Leah had always avoided St. Joseph's since the day she left town.
Too many memories. Too many whispers. And the way her mother would tighten her lips whenever she asked if Micah still lived there that was enough of an answer.
But today, the bells pulled her in. And maybe it wasn't the bells. Maybe it was the fact that she'd heard Micah was back in town. That he was helping his uncle, Father Nathan, run the church after a long time away.
Micah.
That name used to mean shy smiles and bashful silences. But it also meant quiet understanding. Eyes that didn't judge. A boy who had seen her once crying behind the confessional and said nothing just held out a lollipop.
Now, the boy was a man.
Leah stepped through the heavy wooden doors of the chapel, her heels echoing faintly on the marble floor. It was mostly empty inside, save for a few older women lighting candles and a teenage girl praying beneath the crucifix.
And then, she saw him.
Micah was at the altar, placing fresh linens. His white dress shirt was rolled at the sleeves, exposing strong, toned forearms. He didn't look up right away, but when he finally did, something flickered in his eyes. Recognition. Surprise. And something darker. Something more grown.
"Leah?" he said, his voice deeper than she remembered. It had weight now.
She smiled slowly. "Didn't think you'd recognize me."
"I'd recognize those eyes anywhere."
There was a pause. That kind of silence that held too much heat.
"I was just… passing through," she said, even though she wasn't. "Figured I'd stop in."
His gaze lowered, brushing over her fitted black blouse, the gold chain at her neck, the jeans that clung a little too well. It wasn't lecherous. It was restrained. But she saw the flicker of tension in his jaw.
"So you've been away," he said, stepping down from the altar. "And now you're back. Looking like that."
She raised a brow. "Looking like what?"
He stopped just a breath in front of her. "Like trouble."
Her throat tightened. "Maybe I am."
It was dangerous, standing this close in a church. With the incense still faint in the air. With his uncle probably just behind a door. With the crucifix above them.
But her pulse wouldn't calm.
They talked. Small things. Surface things. But the current beneath it was undeniable. He was no longer the awkward boy. He was sharp now. Polished. His voice had the kind of calm that made her want to rattle him.
"I help out part-time," Micah explained, sitting beside her on the front pew. "The church still needs hands, and I owe my uncle. He's the reason I got through the worst parts of my life."
She nodded. "So what about the other parts of your life?"
He chuckled, a hand dragging through his dark hair. "You mean the parts I can't talk about in here?"
She smirked. "Especially those."
That smile disappeared a little. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Why did you really come here today?"
The silence stretched.
"I wanted to see you," she said finally.
He turned his head, eyes fixed on her. And for the first time, she saw the want.
It wasn't loud. It didn't scream.
It smoldered.
"I remember you used to run wild at the festivals," he murmured. "Back then, I used to wish I had the guts to talk to you."
"You're doing fine now."
His eyes dropped to her lips.
"This isn't right," he said, even though he didn't move.
"Says who?"
"My uncle. God. You?"
She leaned in, close enough to feel his breath. "I left God a long time ago."
Micah stood abruptly, as if snapping out of it. "Come on," he said. "The chapel's not the place. But I'll walk you out."
She didn't say anything, just followed him out the side entrance into the back gardens. The sun was just starting to lower, casting a golden glow on the roses and the brick path that led to the clergy house.
They stopped near the arch.
"Do you ever think about what would've happened if you didn't leave?" he asked, his voice quieter now.
"Do you?" she challenged.
His eyes darkened. "All the time."
A beat passed. Then another.
And then, he kissed her.
It wasn't gentle.
It wasn't careful.
It was the kiss of a man who had waited too long held back too much and could no longer be holy.
Leah melted into it, her fingers tangling in his shirt, pulling him closer. His hands gripped her waist, firm and wanting. He walked her back against the stone wall, lips claiming her with a hunger that had no place near the church.
"Micah…" she whispered against his mouth.
He stilled, forehead pressing to hers.
"I shouldn't."
"But you will."
He made a strangled sound, his hands sliding beneath her shirt, just skimming her skin. "I've thought about you for years, Leah. You were the one girl I could never…"
She caught his face in her hands. "Then don't hold back now."
They stumbled through the back corridor of the clergy house, eyes darting, hearts racing. No one was there. The place was quiet, the priest gone on a church visit. And just like that they were alone.
In Micah's old bedroom.
The door shut.
He pressed her against it.
This time, the kiss was slower. Drawn out. His hands roamed more carefully now, reverent. As if she was something sacred after all. She tugged his shirt free from his pants, fingers exploring warm skin, the muscles beneath.
He lifted her easily, her legs wrapping around him, her back pressed to the door.
Her head tipped back with a breathless moan as his lips traveled down her neck, her collarbone, the curve of her chest. His hands were everywhere possessive, coaxing, lost.
"Tell me if you want to stop," he rasped.
She only pulled him closer.
They didn't stop. Not until there was no more hesitation. Until the guilt was swallowed whole by the need to feel.
The bed creaked beneath them. Her body arched, his name escaping her lips again and again like a prayer.
And somewhere, far off, the chapel bells rang for evening Mass.
But they didn't hear it.
Not this time.
The bells faded into the dusk, and the only rhythm Leah knew was the frantic beat of her own heart against Micah's chest. His breath was hot against her ear, his hands restless, as though he couldn't decide if he wanted to hold her or worship her.
When it was over, they lay tangled in the sheets of his narrow bed, the weight of what they had done settling heavy in the room. Micah's arm draped across her waist, anchoring her, but his gaze was fixed on the ceiling, lips pressed into a tight line.
Leah turned her head, studying him. The boy she remembered had been soft, almost hesitant. This man beside her carried shadows in his eyes, edges carved from restraint and years of holding back.
"You're already regretting it," she whispered, tracing a line down his chest.
His eyes flicked to hers, pained but burning. "I'm already addicted to it."
The words sank into her like wine, warm and dangerous.
She smirked faintly, though her voice trembled. "Then don't pretend to be holy with me."
Micah sat up suddenly, dragging a hand over his face. "You don't understand. If my uncle finds out…"
"What? That you're human? That you want?" She rose onto her elbows, fire in her eyes. "You think you're the only one carrying guilt, Micah? I left this town because every whisper, every stare, every prayer told me I wasn't enough. And now you're telling me the same thing?"
His jaw tightened. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly, "You've always been too much for me, Leah. Too alive. Too… everything."
She slid closer, pressing her forehead to his. "Then stop fighting it."
The silence between them hummed with the same heat that had pulled them together in the first place. Micah's hands cupped her face, rough and trembling. He kissed her again, slower this time, filled with something heavier than lust. Something like inevitability.
When he pulled away, his eyes searched hers, dark with conflict. "This can't last."
"Then don't let it end," she murmured, defiance threading her voice.
Outside, the night deepened, stars slipping into the sky. The world moved on, but in that room, Leah and Micah stayed caught in the fragile, dangerous space between sin and salvation, two souls who had already crossed the line, and knew they would do it again.