Not with the red vigil candle flickering behind me, throwing fractured light across the nativity scene set up near the altar—Mary and Joseph watching from a distance like judgment made of plaster and chipped paint.
This booth is supposed to empty me out, not pull me under.
“Let’s begin,” I say, forcing my voice steady.
But she doesn’t speak.
She waits.
Not nervously. Not searching for courage.
She waits as if she’s studying me.
Her breath stays slow and even. Controlled. Measured. She pauses before each response, as if listening to the space between us for something.
My breathing?
My restraint cracking?
The exact second she gets under my skin?
I try to shove the power back where it belongs.
“What sin brought you here tonight?” I ask.
“Temptation,” she says.
The word lands between us like a drop of warm oil in cold water—spreading, seeping, wrong.
Before I can redirect her, she adds—
“And touch.”
My grip on the wooden divider tightens until my knuckles bleach white.
Jesus Christ.
She’s doing this on purpose.
Choosing words she knows will hit.
Watching them sink in.
This isn’t a confession.
It’s a fucking game.
“This booth is not for theatrics,” I say through my teeth. “If you need guidance, speak plainly.”
Another pause.
Her breathing deepens—just slightly, but I hear it anyway, like she’s leaning closer to the screen… or leaning into the sin she wants me to feel.
“I can’t speak plainly,” she whispers. “Not yet.”
Something sharp and dangerous slices through my chest—an instinct trained from growing up under Giovanni’s shadow.
Who the hell is she?
