path.

Me: wow. that sounds nice on paper, Father, but we both know that's not how people see it.

Me: and honestly, I don’t need a pity sermon at 7 a.m.

Forbidden DLC: I did not intend to offend you. I simply wished to reassure you.

Me: yeah. sure.

Me: anyway. have a good day.

I throw my phone on the bed, screen still on. No reply. Zayne’s three dots appear for a moment… then disappear. Silence.

I feel like my skin is on fire, and not in a good way.

I don’t know why I exploded at him like that. He just wants to help me. But the kind of help he’s offering isn’t the kind I want from him, and honestly, I think I completely lost my mind the moment I considered going along with something like that.

Yesterday, when I forced myself to walk into that parish again, it was like all my religious traumas resurfaced at once. Still, I tried to keep a positive aura. After all, I’m no longer the fourteen-year-old Agatha who was called a whore by the entire community along with her mother.

Until my sister showed up.

She’s the root of ninety percent of my school traumas. Of all the people who were hurt by our mother’s actions and by the father who used to be ours — but who, I later discovered, was only hers — I thought she’d be the one to understand me the most. To stand by my side. After all, we were two kids caught in the midst of a hurricane caused by adults.

Instead, Victoria chose me as her personal dumping ground.

The perfect rich Christian girl decided to bring hell into my life: she made everyone stop talking to me, isolated me, spread lies about me: said I had STDs because I was born from an affair, that I was living proof of the sin that had destroyed our family.

I lost count of how many times she and the sheep she called friends locked me inside bathroom stalls. Thanks to them, I became a master at climbing walls and unlocking doors with the safety pins from my school uniform.

I don't think it's worth going back to that place, risking running into my sister or enduring nasty looks just to see a man because I think he’s handsome.

No. I came here to spend time with my aunt and enjoy the peace of a small town while trying to grow my follower count. My aunt traveled to another city to pick up an order of classic antique books, but she’ll be back tonight. So I’ll focus on the second objective and forget this whole idea of a study group with a hot priest.

Yes. That’s the best I can do. My brain must’ve frozen during those hours stuck in that cold car, but now that the sun has started to show up in this arctic disguised as a small town, it seems my neurons have thawed and are working again.

I get out of bed feeling more like myself, then have breakfast. After a shower and some light makeup, I head to my room to pick something to wear.

I spot the demure white dress I wore yesterday lying on the floor next to my closet. I only wore it because, deep down, I wanted to please Father Zayne—to seem like a reserved, virginal, modest woman. Everything I’m not.

For a moment, I consider throwing it in the trash. That’s not my style at all, and I only kept it because it was my mother’s favorite dress. But in the end, I just toss it into the laundry basket. If my sister didn’t hate our mother so much, I could give it to her, since they share a similar style. But I know Victoria would rather wear a potato sack than something belonging to the woman she pretends never existed.

I put on a low-cut red cropped top with thin straps and short denim shorts, then work a bit of cream through my wet curls. I think about straightening them and styling them into a shag with bangs, but I give up when I consider the amount of effort.

Sunlight filters through the closed window, casting a golden prism across my desk. My heater is working a lot against the cold, but the bright sun outside makes it look like I’m on a tropical island. I sit in my black gaming chair and feel the warmth on my back. When I turn on the camera, I realize the light creates almost a halo around me, my dark skin glowing under the morning sun, giving me an almost supernatural aura.

My followers begin joining the chat, even though it’s only nine in the morning. They say I look like an angel, all soft and radiant in the light.

I smile, greeting them and making sure to read the usernames of those who have the superfan badge next to their names.

It’s funny how a bunch of sinners like me can see purity in me, with my boobs practically falling out while I whisper sweet words to get their money. Meanwhile, the people who supposedly live a moral life would compare me to a demon, a succubus, beautiful enough to deceive poor men blinded by lust. The only difference is that I drain their money instead of their vital energy.

To the people of Snowcrest, I am Agatha Belogun: daughter of Katherine Belogun, the woman who dared to betray her perfect husband and sleep with other married men in town.

To my followers, I’m just AgathaNoir, a woman who streams games while showing off her body and sells nude photos for them to use in their little solo rituals. So I smile. I chat. I lean over the table, almost letting a nipple slip out.

Feeding men’s fantasies was never my dream. But if it pays my bills…

A comment from one of my most loyal fans catches my eye.

AgathaObsessed94: Don’t take this the wrong way, Noir, you look beautiful. But I was worried about you yesterday, you seemed stressed. Is everything alright?

“Thank you for your concern, AgathaObsessed94, but I’m fine! I was just really tired from the move and everything else.”

He replies with a happy emoji, then asks when I’m going to post new full nudes. I haven’t posted any in months, and he’s one of the ones who pays the most, always sending extra money.

“Soon. I’m thinking of something a bit more daring…” I look directly at the camera, lowering my voice to a sultry tone. “Maybe a photoshoot in the bath? Would you guys like that?”

The chat explodes in excitement.

I smile.

That’s what I should focus on. Making money. Staying healthy and desirable. Finding a man who would lose his mind at the mere thought of seeing even a glimpse of my skin.

Then a memory from last night hits me.

Zayne’s gaze lingering on my bare thighs. It was so quick, so subtle—but enough to make the mere memory warm my body in this cold morning. Those hazel eyes like two pools of melted green opal.

My God… I’m really lost.

❝ ✦ ❞ ──────────── ❝ ✦ ❞

My aunt invited me to have coffee with her at the bookstore today — and, of course, she couldn’t resist adding a bit of drama about how “abandoned” she felt because I didn’t go see her the second she arrived from her trip yesterday. Her voice was so choked with emotion over the phone that I almost laughed, especially when she complained that her back was killing her after five hours behind the wheel.

What she doesn’t mention is that she arrived after midnight, and if I had even thought about going to my car at that hour in Edenfall, she would’ve summoned ten bulky bodyguards to escort me to my car next to the sidewalk.

Yesterday I spent the entire day streaming, and then working on some side projects — sketching character ideas for my game until two in the morning. So no, I didn’t have the energy to greet my aunt at one a.m. And definitely not enough energy to deal with the possibility of running into my sister in her house.

Under the late-afternoon sun, the bookstore looks even more beautiful than usual. The LED lights of the Scott and Zelda Book Café sign are still off, the letters catching the soft orange glow of sunset.

I've never been a fan of the cold, despite being born in Snowcrest. When I moved to Linkon with my mother, I realized I could survive without long sleeves for more than one season, something I only managed for two months a year in Snowcrest. Still, Snowcrest sunsets… God. In the summer, the sky becomes a watercolor of orange and pink, your breath turns into white clouds as you talk, and birds cross the horizon as if fleeing the night itself.

Wearing jeans, a black coat, and my heeled boots, I step out of the car. I shove my messy hair under my green cap, hiding the consequence of a full day spent cleaning the house.

Both of the little outside tables are occupied now. Two teenagers — probably on their first date, all shy glances and nervous smiles.

Cute.

I could’ve had moments like that too when I was their age… if Victoria hadn’t made my life hell at the time.

The little bell rings as I open the door. My aunt darts out from behind the counter like a torpedo.

She hugs me tight, and instantly I’m hit with the familiar scent of my childhood — her perfume of baked cookies and roses. Then she pulls back and gives my arm a light tap.

I let out a dramatic “ouch,” hand to my arm. A few customers turn to stare.

“Didn't you say you came back to Snowcrest to stay with your tia?” she scolds, lips pinched.

“I did. You just happened to flee on a trip right after I arrived. What was I supposed to do?” I grin.

She huffs but motions me behind the counter. It’s one of those old wooden ones with shelves and a false bottom with tiny storage doors. She opens one, pulls out a package wrapped in yellowish paper, and hands it to me.

“What’s that?”

“Open it.”

I tear the paper eagerly. My aunt’s gifts have always been magical. If love languages are real, hers are absolutely touch and gift-giving.

Inside, I find a special edition of The Picture of Dorian Gray, red hardcover with gold letters. The spine shows the title with a little circled number 1.

“Did you like it?” she asks.

“Tia… I loved it. I don’t even know what to say.”

“You can start with ‘thank you,’” she smiles. “I saw it in a little bookstore where I went to pick up an old-books order. It’s the first copy of a limited edition of only one hundred. Your Uncle Scott gave you a copy when you were a kid, but my stupid brother found it in your room and got rid of it.”

I’m grateful she never calls him my father. Because he isn’t.

Sérgio Gomes was married to my mother for eighteen years. He was a conservative, religious man who believed women shouldn’t speak unless spoken to, and resented my mom for giving him two daughters instead of a son.

Imagine his surprise when he learned that one of those daughters wasn’t even his blood.

He judged anything he perceived as “abnormal” or “against God’s will.”

So of course he set fire to the first copy Uncle Scott gave me, calling it a “disgusting homosexual book.” I cried for days.

Uncle Scott — Zelda’s husband — was everything Sérgio wasn’t: kind, open-minded, respectful. He and my aunt never had children, but he treated me as if I were his. Every once a week, after school, I would visit them in the bookstore and he would give me a book, ask what I thought of the last, joke with me, teach me.

When he died, a year before my mother left Sergio, my world collapsed.

My aunt’s even more.

She still smiles the same, still radiates kindness, but I’ve learned to see the sadness she keeps tucked under all of that. This bookstore is where she met Scott. Where their whole story happened. I swear I can feel a piece of him in every corner.

And maybe that’s why she gave me this book. He loved Wilde too.

“What a beautiful edition!” Tara says suddenly, appearing behind the counter. She wears the brown bookstore apron and a fluffy green long-sleeve shirt.

“I think you’d like it too, darling,” Aunt Zelda says. “Agatha and my Scott adored this one.”

“Is it a romantasy?” Tara asks, eyes sparkling.

“I wouldn’t say so…” I think aloud. “Maybe gothic horror?”

“Then I pass,” Tara grins. “I like my classics with a tall, dark, handsome man to daydream about.”

I laugh.

“I love my tall, dark, handsome main character too… but I also love my tragic, dramatic, beautifully doomed men.”

Before Tara can answer, a voice slices the air:

“Of course you do.”

Victoria steps out of the bathroom like a horror jumpscare — curls in an over-tight bun, blue dress screaming woman in her 50s, even though she’s only twenty-five.

She leans on the counter with a saccharine smile.

“You’ve always been attracted to troubled men, little sister,” she says, letting little sister drip like acid.

If I had known this bitch was here, I would’ve astral-projected to another dimension.

“You certainly know what type of men I like,” I reply, matching her tone. “Since you slept with all my boyfriends in high school.”

Aunt Zelda gasps loud enough to resurrect the dead.

Tara chokes on a laugh but turns it into a cough.

Victoria doesn’t flinch. Her jaw tightens. Her eyes burn.

