The church was empty in the way only holy places ever were quiet, heavy, listening.
Ava slipped into the last pew just as the bells finished tolling the hour, her heels clicking too loud against the stone floor before the sound dissolved into silence. Incense clung to the air, sweet and suffocating, wrapping around her lungs like a warning she chose to ignore.
She hadn't come to pray.
She hadn't come to repent.
She'd come because her chest felt too full, because there were thoughts pressing against her ribs that needed somewhere to go.
The confessional light was on.
Occupied.
Good.
She slid behind the wooden partition, the carved screen separating her from the unseen figure on the other side. She could hear his breathing, steady, patient. A priest's breathing. Calm. Trained.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," she began, voice barely above a whisper.
"How long has it been since your last confession?" he asked.
"Too long," she said. "Long enough to forget what forgiveness feels like."
A pause. Not judgmental. Curious.
"Go on."
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her skirt. This was supposed to be anonymous. Safe. That was the rule. That was why she'd chosen this church instead of the one near her apartment.
"I think about him," she said. "All the time."
"Who is him?"
She swallowed. "Someone I shouldn't want."
The priest exhaled slowly. "Desire is not always sin."
"But this is," Ava said quietly. "Because he listens when I talk. Because he looks at me like I matter. Because when he touches my hand, I feel seen."
Silence again, but this time it stretched.
"He's married," she added. "And so am I."
The words landed heavy, irreversible.
On the other side of the screen, the priest shifted.
"You're seeking absolution," he said carefully. "Not permission."
"I don't want absolution," Ava admitted. "I want someone to tell me I'm not already ruined."
Her heart pounded. She expected scripture. Distance. A reminder of vows.
Instead, she heard something else.
A breath, uneven.
"Sometimes," he said slowly, "we mistake longing for love. And sometimes… love finds us in places it shouldn't."
Her pulse stuttered.
That wasn't in the handbook.
She leaned closer to the screen, the latticework separating their shadows. She could see the faint outline of his jaw, the curve of his mouth when he spoke.
"You don't sound like you disapprove," she said.
"I sound like someone who understands," he replied.
The words were quiet. Dangerous.
Ava's throat tightened. "Is that allowed?"
"No," he said honestly. "But neither is what you're confessing."
The church creaked softly around them, old wood shifting, ancient and complicit.
She should have stood. She should have crossed herself and left.
Instead, she whispered, "What do you confess, Father?"
The silence this time was longer. Thicker.
"That I think about the woman behind this screen," he said. "And wonder what it would feel like to know her without the rules."
Her breath caught. Heat rushed through her, shocking and immediate.
"That's not a thought you're supposed to have."
"I know."
"Then why say it?"
"Because you asked," he replied. "And because confession is supposed to be honest."
Her fingers slid along the edge of the partition, tracing the carved saints worn smooth by centuries of hands. She imagined his doing the same on the other side.
"If I leave," she said, "this stays here."
"Yes."
"And if I don't?"
"Then it becomes something we can't unhear."
The choice trembled between them.
Ava stood slowly, knees weak. She moved around the partition, stepping into the narrow space where rules ended and people began.
He was younger than she'd expected. No collar now, just a man in black, eyes dark with restraint and something dangerously human.
They stared at each other, neither moving.
"This isn't forgiveness," he said quietly.
"I'm not asking for it."
His hand lifted, stopped inches from her face. Waiting.
She closed the distance herself.
The kiss was brief. Barely there. But it shattered something sacred all the same.
When they pulled apart, neither spoke.
Ava stepped back first. "This was my confession," she said. "Not yours."
He nodded, already retreating into the man he was meant to be. "Then go in peace."
She walked down the aisle alone, the echo of her steps louder now, heavier.
Behind her, the confessional light clicked off.
And somewhere between the altar and the door, Ava realized the truth she'd never say aloud:
Some sins weren't about temptation.
They were about being heard.