The Nun's Confession: 3. Saints and Sinners

Three days passed.

Three days of silence and guilt, of stolen glances across the chapel, of hearing his voice in sermons that had once been a comfort but now were a slow kind of torture. They didn’t speak of what had happened—not in words. But every time their eyes met, the air between them sizzled with memory. Every brush of a sleeve in the cloister hallway, every moment in the same room, was a war between restraint and hunger.

Sister Emilia’s sleep was restless. When she closed her eyes, she felt again the creak of the altar beneath her, the heat of his breath, the taste of his mouth. She could hear the way he had groaned her name into the quiet dark. And each time, she woke aching, her body already wet, her thighs pressed together in futile denial. These dreams were far worse, far more intense than previously and that was what made it more torturous. 

On the third afternoon, she took refuge in the convent garden. The summer sun slanted through the branches of the