Then, switch.

She pastes on trembling lips, fluttery lashes, saintly sigh.

“Agatha…” she murmurs, turning to my aunt with the saddest Disney-princess face imaginable.

“You don’t believe her, do you? She misunderstood so many things growing up…”

She even sniffles.

I stare at her.

I’ve seen stray cats act better.

“Jealous girls, right?” I say dryly. “Sure, that was why nobody liked you.”

Tara snorts.

Aunt Zelda narrows her eyes. Mostly at Victoria, who’s milking the innocent act too hard.

When I was younger, I never understood how we could be so different. Victoria was the perfect mixture of my mother’s and Sergio’s features: light brown skin, greenish eyes, soft curls. She even resembles Aunt Zelda a bit.

People always said I was my mother’s copy, and I loved that. But after learning that Sergio wasn’t my father, I wondered if some of my features came from the man she refuses to name.

She claims she’s not sure who he is.

I never believed that.

“Why don’t you two act like grown, civilized sisters?” Aunt Zelda groans.

“I didn’t start this,” I reply, flipping through my new book with exaggerated interest. I’m already planning to buy a new shelf just to display it. And new books, since I donated most of mine.

“‘If someone strikes you on one cheek, offer the other as well,’” Victoria quotes suddenly.

“Why don’t you take your Bible quotes and shove the—”

“Good afternoon. Am I interrupting something?”

We all turn to the calm, low voice on the other side of the counter. A voice that makes every nerve in my body stand at attention.

Of course.

Zayne.

He directs the question to the group, but looks only at me. I freeze, afraid to blink and miss a detail of him.

He’s wearing glasses again — thin frame, intellectual, criminally attractive. A brown turtleneck clinging to his arms, black linen trousers fitting him far too well.

My aunt and Victoria hurry over.

“Blessing, Father,” Victoria beams. Too friendly. Suspiciously friendly.

“God bless you, Mrs. Smith,” he replies, placing a hand on her head.

She leans into his touch like a golden retriever demanding affection.

My blood boils. Tara gives me a knowing look.

My aunt also asks for a blessing, then gestures toward me.

“You already know my other niece, right? Agatha, Victoria’s younger sister.”

I want to flee, but I can’t. I walk toward them slowly.

“Of course,” Zayne says. “She’s part of my study group on Saint Augustine.”

My aunt blinks. Then laughs.

“Agatha? In a church study group?” She grabs his arm, amused. “Did you bribe her?”

“No…” Zayne murmurs, confused.

“Is that why you were at church that day?” Victoria asks.

“I used to be part of it,” I say. “I’m not anymore.”

His posture stiffens. His eyes look… sad? Disappointed?

“But you only attended one meeting,” Victoria says.

“And that was plenty,” I snap. “Didn’t you say people like me aren’t welcome at church?”

Her face flushes. She glances nervously at Zayne.

“Tia, I’m tired. Can we talk tomorrow?”

“You keep running away from me…” she pouts.

“I’d never run from you. Thanks for the gift.” I hug her.

I hug Tara next, whispering that I’m dragging her to a nightclub soon. Her cheeks redden and she nods quickly.

I skip Victoria entirely.

As I reach Zayne, I only nod. Then I head for the exit.

“Agatha, wait.”

I walk past the teen couple outside, ignoring him — but his legs are longer, and soon he blocks my car door.

“Yes, Father?” I say, not meeting his eyes.

“Agatha, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did, but—”

I inhale deeply, silencing him. I finally meet his eyes.

“You didn’t do anything.”

“Clearly I did. You’re upset.” He rakes a hand through his hair, frustrated. The stretch reveals a sliver of skin above his waistband, and my eyes betray me — lingering. His muscles flex with the movement, the turtleneck pulling deliciously tight. “Look, I wasn’t trying to convert you. I know you have issues with the church and I respect that. I really just wanted to share knowledge we have in co—”

He stops when he sees where I’m looking, lowering his arm.

“Agatha?”

“I didn’t go to your study group because of Saint Augustine,” I murmur.

“What?”

“I don’t care about Saint Augustine.” I sigh, removing my cap, shaking my messy hair free. My head throbs.. “I went because I wanted to get closer to you.”

Zayne swallows hard, lips parting.

“That’s… that’s great. I’d like to be closer to you too. As a friend—”

“No, Zayne.” My voice slips out louder than intended. The teen couple stops eating their muffins. I lower my tone. “I didn’t want to be your friend. I was interested in you. Romantically.” I take a step closer. “Sexually.”

He steps back until he’s flush against my car. I don’t know if he’s trying to put distance between us or if he’s just overwhelmed.

“Oh…” he says, staring at the ground.

“‘Oh?’” I repeat.

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I know you’re a priest and that this is crazy.” I raise my hand to stop him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go home.”

He doesn’t move.

“So… that day at the bookstore.” His voice cracks. “You were hitting on me?”

“Yes.”

“So you don’t like Saint Augustine?”

“I have nothing against him. I’m just not the fan I pretended to be.”

He looks stunned.

Why does that shock him more than the fact that I hit on him?

“But you hit on me before you knew I was a priest,” he says carefully. “And then… again… at the meeting two days ago.”

“Correct.”

He turns away, coughing into his fist, ears pink.

“I’m flattered, but as a priest…”

“I know. Like I said: crazy.” I pull my keys from my pocket. “Can you move now?”

He seems bothered for a moment, but then steps aside.

Yet, he remains close — too close — as I open the door. His scent reaches me: incense, clean cotton, and something uniquely his. Warm, masculine, impossible to categorize.

I inhale, refusing to meet his eyes even though I feel his gaze burning into me.

Dear God… why make a holy man this tempting?

“Agatha,” he whispers, leaning closer. His breath grazes my ear. “I meant it. I want to get closer to you. Not to convert you.”

I turn toward him. He doesn’t step back. His hazel eyes, green and brown swirling together, are close enough to swallow me whole.

“And why do you want that?”

He bites his lip — uncertain, conflicted.

“I… I don’t know.”

I close my eyes, inhale.

“Then look for me when you do.”

I get in, start the car, and drive away without looking back.

Chapter Text

“Is there something bothering you, son?”

Father Astra’s voice bursts through the bubble I had sealed myself inside, snapping me out of my daydream. I didn’t even notice he had entered my bedroom until he spoke. He always lets himself in. No knocking. No warning.

I turn in my chair, facing the imposing figure standing in the middle of the room.

“Just reflecting, Father. Keeping my mind at peace,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.

The older man studies me, hands folded behind his back, his black cassock long enough to hide his polished shoes — always shining, always immaculate. The very image of the kind of priest I once imagined myself becoming.

“You seem distracted lately, Zayne. At last night's Mass, you made two mistakes during the liturgy.” His tone isn’t scolding, but there’s a faint thread of dissatisfaction woven into it.

“I haven’t been sleeping well since last week.” I stand, closing my journal on the desk. He doesn’t need to see two pages of drafted apology texts to a woman. And even if he did, I doubt he’d understand it the right way. “I think I’ll start doing late-night jogs again. Burn off some energy.”

He studies me in the semi-darkness of the room, illuminated by the last rays of the setting sun. I haven’t even realized I was writing in the dark.

“Perhaps you should confess. It’s been a while since your last confession with Father Josh.”

“Right… maybe I should visit his parish soon.” I murmur, fingers drifting to my arm over the long sleeve — that familiar, almost instinctive motion that always shows up when my nerves start to prickle.

Father Astra doesn’t move. His hands remain hidden behind him, his posture rigid and statuesque. The only thing that moves are his eyes, roving over me, then flicking to the journal on the desk behind me.

Ever since my conversation (or should I say argument?) with Agatha, I haven’t been functioning like myself. It’s always been in my nature to try to keep the peace, even when I was younger, especially with my family. But I’ve never been a pushover. I know that.

And yet… the mere possibility that I might have hurt her has been enough to keep me awake at night. It gnaws at me in a way I can’t quite reason with, as if every quiet moment is just an echo of her voice, her expression, the way she looked at me before she left.

I want to apologize. But I'm afraid she'll misinterpret my attempts. That she'll think I'm being pushy.

I often seek advice from Father Astra, but in this case... I don't think he would be of much help.

He has been the priest of Saint Augustine Parish for over thirty years. He rebuilt the place from ruins after parishioners drifted away and the previous priest let everything decay. I met him when I was still a seminarian, during a visit he made to the Church university. The dean welcomed him with an enthusiasm I had never seen before, and I remember thinking he was the best-dressed man in the room, his black suit impeccable. His lecture on the philosophy of Saint Augustine mesmerized me, not just because I’m devoted to the saint, but because of the sharp, confident way he articulated every word.

When I graduated, I practically begged to be assigned to his parish. Somehow, he remembered me. “You’re that dreamy seminarian who sat in the front row during my lecture. Zayne Li.” He agreed to share the parish with me, and more than that: he named me his future replacement, since he plans to retire within a year.

Still, my lack of openness annoys him. I don’t like talking about my past, but I made an exception and gave him the basics of what led me to the priesthood — far more tragic than the beautiful, divine-calling stories my colleagues often tell.

I also know he dislikes the fact that I refuse to confess to him. I don’t feel comfortable spilling my sins and filthy thoughts to someone I admire, then joining him at the altar or at the breakfast table as if nothing happened.

In seminary, we’re taught how to handle confessions, how they must stay inside the confessional. But being a priest doesn’t make me eager to share my burdens with someone whose opinion matters to me. I’d rather confess to someone distant, someone who won’t look at me differently afterward. Who won’t see the cracks I try so hard to hide.

And for all his wisdom, Father Astra carries just as much judgment.

My arms itch again.

“Well, you have the night off today to restart your night jogging,” Father Astra says.

"That will have to wait for another day. I already have an appointment later," I reply.

"Oh, really?" Father Astra raises an eyebrow.

"A friend from medical school is in the city. He invited me to have dinner." I say.

The lit candle on my bedside table, behind Father Astra, flickers, casting a little light on his dimly lit face. I see him tense his jaw slightly, but his expression soon softens.

He walks over to me, patting me twice on the shoulder.

"All right. Have fun, son," and then, in a more serious voice, "Behave yourself." And he leaves my room, closing the door.

Every time he’s near, my whole body goes on alert. Even after choosing me as his replacement and as the future face of this parish, I still feel like a fraud wearing someone else’s robes. Like I need to prove, over and over, with every conversation, every glance, every breath, that he didn’t make a mistake trusting me.

Of course he’ll look up who this “friend from medical school” is. I’ve never mentioned Greyson before. And knowing Father Astra, he’ll search until he knows everything — where he works, where he lives, what he believes, what he eats for breakfast.

Not that there’s anything wrong with my friendship with Greyson.

But still…

I am constantly afraid of losing everything.

