Librarian Harold was a moth, and Father Michael, the new priest, was a flame. Every Wednesday, Michael visited the library to borrow theology texts, his collar snug against a neck Harold imagined kissing in reckless detail. Harold, spectacled and shy, would stammer through book recommendations, his fingers brushing Michael’s when handing over tomes. The priest’s smile—warm, like whiskey on a winter night—made Harold’s cardigan feel too tight.
Today, Michael lingered, asking about Dante. “Harold, what’s your take on forbidden love?” he asked, voice low, eyes glinting. Harold dropped a stack of books, the crash echoing like his heartbeat. “I-I think it’s… complicated,” he mumbled, adjusting his glasses, which were fogging up from sheer proximity. Michael leaned closer, whispering, “Complicated’s my favorite kind.”
Harold’s knees buckled. He pictured them tangled in the stacks, dog-eared pages as witnesses. But the library was a fishbowl, and Mrs. Grimsby, the nosy patron, was already squinting from the romance section. “Father, coffee?” Harold blurted, desperate for privacy. Michael grinned. “Only if it’s sinful.”
At the café, their knees touched under the table, and Harold’s lust was a runaway train. Michael’s laugh, rich and unguarded, was worse than any sermon. “You’re trouble, Harold,” he teased, stirring his latte with intent. Harold choked on his scone, crumbs flying. “Me? You’re the one with… cheekbones!”
When Michael left, he slipped Harold a note: Meet me in the confessional. Bring Dante. Harold stared, torn between damnation and desire. He’d go, of course. But he’d shelve his guilt first.