Female.
Every muscle in my shoulders locks. My breath catches—not from fear, but something worse. Something I don’t name. Something I’ve spent four years beating into silence.
Restraint, Santino.
Control.
You chose this life.
You fucking chose it.
The footsteps draw closer, echoing off stone and silence until the curtain on the other side of the booth shifts.
I straighten, jaw tight, pulse doing things I hate.
Whoever she is, she moves like she doesn’t give a damn about being here. Without hesitation. No trembling. Not seeking salvation.
The booth settles with her weight.
I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t react. I shouldn’t feel… anything.
But I do.
God help me—I feel everything.
A breath, soft and steady, drifts through the wooden screen separating us. The storm quiets just enough for her presence to swallow the space between us.
Who the hell walks into my confessional at this hour?
Another breath.
A shift of fabric.
A hint of scent—rain, smoke… something floral I can’t place.
My chest tightens.
Unwanted.
Uncontrolled.
Un-fucking-acceptable.
I adjust my collar, trying to ground myself, but the air feels different now. Charged. Alive!
Like the moment before a blade hits flesh.
I lean forward, voice low and controlled, the way a priest’s should be.
“Speak,” I say.
What I don’t say—what pounds inside my ribs anyway—is this:
Whoever you are?
You shouldn’t be here.
And neither should I.