❝ ✦ ❞ ──────────── ❝ ✦ ❞

It was already dark when I arrived and parked in front of the restaurant where Greyson had arranged to meet me. The building was made of red brick, almost rustic, sitting on the far side of town. I didn’t remember ever coming here before, yet it felt like stepping into another world.

While downtown Snowcrest must be winding down at this hour, here the night feels as if it’s just waking up. People walk in every direction, laughing, talking loudly, some with work jackets folded over their arms, others already dressed for a night out.

I step out of my Audi, straightening my navy long-sleeve shirt and brushing a hand down my white trousers. The yellow glow of the streetlights reflects softly on my glasses. The entire street seems to be made of bars and restaurants. I take careful steps on the wet brick sidewalk; it had started raining right as I was about to get in the car. A familiar nervous chill slid down my spine.

I hate driving in the rain. I hate being in the rain.

So I waited for it to pass. Thank God it was light and brief.

I open the door of the place Greyson chose, only to find it darker and far more crowded than I expected. This doesn’t look like a restaurant. Not the quiet, “let’s sit and talk” kind of place I had imagined.

It’s a pub. A very loud one.

Greyson sits alone at a table in the middle of the room, studying a mug of beer and a plate of fries as if they were part of a medical exam. His light blue striped shirt is rolled at the sleeves, paired with a khaki tie. He only puts on his glasses when he notices me approaching, smiling the moment he recognizes my face.

I understand the instinct. I also only see clearly with mine.

“Zayne! I thought you stood me up,” he says, smiling as he leans back and crosses one leg over the other.

He doesn’t get up to greet me, and I don’t try to shake his hand. That’s how we always meet, as though we last saw each other yesterday, and not months ago.

I sit across from him. “I’m not even ten minutes late.”

“No?” Greyson glances at the sleek watch on his right wrist. He shrugs. “Guess I arrived too early, then.”

He looks the same as always — brown hair, round glasses that make him look scholarly, slightly introverted. But tonight there’s a looseness to him, a quiet glow in his eyes. I can’t tell if it’s because of the alcohol or because he just landed a prestigious position in Snowcrest as a cardiac surgeon.

I watch him for a moment, and something uncomfortable coils in my chest.

Could it be… envy?

No. No, it can’t be. I push the intrusive thought away, silently asking God to steady my mind. I chose the priesthood because it was right. Because it was my path. I would never have been as good a surgeon as Greyson, anyway.

To distract myself, I scan the place. Team flags on the walls. Men cheering over a pool table. Women carrying colorful cocktails. There are paintings by post-impressionist artists, a few other round tables scattered around the room, and a bar that seems to display hundreds of alcoholic beverages right behind the bartender.

“Didn’t you say you were buying me dinner?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“And I am.” Greyson lifts a finger.

A waitress approaches immediately. She’s young, maybe mid-twenties, with fiery red hair tied up in a messy bun. The smile she gives Greyson is warm. Familiar. Too familiar for someone who just took an order.

“A beer for my friend here, Danni,” he says.

“I’d prefer a Coke,” I interject.

“Oh, right. Priests can’t drink,” Greyson murmurs to her, as though sharing a secret.

Danni’s eyes widen, and she gives me a once-over, gaze lingering on my open collar, probably searching for the clerical one.

“I’m off-duty,” I tell her. Then, to Greyson: “And priests can drink.”

“Really?” He looks genuinely shocked, even though I’m certain we’ve had this exact conversation at least twice before. “Well, your loss. The beer here is amazing.” He flashes Danni a smile. “Thanks, Danni.”

She winks at him, a bold, playful wink. The kind that says I noticed you long before you noticed me.

Danni is nothing like Greyson.

Greyson looks like a movie version of a nerdy academic: glasses, shy smile, gentle and polite. The kind of man who apologizes to furniture when he bumps into it.

Danni, on the other hand, with her fire-red hair and confident stance, looks like the type of woman who rides loud motorcycles, arm muscles toned from something far more exciting than typing on a keyboard all day. A woman who walks in knowing exactly what she wants.

And what she wants, clearly, is Greyson.

I watch the ease with which she leans in when he speaks, the spark in her eyes when he laughs. Opposites. Total opposites. But she looks charmed by him — by his quietness, by his softness, by the contrast he makes to her blazing presence.

I wonder what she saw in him.

Was it the glasses? His introspective look? The way he seems untouched by the noise around him? Or is it simply that they come from completely different worlds—and somehow that’s exactly what draws her to him?

And then the question forms before I can stop it:

Is that what Agatha saw in me?

“It’s been a while since the last time I saw you. What’s with the messy hair? Gave up on the ugly bowl cut?” Greyson asks, pointing a french fry at me before popping it into his mouth.

“Ten months, to be exact. We saw each other when I last visited my parents in Linkon.” I run my fingers through my hair. “And the bowl cut is not ugly. It’s a sign of indifference to vanity.”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep telling yourself that.” He squints at me. “Life as a priest seems to demand a lot of you.”

“Judging by the size of the dark circles under your eyes, I’d say life as a doctor isn’t much different,” I shoot back.

He doesn’t reply, but a smile forms despite himself. Greyson has always been a stiff believer in science — only science. When I dropped out of medical school for the seminary, his reaction was exactly what I expected: dramatic disappointment mixed with confused loyalty. But he never stopped visiting me during my years of seclusion. Back then he was my best friend, and despite the geographic distance, he still is.

“How’s the new job at Akso Hospital?” I ask, stealing a fry.

“Great, actually. Even though it’s temporary. I’m thinking about trying for a position abroad after this… venturing into new lands.”

“You’re already venturing. Snowcrest is nothing like Linkon.”

“I noticed. People here seem… conservative. At least from what I saw ‘till now. That’s why I rented an apartment further south. I heard Edenfall is livelier.” He rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks a bit rosy. “And… I’m trying to go out more. Maybe get a girlfriend?”

Before I can comment, Danni returns with a glass of Coke, a slice of lemon clinging to the rim, and a tiny plate stacked with what look like mini cookies.

She beams at my expression.

“I’m testing a new recipe. This one’s on the house.”

The smile is for me, but the second Greyson picks up a cookie, her gaze snaps to him, sparkling.

“It’s delicious, Danni!” he exclaims with the enthusiasm of a man who hasn’t eaten sugar in a decade.

Her eyes light up even more.

I take a cookie. The mix of brown sugar and chocolate melts on my tongue.

“I think you’ll need to bring more,” I say. “This priest has a sweet tooth.”

“I’m glad you liked them,” she replies, her voice warm. Then she turns, deliberately swaying her hips as she walks away.

Greyson follows her with his eyes, mouth hanging open.

I clear my throat. Loudly.

He practically jumps out of his chair.

“Explain,” I demand.

“Explain what?” he squeaks.

I cross my legs and raise an eyebrow. “I may be out of the dating market, but I can still spot romance. Looks like you got yourself a girlfriend in under 24 hours.”

Greyson lets out a strangled laugh.

“Danni? No way.” He takes a sip of beer. “You think a woman like that would be into a guy like me?”

“Believe it or not? Yes. People don’t look at the uninterested that way.” I gesture vaguely. “The nerdy style is trending lately.”

Greyson tilts his head, studying me.

“And how would you know that?” His tone turns teasing. “There’s only one person more of a virgin than me, and that person is you.”

My body stiffens. A crumb goes down the wrong pipe. I choke, then grab my Coke and gulp down a good amount.

Greyson stares.

“WHat was that reaction?” His eyes suddenly widen. “Wait… are you not a virgin anymore?”

He whispers the last part, but that doesn’t stop several nearby tables from turning their heads. I close my eyes, mortified.

“Could you not say that word?” I hiss. “And yes, my promise to God is intact.”

“Then someone made you realize nerds are in demand. Was that nerd you?”

I don’t answer. Just chew another cookie instead.

Greyson smiles, loose from the alcohol.

“Yeah. Thought so.” He takes off his glasses and drops them carelessly on the table. “Who was it? Someone from church?”

My mind stutters. Greyson has known me since freshman year. He knows everything: every humiliation, every doomed crush, every teenage disaster. If there is anyone I could tell, it’s him.

“She’s not from the church,” I say quietly.

“You got a girlfriend before me?” he whispers, betrayed.

“…Not a girlfriend either,” I continue, ignoring him. “She’s from my philosophy study group.”

“Philosophy?” He narrows his eyes. “So she was a nerd too.”

“No.” I answer quickly. “She lied about liking Saint Augustine. Just to… get close to me.”

Greyson leans forward, intrigued.

“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. And did she flirt with you?”

“That’s the problem. No.” I pause, frustrated. “At least I didn’t notice. She seemed genuinely interested in the meeting.”

Greyson massages the spot between his eyebrows, then looks sharply at me.

“Zayne. Let’s begin with the basics. Is she a philosophy professor?”

“No.”

“Historian? Augustine devotee?”

“No.”

“Then why the hell would she be interested in Christian philosophy?” he demands. “Even I can see what that means.”

“Well, Augustine is still philosophy in general—”

“That’s not the point!”

I glare at him.

“Grey, even if I had noticed she was hitting on me, what do you think I’d do? I’m a priest.”

He sighs. “Yeah, yeah. I forgot.” He picks up a fry. “Was she pretty, at least?”

“Greyson…”

“Was she or wasn’t she?”

I exhale. “Most men would think so, considering she works as a model for…” I lower my voice, “...that nude website.”

He freezes mid-chew.

“She’s an OnlyFans model?!”

“Uh-huh.”

“What’s her name?”

“Why do you want to know—”

But he’s already typing furiously on his phone.

“Name?”

“Agatha.” I swallow. “Agatha Belogun.”

His jaw drops. Then he searches. His thumb taps. And then—

“That her?”

He turns the screen toward me.

Agatha.

That same mischievous smile.

That warm, glowing skin.

That angelic round face.

And — God help me — far too much of her body.

She’s wearing pink lingerie that contrasts beautifully with her skin. The bra is practically transparent. I can clearly see—

I look away so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. I down the last of my Coke.

Greyson’s grin widens.

“You’re kidding. That is her?!”

I nod, face hot.

“She’s one of the most followed women in the country,” he mutters in awe.

I clear my throat, trying very hard to pretend the heat in my face is from the chugging of the Coke so fast and not from… that picture.

“So?” I say, without conviction.

Greyson turns slowly toward me, like he’s afraid any sudden movement will break his brain in half.

“So?!”

His voice cracks.

“Zayne, do you understand what that means? She’s basically a celebrity. A very naked celebrity!”

I wince. “Can we avoid that adjective?”

“No, we can’t avoid that adjective! I need that adjective! My brain requires it to process this moment!” He grips his hair. “You… a priest… attracted a woman who could date literally anyone on Earth! Models, actors, CEOs, gym gods, demons, ancient Greek deities… pick one!”

