The temptation in daylight

Morning light filtered through stained glass windows, casting ribbons of red and gold across the floor of the chapel. It was a sacred hour — the kind of quiet that demanded reverence — yet Arthur Harper stood before the altar, gripping its edge as if begging it to anchor him to something righteous. But righteousness had become a memory, buried under the scent of her skin, the taste of her lips.

He hadn’t slept. How could he? Every time he closed his eyes, he felt her, heard her gasp his name, tasted her sin on his tongue. He had broken his vows in the dark — but now daylight illuminated the ruin he had become.

Behind him, footsteps echoed lightly. He didn’t have to turn to know it was Isabella.

“I thought you’d be here,” she said softly.

He exhaled. “It’s the only place I can think straight.”

She walked down the aisle toward him, her heels clicking against the tile. No makeup, hair still damp from a rushed shower, and yet she glowed. Or maybe he was just still drunk on her presence.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” she confessed. “About you. About what we did.”

Arthur turned. Their eyes locked. He wanted to say it was wrong — wanted to say they had to stop — but he knew he wouldn’t mean it.

“Neither can I.”

She reached him. There was no hesitation this time, no coy glances or subtle brushes of fingers. She wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her cheek against his chest.

“I’m scared,” she murmured. “Because I don’t know if I can walk away.”

His hands found her lower back. “Then don’t.”

That was all it took.

She kissed him, openly, hungrily — in the same place he had once preached about restraint. Her lips claimed his as if they were entitled. Arthur surrendered.

He lifted her onto the altar.“Blasphemy,” she whispered.

He pulled her skirt up. “Say amen.”

-----

They didn’t even bother locking the chapel doors.

She clung to him like absolution, each gasp a confession. The way her legs wrapped around his waist, the desperate way she whispered his name — it undid him. Again. And again. The incense, still faint in the air, mixed with the scent of sweat and sin. Arthur pressed kisses along her throat, his teeth grazing her collarbone, her moans echoing in the sacred space.

He shouldn’t have taken her there. But there was something about claiming her in that room — something about the way she arched under him beneath the watching eyes of saints and martyrs. He wanted her everywhere. On every pew. Against every stained glass window.

Afterward, she lay on the altar table, breathless, eyes glassy with desire.

“You’re addictive,” she whispered.

“You’re a damnation I’m willing to die for,” he replied, brushing hair from her face.

She laughed softly. “You always talk like a poet. Even when you’re wrecking me.”

He smiled. But behind that smile, guilt stirred.

He left her to rest while he went to prepare for Mass. They had time before the congregation arrived — just enough to wash the sin from his hands.

But it wasn’t her touch he couldn’t scrub away. It was what he felt.

Desire, yes. But something else. Something terrifying, Love!

------

Victor called again.

Isabella ignored the first ring. Then the second. But on the third, she picked up — not because she wanted to, but because some part of her needed to tie up loose ends.

“Where the hell have you been?” His voice was clipped.

“Busy.” “With what? With whom?” “That’s none of your business anymore, Victor.”

He laughed bitterly. “You think you can walk away from me like that?”

“I don’t think. I know.” “You’re making a mistake. You don’t know who that priest really is.”

She went cold. “Don’t say his name.”

Victor chuckled again. “You don’t know the half of it, Isabella. You think he’s a holy man? He’s got secrets bigger than your little affair.”

“What are you talking about?”

But Victor hung up.

---

By late afternoon, Arthur sat in the confession booth.

He hadn’t intended to hear confessions that day. But someone had left the door ajar, and habit was hard to kill.

He sat quietly, breathing in the familiar scent of wood and dust.

The door on the other side opened. Someone entered.

Silence. Then — a voice. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

Arthur stiffened. He knew that voice. Low. Dangerous.

“Victor.” “I see you remember now.” “What do you want?”

Victor chuckled. “A little forgiveness. Or maybe just a warning. Stay away from Isabella. She’s not yours to save.”

Arthur’s voice was calm. “She doesn’t belong to you either.”

"You don’t know what you’re getting into, Father. You really don’t.”

And then he was gone.

---

That night, Arthur returned to the chapel. But Isabella wasn’t there. Her absence felt like a hollowness he couldn’t ignore.

He found her eventually — on the church rooftop, where the city stretched in golden lines below them. She was sitting on the edge, legs dangling over nothing, wind in her hair.

“You shouldn’t be up here,” he said.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Didn’t know you were my keeper.”

He sat beside her. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

“I was thinking.”

“About him?”

She nodded. “He knows something. Something about you. He’s threatening to expose it.”

Arthur went still. “What did he say?”

“That you’re hiding something. That I don’t know the real you.”

He took a long breath. Then: “He’s not wrong.”

Her gaze snapped to his. “Arthur?”

“I haven’t told you everything, Isabella. About why I became a priest. About the life I left behind.”

“Tell me now.”

And so he did.

Piece by piece, he unraveled. The bar fights. The gang affiliations. The night he almost killed a man. The judge who gave him a choice: prison or priesthood. The man he once was — violent, broken, angry. A sinner long before he found faith.

“I wanted to bury him,” Arthur said. “I thought God could make me new.”

She reached for his hand. “But you’re not that man anymore.”

“Aren’t I?”

Silence settled between them. Then she leaned in and kissed him.

Not with heat, this time.

With hope.

And maybe, just maybe, redemption.