“She’s not attracted to me,” I mutter quickly. Too quickly.

Greyson freezes.

Slowly narrows his eyes.

“Why are you saying that like someone who is absolutely lying to himself?”

“I’m not lying.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

Greyson places both hands on the table.

“Zayne. She pretended to like Saint Augustine just to get closer to you. She was hitting on you. Do you know how many nerds in this world dream of something like this?”

“I don't know and I don't want to know.”

But Greyson isn’t done.

He is never done when he smells drama.

“Dude, this is insane,” he continues, pacing in place even though he’s sitting. “I’ve known you for fifteen years and this is the most exciting thing that has ever happened in your life. And you’re acting like it’s nothing!”

“It is nothing,” I insist. “She just… she probably thinks I’m interesting because I’m a priest. Forbidden. A challenge. You know how people are.”

Greyson blinks.

Then he leans in, squinting like he’s examining the dumbest creature on earth.

“Zayne,” he whispers, “you are not a rare Pokémon. She is not trying to ‘catch them all.’”

“That is exactly what she’d say if she were trying to do that.”

He throws his head back and groans. “You’re impossible!”

“I’m being rational.”

“You're being delusional.”

“I’m being realistic.”

“You’re being DUMB.”

I glare. “I am not dumb.”

Greyson pushes his glasses back up his nose — even though they’re crooked now — and stares at me like a disappointed professor.

“You’re in denial,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Textbook denial. If I opened a psychology manual right now, your face would be there next to the definition.”

“I’m not—”

He holds up a finger. “She literally hitted on you.”

I look away, jaw tightening.

“And you liked it,” he adds softly.

My stomach drops.

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

Greyson crosses his arms, victorious.

“And that terrifies you more than Hell itself.”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

Because he’s right.

❝ ✦ ❞ ──────────── ❝ ✦ ❞

When I arrive at the parish, it’s already past midnight.

The halls are silent, lights dimmed, the air colder than usual — or maybe that’s just my nerves.

I head straight to my office, a sudden burst of determination pushing me forward.

I can write a sermon tonight. I can show it to Father Astra in the morning and maybe he’ll finally let me give the homily.

I close the door, sit at my desk and open my notebook.

But the moment the page stares back at me, empty and expectant, the memories come rushing in.

The last conversation with Agatha.

A week ago, yet still replaying like a fever dream.

She said she wanted to get closer to me.

That she wanted… that she desired me.

My chest tightens.

Could it be because I’m so different from her?

Or because I’m a priest — something forbidden for her?

That possibility has crossed my mind more times than I care to admit.

Despite swearing virtue, I’m not blind. And Agatha… Agatha is beautiful. Perhaps the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She could choose any man she wanted, as Greyson said, rather loudly. So maybe her body is fixated on me simply because I’m something she can’t have.

That’s what I tell myself. A convenient explanation. A safe one.

But every time I repeat it, the thought curdles.

I don’t want to be a whim or a dare.

I don’t want to be a thrill she’ll forget when the novelty fades.

I don’t want to be a challenge in her game.

I want—

I stop.

What do I want?

That’s the problem. That’s why she’s upset with me. Because the truth is actually simple: I don’t know.

I say I want to get closer to her… but why?

A verse surfaces, sharp and cold:

“Each one is tempted when he is carried away and enticed by his own lust.” James 1:14–15.

Desire.

The thought lingers in my mind like incense smoke — sweet, heavy, suffocating.

Is that what this is?

My fingers move before reason can intervene.

I open an incognito tab and type her name.

The first link is her Instagram.

Her profile picture appears: she’s smiling, wearing light makeup, a simple tank top, black cat-ear headphones.

I smile.

The faux innocence of the ears, the darkness beneath the cuteness — it fits her too well. A night creature. A beautiful one.

I scroll.

Trips. Food. Friends.

And then… photos that echo the one Greyson showed me — though a bit more restrained.

Relatively speaking.

I click one.

She’s sitting cross-legged on a sofa, back turned to the camera, face angled toward it.

Blue shorts — tiny, almost symbolic.

My eyes go straight to what they reveal: the curve of her ass. Smooth. Full. Marked with faint stretch lines that only make her more real, more human, more impossible to look away from.

Her expression is a shy smile, finger tapping her lips.

My heart stutters.

My legs tremble — even though I’m sitting.

I force myself to scroll.

Paris. Thailand. Brazil.

Her smile radiant in every one.

Then—

A hit to the chest.

A photo of her sitting on a kitchen counter, wearing a red apron… and nothing else.

Her legs are parted, lit just dimly enough to hide what shouldn’t be seen, but the implication is unmistakable.

Her breasts threaten to spill out the sides of the cloth, and she’s licking a wooden spoon covered in chocolate.

I lose my breath entirely.

Swallow hard.

I shouldn’t be seeing this.

I shouldn’t have opened anything.

I shouldn't even be thinking about her like this.

But I am. And the tightness in my pants leaves no room for denial.

My cock pulses — eager, desperate — and my eyes are glued to her tongue sliding over chocolate.

Jesus Christ.

I shut my eyes tight, forcing air into my lungs, willing myself to close the tab, to stop this before I—

The door opens.

I jerk upright, slamming the laptop half-closed, heart in my throat.

Father Astra stands in the doorway.

His face unreadable.

“What are you doing, Zayne?”

Chapter Text

My doorbell rings just as I’m about to eat my fourth spoonful of dulce de leche.

I shove the entire spoon into my mouth, close my eyes at the explosion of sugar, and jog to the door. I peek through the peephole — carefully, because I barely get visitors — and almost die when someone is already staring back at me through the tiny circle.

But then Tara steps back, laughing.

I open the door, hand on my chest.

“Girl, are you trying to kill me?”

“You’re the one trying to kill us,” she says, slipping off her red ballet flats with the comfort of someone who’s known me for ten years — not just a few weeks. “Mrs. Jones is losing her mind because you didn’t show up at the store today.”

“Is she ignoring the fact that I showed up the last five days in a row or…?”

“I think every time you leave, her brain resets.”

Tara collapses onto the sofa. I head to the kitchen to hide the crime scene that is my depression snack. The counter is sticky with dulce de leche, and a half-empty glass of milk sits abandoned like a sad prop.

From the kitchen, I see Tara staring — analyzing. Her jellybean eyes never miss a thing.

And honestly, my current state is… a sight.

Pink cropped top showing my belly button. Green pajama shorts I’ve had so long I’m sure they have holes in the butt. My nose is runny, my hair looks like a feral bird’s nest.

You don’t need a psychology degree to know I’m down bad.

“Father Zayne asked about you this morning,” she says casually, leaning her cheek on her hand.

My heart kicks against my ribs, but I manage a neutral, “Really?”

Tara narrows her eyes.

“Not to be nosy…”

I look at her pointedly.

“…but since I am—” she continues, “I saw you two talking outside the bookstore like two weeks ago. I mean, the way you were gesturing? And the way he looked confused? It looked like an argument.”

“We weren’t arguing,” I mutter.

Tara just stares.

“Okay, fine, yes — I fought with him.” I throw my arms up and flop onto the sofa beside her. “He’s so frustrating! How does he not notice I’m practically throwing myself at him? I feel my vagina say ‘hi’ at the same time my mouth does every time I see him.”

“Oop! Never heard that one before,” Tara snorts.

“You probably just haven't met someone who activates that superpower,” I groan, covering my face. “Do you know how ridiculous this is? Having a crush on a priest?”

“I wouldn’t call it ridiculous,” Tara starts.

“Totally out of line, then.”

“…maybe desperate?”

I sigh. “A little bit, yes. I just need to get laid.”

Tara blushes and tugs her long denim skirt over her knees.

“I don’t know if it’s exactly the lack of sex. I think maybe it's… attention?”

I wave her off.

“Please. If there’s one thing I get, it’s male attention. You know what my job is.”

Our friendship was built on macchiatos, memes, rants about my job, and her own frustrations with life.

“Yeah, but you get male attention because of an image. Men see you as AgathaNoir before they ever see Agatha Belogun,” she says, turning toward me. “Maybe your crush on Zayne has more to do with the fact that he saw the woman first — not the OF model.”

“He saw a lost lamb. Not a woman,” I correct.

“And would he be wrong? He’s a priest.”

“I know he’s not wrong, and that’s why I feel ridiculous. It started all wrong.” I nibble on a nail. “And actually? I shouldn’t even care. I’m suffering over a man I met one month ago and exchanged, what, two conversations with?”

“I don’t blame you. He’s hot.”

I stare at her. “Did you have a crush on him when you saw him?”

She slaps a hand to her chest.

“Me?! No! I simply have eyes and recognize beauty.”

I tilt my head slowly. Tara looks away.

“And who would be your type, Ms. Tao?” I ask.

“Any person who knows how to appreciate a cup of good coffee.”

“So I would be your type?” I tease.

“If you weren’t basically my sister, maybe,” she wiggles her eyebrows.

It doesn’t escape me that she didn’t specify gender.

“Does your family know about this?”

Tara freezes. Then exhales.

“That I’m kinda gay?” A bitter laugh. “Agatha, this is Snowcrest. If they knew, I’d be kicked out like an outcast.”

The flatness in her usually bright voice makes my chest squeeze. I take her hand.

“As someone who is an outcast, let me tell you: there’s nothing better than being true to yourself. Even if people label you for it.” I smile. “Who do you think has a better life? Me — a proud slut — or Victoria, who probably hasn’t had an orgasm since the Cold War?”

Tara hits my leg, laughing. “Agatha!”

Seeing her smile warms something in me. Then I remember something she told me — all the things she’s never done.

An idea sparks.

Her eyes widen — she knows that look.

“Does your mom know you’re in Edenfall?”

“No,” she says cautiously. “She knows I’m at a friend’s house and might sleep over.”

I grin.

“Have you ever been to a nightclub?”

She bolts upright.

“No — but I’d absolutely let you take my nightclub virginity tonight!!”

I burst out laughing and drag her upstairs by the hand.

“Come on. Let’s find a dress of mine that isn’t stretched out by my boobs so I can lend it to you.”

The sin district. Edenfall.

When I decided to live here, I was so hyped for the nightlife. I still remember being a prudish teenager listening to my friends whisper about someone’s cousin or neighbor who had strayed from the righteous path and was caught partying here — or worse, dating someone from Edenfall.

And now look at me: it’s been a month since I moved, and I haven’t gone clubbing once.

Something must be changing in me.

No.

Someone was distracting me.

I won’t let that happen again. I try to ignore the fact that I spent the whole day before Tara arrived (and the days before that) checking my phone every five minutes to see if he had messaged me.

Two weeks with no call, no text, no sign of life. I guess that's enough. After all, silence is also an answer.

I look at Tara sitting beside me in the back of the cab, staring out the window in pure wonder. The neon lights outside paint her glossed lips pink and make the silver highlighter on her cheeks shimmer.

We spent almost an hour looking through my closet, trying to find something that would fit her and still feel comfortable. Not easy, considering I’m three sizes bigger and my clubbing outfits typically expose at least fifty percent of my body. We eventually gave up and dove into my “serious adult” wardrobe. That’s how she ended up choosing a short, long-sleeved red dress with a sweetheart neckline that I didn’t even remember bringing to Edenfall. She finished the look with my platform heels.

I, on the other hand, wore a moss-green corset with a neckline big enough to display the silicone implants I did not spend thousands on just to keep hidden. I paired it with a denim miniskirt, a black belt, knee-high black boots, and a denim jacket I planned to ditch the second we walked into the club.

The cab ride takes five minutes. We could’ve walked, but the wind would’ve ruined all our glamour. We stop on a sloping street lined with bars glowing under red signs, groups of young people holding beer bottles or smoking joints. Tara takes it all in with the enthusiasm of a child entering an amusement park.

“So this is where the sins happen?” she asks, eyes sparkling.

“This is where a new sinner emerges every night,” I say, making the driver laugh.

Then Tara sits straighter, jaw dropping. I expected her reaction, but I still regret not having my camera ready.

“That… is a church?!” she gasps as the cab pulls over in front of the towering gray stone building.

“Yes. The old Snowcrest Cathedral.”

Her brows furrow. “So why is it decorated with purple lights… and why are there people drinking alcohol at the door?”

“Because it’s not a church anymore. It’s Holy Spirits. Best nightclub in Edenfall.”

“I thought that was just something people in Snowcrest made up to demonize the district… Don’t tell me they actually invaded a church and kicked out the faithful?”

I laugh. “Do you really think a bunch of drunk twenty-year-olds could go against the Catholic Church? No, they abandoned it on their own. Something about a priest who was caught having an orgy inside and then set the whole place on fire.”

Tara covers her mouth, horrified.

“He died?”

“Of old age. And very satisfied, apparently.”

A bouncer nods at us and opens the door. The moment we step inside, perfume, alcohol, and sweat hit me like a hug. I feel at home.

The nave of the church is now a massive dance floor, bodies moving under strobing lights. Couples make out against pillars, others grind like animals in heat. I pull Tara along toward the altar—now a bar glowing under a wall of bottles. Above it, where choir seats used to be, a DJ in a pleated white dress remixes Pitbull.

When we reach the bar, Tara climbs onto a stool while I lean on the counter.

“So? What do you think? Feeling the sin in your veins yet?”

She shakes her head, legs crossed, eyes bright.

“I think I need alcohol in my veins first.”

A bartender steps in front of us.

“Hey, I can help with that. What can I get you ladies?”

Tara turns red. I open my mouth to order—

And freeze.

I would recognize those brown curls and golden-brown skin anywhere.

“Kit?”

His eyes widen.

“Agatha?! No fucking way!” He launches himself over the bar, nearly landing on Tara, then grabs me into a tight hug. “I can’t believe it! I thought I’d never see you again.” He looks me up and down, grinning. “You look even better, girl.”

I glance at his tattooed arms, his white tank top, heavy chains around his waist.

“Same here.”

Tara clears her throat pointedly — Kit is basically in her lap.

He looks at her and smirks.

“Since when do you hang out with church girls, Agatha? Last time I checked, they’re your sworn enemies.”

“I’m not a church girl,” Tara snaps.

I slap his arm. “Be nice.”

Kit shrugs, then hugs me again. “You still got that grumpy vibe, huh?”

“It’s hard to let go of old habits when everyone around you holds you back.” I hug him back. It feels good to see a familiar face.

He introduces himself to Tara as “the best bartender in town,” which earns an eye-roll from a woman behind the counter.

“That would be me,” she says. “Jenna.”

Her metallic top clings like liquid silver, exposing sculpted shoulders. Short brown hair, effortless beauty. Tara’s stare grows round and star-shiny.

Jenna notices. Smiles. Winks.

Tara nearly melts.

“This is my boss,” Kit says, smirking.

We order cosmopolitans, Tara stuttering so badly I jump in to help.

After two drinks, we’re on the dance floor. Tara starts shy, barely moving, scanning the crowd like Father Astra might appear from behind a strobe light to banish her. But alcohol works fast, and soon we’re dancing pressed together, ignoring three men trying (and failing) to get our attention.

“I need the bathroom,” Tara yells in my ear.

We head to the hallway by the bar. After she goes in, I check my phone, taking it out of my back pocket.

My heart stops.

Eleven messages. Three missed calls.

Forbidden DLC.

Zayne.

My breath catches. My fingers shake as I unlock the screen.

Forbidden DLC: Agatha, can we talk?

Forbidden DLC: I want to apologize properly but doing this over the phone doesn’t feel right.

Forbidden DLC: I know you’re upset. And my silence these last weeks probably made it worse.

Forbidden DLC: But I can explain.

God…

Why is he apologizing like he owes me anything?

I scroll.

Forbidden DLC: Can I come to your house today?

WHAT.

The bathroom door swings open. Tara steps out, drying her hands.

“The bathroom is actually decent! There was even soap and—” She stops when she sees my face. “Agatha? What happened?”

I swallow hard.

I could tell her.

But she’s flushed, unsteady, and this night is supposed to be hers—not another episode of “Agatha suffers for a man she’s known for three weeks.”

“I think the alcohol hit me. And these puke-green lights aren’t helping.”

Tara takes my hand, smiling.

“Then let’s get back on that dance floor. Tonight is ours, baby.”

“Mom, I’m not going to work today. It’s Monday.”

“I’m not your mother. And you’re definitely not going to work today,” I say as I pull Tara’s arm over my shoulder and steady her by the waist, shutting the taxi door behind us.

It’s one in the morning. Normally, I’d still be out at this hour without a single yawn. But I made the fatal mistake of forgetting Tara isn’t used to alcohol — and apparently four cosmopolitans were enough to turn her into a drunk, barefoot baby deer.

She’s clutching our purses in one hand, her heels in the other, while we wobble toward the entrance of my building like two wounded slugs. For someone so tiny, she’s surprisingly hard to carry when her body and tongue have both clocked out for the night.

“I think I met the love of my life today, Agatha,” she says, smiling dreamily. “Thank you for introducing me to the world.”

“You’re welcome,” I mutter, breathless. Tara misses the first step and I brace for impact—

But a hand grabs her from the other side.

A strong hand.

I jolt, lungs locking, ready to fight—

And then I see him.

“Zayne? What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk,” he says, and effortlessly pulls Tara out of my hold as if she weighs nothing.

I just stand there on the stairs, stunned.

“How did you even find out where I live?”

“I sent him your address,” Tara giggles from Zayne’s arms, proud of herself as if she solved world hunger.

Zayne’s mouth tightens, embarrassed. “When you didn’t answer, I got worried. I texted Tara to check on you. She sent me the address… and told me you were at a nightclub. So I decided to wait for you to come back.”

He tilts his head toward a black Audi parked by the sidewalk. A very out-of-place car for Edenfall.

“Can you guys discuss it later?” Tara slurs. “I need to lie down and put my legs up after shaking my ass all night.” Then she closes her eyes and passes out cold—

In the priest’s arms.

For a second, I consider sending him back to the Audi and locking the door.

But then I think about hauling Tara up four flights of stairs by myself.

Yeah. Not happening.

I sigh and push the building door open. Zayne follows, holding Tara like she’s the most precious cargo on earth. His perfume wraps around me again — warm incense, figs, bergamot — and I close my eyes for half a second as goosebumps race up my arms.

I walk ahead, leading him up the stairs.

But I feel his gaze on the back of my legs. Hot. Heavy. A caress without touch.

A decent person would pull the skirt down.

I am not feeling decent.

So I sway my hips a little too much and gain a few steps ahead of him.

Three steps later, I hear him stumble.

“You okay?” I ask, faking concern.

“It’s… dark,” he says, staring fixedly at the floor. His ears are bright red.

He keeps them pointed downward for the rest of the climb.

When we get to my apartment and remove our shoes, I tell him to lay Tara on my bed upstairs. He does it gently—too gently—and when he turns back to me, scratching the back of his neck in that shy, earnest way, he looks like an angel dressed in all white.

“Thank you,” I say. Because what else is there?

“You’re welcome. I’ll wait downstairs,” he replies, and leaves.

Wait downstairs?

Who said he gets to wait?

I groan, grab a towel and remover, and clean Tara’s face and feet. She doesn’t stir, just snores. When she’s tucked in, I stare at her one last time—

Then my stomach sinks.

I have no escape.

I roll my shoulders, shake my arms like I’m about to walk into a UFC cage.

Downstairs, Zayne is standing in the middle of my living room, arms crossed, head tilted back, eyes closed.

He turns when he hears me.

His bowl-cut hair is pushed back, slightly messy, like he’s run his hands through it too many times. His eyes flick down my body and his Adam’s apple twitches, swallowing hard. It’s not the first time he’s looked at me like that—

But this time he looks like he sees through me.

Normally, that kind of gaze from a man makes me roll my eyes.

From Zayne?

It slices straight into my stomach, cold and electric.

I cross my arms under my breasts deliberately. His eyes widen. He looks away quickly.

“What do you want?” I ask, trying, and failing, to sound irritated.

“Agatha, I came to talk to you. Our last conversation ended… badly.”

I take a step toward him. He lifts his chin to keep eye contact.

“Zayne, we don’t need to talk. Let’s forget it and move on with our lives.” He frowns, confused. I explain: “Look, you and me… we won’t work. And no, I don’t want to be your friend. You’re too hot for that. I’d look at you with ulterior motives every time. That’s not fair to you.”

He looks startled by my honesty. His hands go to his pockets, then back out. He clenches them at his sides, knuckles white.

“So the reason you don’t want me around is because… you think I’m hot?”

“Yes. And even though I left the church, apparently some Christian values stuck,” I shrug. “It feels wrong to be turned on by a priest.”

Zayne scoffs. “You think priests don’t get turned on?”

I freeze.

“I mean… I’m sure you do. Bodies are bodies. But you’re trained to resist it. I’m not. When I want someone, I act.”

He sucks in a breath. My legs go weak.

“And that’s what you want? To have me?” he asks low, almost whispering.

“Yes. I always get what I want: money, clothes… men.”

When he opens his eyes again, the soft green is gone. His look is sharp, dark. Hungry.

“I have a confession to make,” he says.

I put a hand on my hip. “Oh? We switched professions and didn’t warn me?”

He doesn’t smile.

“Agatha… I saw pictures of you.”

I blink. “Okay…?”

“Pictures from your website. The… sexy ones.”

My brows shoot up.

“Why?”

“Because I was curious. Because I’m a man before I’m a priest. Because…” He exhales sharply. “Because I feel lust too. And I’d have to be blind not to notice how beautiful you are.”

We stare at each other in the moonlit room, Tara snoring faintly upstairs.

“And? Did you like them?” I ask.

He swallows.

“That’s not the point.”

I step forward, stopping just a breath away.

He’s so tall I have to tilt my chin up.

“You told me that so I’d know you’re not untouchable,” I say softly. “So I’d know you’re just a sinner like me.”

He nods.

“Then finish your confession. Did you like what you saw?”

He runs a hand through his hair. His perfume wraps around me again.

“Yes,” he whispers. “God forgive me, but yes. I liked it so much Father Astra almost caught me with an erection.”

My breath catches.

This man is trying to commit murder.

I place my hand on his chest. His muscles tense under my palm, his heartbeat matching mine.

“And then?” I whisper. “Did you fight it? Or did you masturbate thinking about me?”

Zayne shivers violently.

Then grabs my wrist, pulling my hand away.

“I prayed.”

I pout dramatically. “Shame. But I like imagining you on your knees.”

“Agatha,” he says through clenched teeth, hardly convincing when his eyes keep flicking to my lips… then my cleavage… then back.

“What? Do you want me to pray every time I think about riding you?” I ask, voice dripping honey and venom.

“No. I’m saying we’re not animals. The body is a machine the mind can control.”

“Don’t give me philosophy right now,” I snap. I try to pull my arm away; he won’t let go.

“Agatha, you only want me because I’m impossible,” he says, voice suddenly soft. “Because you can’t have me, and that makes you want me more.”

That stings.

“I wanted you before I knew you were a priest,” I say, blunt. “The first time we talked, I didn’t know. And I still wanted you.”

My free hand rises on instinct, brushing his jaw. He shivers. His eyes flutter. For a moment, he leans into my touch like it’s instinct.

“You want me too,” I whisper.

“I want to be your friend,” he says weakly. “I feel like you need help.”

“Why? Because I’m a sinner?” I tease.

“No,” he murmurs. “Because you need someone to accept you.”

“And that someone is you?”

“I can be. If you let me.”

I rise on my toes, brushing my nose along his neck.

“You smell so good. I spent two weeks angry at you… and getting wet every time I remembered this smell.”

His grip on my wrists trembles.

“You won’t distract me,” he says, breathless.

“You already are,” I whisper, grazing down — where his erection is pressing insistently against me. He jerks back, zips his coat closed, and I smirk.

“Father Astra told me to stay away from you,” he says suddenly, eyes dark. “When he learned about your family and that you’re part of my study group.”

I scoff. “Then why are you here?”

“I told him I wouldn’t stay away. My duty as a human being is to welcome everyone.”

“And that’s why you want to be my friend?”

“Yes.”

“Even knowing I use my vibrator thinking about you in front of thousands of men online, and you get hard remembering my photos?”

“Yes.”

I blink.

I never thought I’d be friend-zoned like this.

“This makes no sense, Zayne,” I say, almost laughing, almost crying.

Zayne rubs his face with both hands, pacing a few steps around my living room as if the walls are closing in on him.

“Agatha, I know it doesn’t make sense. Trust me, I know,” he says, his voice tight, fraying at the edges. “But everything about you triggers something I don’t know how to handle. I can’t just cut ties and pretend you don’t exist, but I also can’t—”

He stops. His chest rises and falls fast, like he just ran here instead of sitting in a fancy Audi for God knows how long.

I cross my arms again, leaning my weight onto one hip.

“Can’t what? Admit you want me?”

His eyes fly to mine, burning.

“It’s not about not wanting you.”

He steps closer, just close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body.

“It’s about what wanting you would turn me into.”

I blink, thrown off for the fifth time tonight.

“And what is that?”

His throat bobs as he swallows.

“A hypocrite. A coward. Someone who breaks the vows he made because a beautiful woman looked at him the right way.”

A bitter laugh escapes him.

“Someone weak.”

I stare at him, taken aback by the vulnerability slipping through the cracks of his perfect composure.

“Zayne…” I murmur.

He shakes his head sharply. “Don’t.”

His voice is suddenly low, raw — almost pleading.

“Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you already own me.”

Silence thickens between us.

A heavy, electric thing.

I breathe out, steady and slow.

“Maybe you want to belong to me.”

He closes his eyes, as if the words hit him like a blow. Then he steps back.

The distance feels like a slap.

“I’m trying,” he whispers. “I’m trying so hard to keep my life in order. To keep myself in order. I can’t lose control again. And you—”

He gestures frantically at me.

“You walk into Snowcrest and undo everything without even trying.”

“That’s not my fault,” I say softly.

“I know,” he whispers, defeated. “That’s why it scares me.”

He steps toward the door.

My heart trips.

“Zayne.”

He freezes with his hand on the handle.

“I’m not going to let myself hang on a thread for someone who doesn’t know what he wants.”

He doesn’t turn around, but I see his shoulders tense.

A long moment passes.

Then, with a voice barely audible:

“I do know what I want.”

My breath catches, and he still doesn’t turn.

His hand tightens on the doorknob until his knuckles go white.

“I just don’t know if I’m allowed to want it.”

Then he walks out, closing the door behind him.

Chapter Text

If I was being honest with myself, I was actually enjoying my time in Snowcrest. Ignoring the false morals and the judgmental gazes thrown my way, I chose instead to focus on the beauty of the city. Colorful brick buildings lined the streets, sidewalks bordered by flowerbeds, cobblestone paths that carried an old-world charm. Bright flags and posters bearing the image of a bearded man fluttered in the breeze — announcements for the Saint Augustine Festival.

Since it was the height of summer, people had finally abandoned their heavy coats meant for Snowcrest’s arctic-like climate, opting instead for lighter, simpler clothes. Every evening, the sun seemed stubbornly unwilling to set on time, and I often had dinner with its last rays still spilling into my living room, bathing everything in a soft orange glow.

And, most importantly, I got to spend time with my favorite person in the world—Tia Zelda. Even though we weren’t actually related (something we had discovered in the worst way possible) she had never treated me any differently. I loved her for that.

During the week, I divided my time between forcing myself to go for a run in the mornings so I wouldn’t become completely sedentary, producing content for work, and helping my aunt at the bookstore while actively trying not to run into Zayne there.

Today, she called me early in the morning to invite me over for tea in the afternoon. It was Sunday, the bookstore was closed, and she’d been trying to lure me into her traditional Sunday house meal for an entire month. I had always refused. Victoria was staying with her, and I had no desire to be trapped in the same room as my sister. Somewhere along the way, we’d lost the ability to coexist without wanting to strangle each other.

But today, I had nowhere to run. After several weekends of creative excuses, my warehouse of lies was completely empty. I found myself forced to leave my suburban cave to face my aunt’s affection and my sister’s smug expression.

I stopped in front of the charming two-story house painted in soft turquoise and mint tones, its wooden-framed windows glowing warmly in the afternoon light. The façade was richly decorated with ornate moldings, floral details, and hand-painted accents—details I remembered helping paint with Victoria when we were children. I could still see the blue handprint next to the door, mine. A mistake Uncle Scott had stubbornly insisted on keeping.

I barely had time to knock before the door opened.

Or rather something opened it.

For a brief second, I thought no one was there, until I looked down and found a pair of bright blue eyes staring back at me.

“Are you my aunt?” William asked, his words slightly tangled in that unmistakable way only a four-year-old could manage.

I smiled instantly. “Yes, I am. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, William.”

He grinned, revealing a dimple on his left cheek. He was the male version of my sister as a child. Even though Victoria had inherited more from her father than from our mother, I still saw pieces of myself in his face: the curious gaze, the shy friendliness.

“William, who are you talking—”

Victoria froze behind him, a metal bowl tucked under her arm, a whisk still in her hand. Whatever she’d been mixing was immediately forgotten as she registered my presence. She pulled her son back with a sharp movement, eyeing me suspiciously.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to see my aunt. Can’t I?”

She looked like she was about to snap back when Tia Zelda appeared, flinging the door open the rest of the way and practically throwing herself into my arms.

“You finally came!” she exclaimed, wrapping her short arms around me so tightly she nearly knocked the breath out of my lungs.

“You threatened to jump off a bridge if I didn’t,” I wheezed.

“I don’t remember saying that,” she teased, already dragging me inside. She hung my strap bag on the rack by the door and clasped my hand. “Come on, we’re almost done. Your sister’s making icing for the cake. You love icing, don’t you?”

“That’s the best part of a cake,” I said, climbing onto one of the stools on the white-and-blue wooden counter.

Tia Zelda laughed, tossing chopped fruit into a bowl. “You take after me, then. I love icing too!”

A mocking scoff sounded behind me. I turned to see Victoria furiously stirring the icing. William was nowhere in sight—probably relocated so he wouldn’t be corrupted by proximity alone.

“She takes after you? She’s not even your real niece,” Victoria sneered.

“I didn’t know culinary preferences were genetic,” I replied calmly, grabbing a knife to help my aunt slice the remaining fruit. “Then again, I wouldn’t expect you to know basic biology. Do you also believe man was molded from clay?”

Victoria slammed the bowl onto the counter and turned to Tia Zelda in theatrical despair.

“See, Tia? She says blasphemies like they’re greetings.”

Tia Zelda sighed, resolutely ignoring us.

“I’m sad to see what you’ve become, little sister,” Victoria continued. “You used to be so sweet.”

“I could say the same about you,” I replied, slicing an apple into neat cubes without looking at her.

She gasped as if struck, though she maintained her carefully cultivated posture of dignity. Her curly hair was pinned into a low bun, her white dress pristine — no stains, no wrinkles — despite an afternoon of cooking. A sharp contrast to my oversized black off-the-shoulder knit sweater, draped loosely over my fuller figure, paired with short hair and ripped tights.

“I’ve been praying for you every day since I found out you sell your body for money,” she says softly, lips pursed in feigned concern. “Imagine our shock when the townspeople found out. Tia Zelda and I were so embarrassed for a while. But eventually, people forgot. Now that you’re back, the rumors came with you.”

I glance at my aunt. She keeps her head down, lips pressed into a thin line. She doesn’t deny it — and my heart sinks.

I inhale slowly, setting the knife down on the counter.

“I don’t sell my body for money,” I say, my voice tight. “I sell pictures of my body. And even if I didnn’t, a bunch of hypocritical rednecks still wouldn’t have any say in it.”

“I worry about you,” she insists.

I smile coldly. “You worry now? You’re about ten years late, Victoria. You should’ve worried when your father threw me out onto the street with our mother—broke, lost, and alone. But you were busy sleeping with my boyfriend and turning my school life into hell, weren’t you?”

Victoria stiffens, glancing around as if expecting her husband to materialize.

“I don’t know who told you I slept with anyone, Agatha,” she snaps. “But that person was lying. The first and only man in my life was Erwin.”

Of everything I’ve said, that’s the only part she reacts to.

Not the abandonment. Not the betrayal. Not the years of promises she broke.

After the truth about our mother came out, Victoria became someone I didn’t recognize. As if the sister I loved had been buried beneath the rubble of my childhood, right alongside the moment I learned I was a bastard. Even now, that version of her never resurfaced. Sometimes I wonder if she was ever real or just a fantasy invented by a lonely child desperate to be loved.

A sharp ache blooms in my chest. My hand trembles near the knife.

My aunt finally intervenes, placing her warm hand over mine. Her eyes meet mine, saying everything at once: calm down, I’m sorry. Then she hands me a stack of plates.

“Could you set the table for us, dear?”

I nod, overwhelmed.

William comes running. “Can I help, Grandma?”

He practically vibrates when she hands him a handful of forks.

“Come on, Auntie!” he grabs my free hand, and together we head toward the sunroom, my sister’s disapproving glare burning into my back.

The house remains unchanged, as if time itself had forgotten this place. We pass through the living room with its brown leather sofa and colorful plant pots, down the long hallway lined with a tall bookshelf packed with novels and old encyclopedias, until we reach the sunroom.

The space, with its tall windows and glass ceiling, centers around a long wooden table. Victoria’s husband is already there, carefully spreading a red tablecloth across its surface. He seems entirely absorbed in smoothing out every crease, stretching the fabric until it falls perfectly at the edges. He only notices us when William runs ahead.

“Did you come to help Daddy?” he asks with a smile, bending down to lift the boy into his arms. When he straightens, his gaze lands on me. For a moment, Erwin looks startled, after all, he only saw me once, weeks ago, but recognition soon dawns on his face. “Oh. Hello. You’re Victoria’s younger sister, right?”

“Yes,” I reply dryly. “To her misfortune.”

He blinks, clearly taken aback, then runs a hand through his neatly gelled blond hair before setting William down.

“I’m Erwin Smith,” he says, stepping closer and extending his hand, only to realize I’m juggling several plates. “Oh, sorry.”

He takes them from me and places them carefully on the table, arranging them in front of five chairs.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too,” I murmur.

He steps back, inspecting his work with one hand on his hip. I take the opportunity to help, taking the silverware from William’s small hands and placing it neatly beside each plate. William climbs onto a chair to supervise, clearly invested in the task.

Erwin watches us, shifting uneasily.

“Victoria must’ve said terrible things about me,” I comment lightly, “judging by how you keep inching closer to the door, like you’re preparing an escape route.”

His blue eyes widen. “What? No, no—not at all. Actually, I know very little about you. For a while, I thought you were practically a myth. I’ve never even seen a picture.”

“That’s probably because your wife blocked me on every social media platform,” I reply. “I didn’t even know my nephew existed until Tia Zelda kept me updated.”

“Oh.” Erwin goes pale, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“You don’t have to feel bad,” I add, softening. “Whatever issues I have with my sister aren’t your responsibility.”

He nods slowly. Up close, Erwin seems like a genuinely decent man — more like someone who spends his nights playing War and Order and plotting imaginary wars than someone obsessed with scripture. Despite the buttoned-up brown shirt and neatly pressed pastor-style trousers, there’s something distinctly nerdy about him.

“I know Victoria can be… reactive sometimes,” he offers.

“Reactive is generous,” I laugh.

“…but she’s a good person.”

I let that pass without comment.

“Food’s ready!” Victoria announces, entering with a tray holding a steaming teapot and two baskets filled with toast and shortbread cookies. Right behind her, my aunt follows with the bowl of fruit salad and a chocolate cake covered in white icing.

Everything is arranged on the table, and soon everyone takes a seat. Erwin sits at the head, naturally assuming the role of man of the house. Victoria sits to his left, my aunt to his right. I take the seat beside Tia Zelda.

“William, where are you going?” Victoria asks sharply when her son releases her hand and circles the table.

“I want to sit next to my aunt,” he says, beaming at me.

For a moment, no one speaks. Erwin looks surprised. My aunt smiles sweetly. My sister’s glare could curdle milk.

“But don’t you want Mommy to prepare your plate?” Victoria insists.

“I can help him,” I say quickly, lifting William onto the chair that’s too tall for his legs. He points enthusiastically at everything he wants.

Birdsong filters in from outside, filling the silence — until Erwin clears his throat and takes both Victoria’s and my aunt’s hands.

“I’d like to say a prayer to thank God for this meal.”

William immediately takes my hand and straightens, already trained for the ritual.

“Aren’t prayers usually for lunch and dinner?” I whisper to my aunt, confused.

She shrugs and takes my other hand.

“Honey,” Victoria interjects suddenly, smiling brightly, “I’d like to say today’s prayer.”

Erwin nods, pleased. She closes her eyes — and aims her words directly at me.

“I thank the Lord for my sister’s presence here today. Not only in this house, but for her return to our hometown. Like the prodigal son, may we welcome her back into our community and pray that she repents of her sins.” She smiles serenely. “‘Let us eat and be merry: for this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.’”

“Amen,” Erwin and William say in unison.

My aunt squeezes my hand but stays silent.

I stare at the table, resisting the urge to roll my eyes so hard I might see my own brain.

Afternoon tea unfolds under a fragile illusion of normalcy. No one makes an effort to include me in conversation, but my aunt compensates by piling food onto my plate. I focus on helping William eat and cleaning up after him when he spills juice all over himself.

Eventually, Erwin offers to clear the table and Victoria takes William to change his clothes. That’s when my aunt finally turns to me.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” she says softly, a loose strand of gray hair falling against her cheek.

I know exactly what she means.

“It doesn’t surprise me, Tia,” I reply quietly. “I always assumed my lifestyle wouldn’t be something you’d all fully accept.”

She cups my face, forcing me to look at her.

“I don’t have to accept anything, darling. It’s your life. And as your tia — because I am your tia, no matter what anyone says — it’s my job to love you and guide you. You’re the daughter Scott and I never had. I’m proud of you. Even if sometimes this city fills my old brain with conservative nonsense.”

I swallow hard, fighting back a tear.

“Are you trying to make me cry?”

She smiles warmly. “Me? Never.” Then, casually: “Father Zayne has been asking about you.”

My heart skips. I mask my reaction quickly.

“I’ve been busy,” I say. “I missed the last couple of study group meetings.”

“Busy with what?”

“Work. And… work.”

She hums knowingly. “Working too much isn’t healthy.” Then she brightens. “It’s the month of the patron saint’s festival. There are stalls every Sunday. Why don’t we stop by?”

“Now?” I blink.

“Yes, now.”

I glance at my outfit and immediately regret every life choice that led to this sweater.

“The stalls are outside the church grounds,” she adds quickly. “God won’t judge you for showing off those beautiful legs.”

I hesitate, but my silence is enough.

“Great! I’ll grab my bag,” she says, already gone.

I sigh and pull out my phone, checking my reflection to see if I look even remotely presentable on camera. There is a new message from Zayne in my notifications, but I don’t open it. I head to the living room, grab my strap bag, and hurry upstairs to fix my face. Thankfully, I always carry a makeup bag. It’s an occupational habit, in case I run into a fan on the street and need to take a quick picture.

As I reach for the bathroom door, it opens before I can knock.

My sister steps out.

She rolls her eyes. “I knew it. I could feel a bad presence on the other side of the door.”

Before I can reply, Erwin appears from another room—probably their bedroom—and Victoria’s expression shifts instantly, her mouth curving into a flawless smile.

“I’m so glad you came to spend the day with us, little sister!”

I scoff, incredulous, and take a step toward her. She instinctively retreats, nearly backing into the bathroom again.

“No ridiculous theatrics,” I say coldly. “Your husband may not know you’re a wicked bitch, but I know. You know. And God knows too.”

I brush past her, shoving her aside with my shoulder, and slam the bathroom door behind me.

She has not been answering my messages. Which I expected, but after almost risking my career as a priest by going to Edenfall in the middle of the night to explain myself, a stupid hope settled in my heart that she would understand.

But I don’t blame her. In fact, I think she’s more right than I am in choosing to ignore me. How stupid. Of course our friendship would never work. Alone with her in that dark living room, surrounded by shadows, smelling her perfume, her body brushing against mine—I was ready to throw everything away just to touch her.

Knowing that Agatha desires me awakened something inside me that I haven’t felt since before the accident that led me to the priesthood. When I was still a normal young man. With a whole family. When I wasn’t afraid to make choices under the excuse of living life to the fullest.

I shake my head, pushing those memories away, and the scars on my right arm, hidden beneath the long sleeve of my black cassock, begin to itch. I ignore the irritating sensation.

Even from inside the parish, I can hear the joyful sounds of the festival outside. The St. Augustine Festival consumed most of my week, and I can still feel the aftermath of hours spent setting up stalls with the faithful—my back stiff and sore.

Father Astra has been outside since the beginning. But since I didn’t want to trail after him all night, I told him I would pray a rosary in the tabernacle for the festival’s success before joining the festivities. That seemed to satisfy him; he thanked me and left without further insistence.

I did pray the rosary. But I also took the opportunity to invite Agatha to the festival. The message remains unread even an hour later.

I let out a heavy breath before opening the parish doors and being hit by colorful lights, the smell of roasted corn and loud music.

The front garden is packed with people walking through a corridor of stalls selling all kinds of food, non-alcoholic drinks, and religious items. Above them, rows of colorful balloons and warm yellow lights give the space a lively, familiar charm.

I clasp my hands in front of my body and head toward Mr. Clark’s churro stand, driven by my uncontrollable sugar addiction.

I don’t get far before Mrs. Monet stops me — apparently she’s once again the only remaining member of my study group. Bombom, her white chihuahua, sits comfortably in her lap.

“Father Zayne! Your blessing,” she says.

I make the sign of the cross on her forehead, asking God to bless her; though with the more than fifty-year age gap between us, I feel I should be asking for hers instead.

Mrs. Monet is one of my favorite people at the parish. Sweet, gentle, always smiling. I never met my grandmothers, but I always imagined them with that same kind of warmth.

“Are you enjoying the festival?” I ask.

“Oh, very much! Everything looks beautiful. I brought Bombom with me today. I can’t always take her out for walks—my legs aren’t what they used to be, and I feel bad leaving the poor thing stuck at home me.”

I glance at the tiny dog, her ears adorned with pink ribbons. I feel the urge to pet her, but she bares her teeth at me before I can even lift my hand.

I huff. “I would offer to walk her, but I think she already dislikes me.”

Mrs. Monet’s eyes widen at Bombom’s tiny snarl.

“Oh, don’t be rude, Bombom! How can you growl at a priest?” she scolds, tossing her long dreadlocks back as she turns the dog away from me. “Forgive her, Father Zayne. She can be grumpy sometimes.”

I smile and raise my hands in reassurance.

“I’ll let you enjoy the festival, then. See you at our next meeting!” she says, heading toward a stall selling rosaries.

I adjust my glasses on the bridge of my nose and finally reach my favorite stall of the past two years. Mr. Clark greets me with a grin, already handing me two generously sized churros, freshly coated in sugar and cinnamon, along with a small cup of dulce de leche.

I nearly drool.

“Wow, that looks good.”

I almost drop everything when I turn and see Agatha standing beside me, studying the flavor options as if this were the most ordinary place in the world. Which, technically, it is — if we ignore the fact that she hasn’t replied to me in a week and that she’s at a church.

Her short hair is straightened, bangs perfectly framing her soft face. Moonlight and warm lamplight dance across her brown skin, creating a contrast of gold and shadow along her profile.

I hesitate, torn between acting normal or demanding an explanation. I choose normal.

“Do you want one?” I offer.

She turns to me, wide brown eyes meeting mine, and for a second I forget how to breathe. Her innocent expression is endearing.

“Are you sure you want to share?” she teases. “You looked ready to devour both on your own.”

“If even Jesus shared bread,” I say lightly, “who am I to deny a churro?”

I lead her to a wooden small table farther from the stalls, tucked away in a quieter corner of the garden. Some parishioners greet me warmly; but their smiles quickly turn curious when they notice Agatha behind me. I ignore them.

She sits down, slipping the strap bag off her shoulder and placing it on the bench beside her. Her gaze flicks toward the distance between us and the rest of the festival. A hint of sadness crosses her face, and I immediately understand.

“I picked this spot so you could eat in peace,” I say quickly. “Without people staring like you’re somewhere you don’t belong.”

That seems to ease her. She smiles — that mischievous smile I know too well.

“How thoughtful of you, Father Zayne. So attentive to women’s feelings,” she jokes as she picks up a churro, dipping just the tip into the dulce de leche before taking a bite.

I’m completely mesmerized. By the care with which she handles it, mindful of her long pink nails. By the way she barely coats the tip in dulce de leche. By the way cinnamon clings to her full, glossy lips as she bites down.

“Not all women,” I reply before I can stop myself. “Only yours.”

Her movement stills, the churro hovering midair.

“And… the feelings of my other friends and parishioners, of course,” I add quickly.

“Of course,” she echoes, taking another bite.

I grab my own churro, dipping it far too generously into the dulce de leche and biting off nearly half at once.

I feel her eyes on me. Suddenly, I’m painfully aware of the sound of my chewing, my face heating up. I swallow too fast, almost choking and wipe my mouth with a napkin.

“So,” I ask, “why didn’t you answer my messages?”

She stiffens, then places the churro back on the plate, rubbing her hands together to brush away the cinnamon.

“I was busy,” she says, avoiding my gaze.

“I see,” I reply, though I don’t believe her. I’ve seen her leaving her aunt’s bookstore nearly every afternoon, right around the time she knows I usually stop by for coffee. “Did you at least see the invitation I sent you? Is that why you’re here?”

“You sent me an invitation?” she asks, startled.

“Yes. I invited you to the festival.”

“Oh. I didn’t see it. Tia Zelda practically dragged me here, and then vanished with her friends,” she says lightly.

The small hope that had settled in my chest collapses, heavy as the churro I swallowed too quickly.

I shouldn’t feel this way. My role is to bring people closer to God, not to myself. If her aunt managed to bring her into a holy space, into the community, that should be something I thank God for in my evening prayers.

Instead, I feel a crease form between my brows.

Lord Jesus, cleanse my heart of all these selfish desires.

“Why did you make that face like a lost puppy?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.

“Me? Nothing.”

The itch on my arm returns, and I try to disguise it by rubbing my hand over my cassock.

Agatha studies me, tilting her head slightly, as if trying to see me better. Suddenly, I wish I weren’t wearing these glasses. Or that I had styled my hair differently, anything other than this unfortunate bowl cut.

Then she recoils, crossing her arms and fixing her gaze on a point behind me, deliberately avoiding my eyes.

“I needed some time.”

I frown, confused. “Time for what?”

“To think. You know. It’s not every day I get dumped.” She scoffs, folding her arms tighter against her body. The movement draws my traitorous gaze to her bare shoulders, where the thin black straps of her bra peek through.

I clear my throat.

“You didn’t get dumped, Agatha,” I say carefully.

She laughs, sharp and humorless. “Yeah, you’re right. Actually, I got a bucket of cold water dumped on my head.” She slaps her forehead, then leans forward, resting her arms on the table and burying her face in them. “What a brilliant idea it was to fall for a priest,” she mutters, her voice muffled.

Years of listening to confessions — even outside the confessional — have trained me to recognize shame the moment it surfaces. Almost instinctively, my tone softens into the calm, reassuring voice I use with parishioners.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I say gently. “We don’t really choose who we care about, do we?”

She lifts her head with a huff. “Easy for you to say. You’re a priest. Ignoring your own desires is literally part of the job.” Then she squints at me. “Be honest: how many people have confessed to having a crush on you since you became a priest?”

The question catches me off guard, but I recover quickly.

“None,” I answer simply.

She shoots me a look. For a moment, it feels less like a church garden and more like a sterile police interrogation room from a movie.

“Seriously, Zayne.”

“I am serious. No one has ever confessed to liking me.” I hesitate, then add quietly, “Not even before I became a priest. I was a total nerd. I lived to study. Spent more time with my nose buried in books than looking at girls. I skipped a couple of years in school, so most of my classmates were older than me.”

Agatha blinks, her mouth falling open.

“Okay. That’s shocking,” she admits. “But also… not that surprising?”

“Me being a nerd?”

“No… you being smart enough to skip grades!” she exclaims.

I feel my cheeks warm. “I’m not that smart. I just studied a lot. It’s not like I had much else to do. I was too shy to make friends.” I smile faintly, nostalgia creeping in. “My twin brother was the social one,” I add before I can stop myself.

Her eyebrow arches as she leans closer.

“You have a twin brother? You mean there are two of you out there?” She grins. “Please tell me he’s not a priest and single.”

I swallow hard, scratching at my arm again.

“I had a brother.” A lump forms in my throat. “He died a few years ago.”

Her eyes widen. For a moment, the only sounds between us are the distant noise of the festival and the cool wind brushing past.

She lifts her hand, as if to place it over mine, then hesitates — pulling it back and curling it into a fist in her lap.

“Zayne… I’m so sorry. Fuck. That was incredibly insensitive of me.”

I shake my head, forcing what I hope passes for a smile.

“There was no way you could’ve known.” I echo her tone lightly, sliding my hands down my thighs to hide their trembling. “And honestly… I think Zoran would’ve liked you. He was the life of the party. Loud, charismatic, just like you. If he were here, you probably wouldn’t even look at me, even though we’re identical.”

Distracted, she dips the tip of her finger into the dulce de leche and licks it absentmindedly.

“Yeah.” She hums thoughtfully. “Too bad my type is men who are overly serious, kind of nerdy, and permanently glued to books.”

My heart stutters, as if it briefly forgets how to beat.

She looks at me again. “Zayne and Zoran. One introverted, one extroverted. You were basically a walking Disney Channel twin trope.”

I smile. “My parents would disagree. I think they’d rather belong in the Star Wars universe… or one of those adventurous families on National Geographic.”

I realize I’m talking more than I ever do with anyone else. Talking about Zoran usually feels like ripping off a bandage from a wound that needs fifty stitches. But for the first time, it doesn’t hurt the same way.

When people learn I had a twin, the mood usually shifts—awkward condolences, pity-filled glances, silence thick with discomfort. With Agatha, it’s different. She doesn’t treat death like something sacred and untouchable, nor like something that defines me. Just… something that happened.

“Your parents sound like interesting people,” she says, smiling.

“They are,” I reply softly. “Mr. and Mrs. Li are wonderful.”

She studies me for a moment before her gaze drifts past my shoulder, her jaw tightening.

“You should probably go do your priestly duties, Zayne. People are pretending not to stare, and at least two of them have already sacrificed their hot dogs to the rose bushes just to hear us talk.”

I shrug. “Gossip is a sin. Consider the fallen sausages a divine warning.”

She stares at me in silence — then bursts out laughing.

The fact that I caused it fills me with an embarrassing sense of pride.

“…Was that supposed to be a joke, Father Zayne?” she asks between laughs. “Because I think God is offended on my behalf.”

“I guess I’m naturally funny,” I say, shifting closer on the bench until I’m blocking her view of the festival.

“It must be your complete lack of facial expression,” she teases.

“I’ve been told that before…”

“But I like your minimalist vibe,” she smirks.

I’m speechless for a moment.

She smiles. “Relax. I know I’m out of your league. I just wanted to see you make a face other than that serious stare and shy smile.”

I press my hand to my chest. “After thirty years of life, finally a woman appreciates my nonchalant style. Too bad I’m wearing a clerical collar now.”

She eyes me suspiciously.

“I can’t believe you’re flirting back. Inside a church.”

“God is everywhere,” I murmur. “It wouldn’t make much difference.”

“But lying on sacred ground probably improves your chances of going to hell,” she shoots back.

“And who said I was lying?" I say quietly, meeting her gaze.

She exhales. “Zayne… we’re friends. I finally accepted this. Please don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Before I can respond, a high-pitched voice cuts through the air.

“Agatha!”

Her aunt appears, holding two sticks of roasted corn.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Thank goodness people love gossip,” she says, then turns to me. “Father Zayne, your blessing.”

I stand quickly. “God bless you, Mrs. Jones.”

She hands me one of the corns. “For you. Thank you for welcoming my niece into the community with such open arms.”

Agatha looks betrayed. “Tia! I thought that was for me.”

Her aunt pats her hand. “Don’t be dramatic. We’ll buy another one.” Then she turns back to me. “We have to go, Agatha promised we’d try every food stand.”

“There goes my plan to lose two kilos by Christmas,” Agatha mutters, staring at the sky.

I smile. “Good luck.”

“See you at the next study group?” she asks, surprising me.

“O–of course. Yes. Next Thursday,” I stammer like a teenager.

Mrs. Jones tugs Agatha by the arm as she complains about inevitable stomach problems.

I wait until their voices fade into the noise of the festival before turning around.

Despite what Agatha believes, I’ve always been terrible at resisting temptation — even after becoming a priest.

I look back.

And my heart races when I realize she’s already looking at me too.