Santino’s Cracking Restraint
I didn't rise at first.
I jerk to my feet.
It’s not a choice. It’s a reaction—violent, instinctive, the movement someone makes when danger walks too close or a memory hits too hard. My hand slams against the confessional door, throwing it open. The wood cracks against the stone wall with a sharp echo that ricochets through the entire church.
My breath isn’t steady.
My thoughts aren’t clean.
Something about what she said—how she said it—slipped under my skin and detonated the restraint I rely on like oxygen.
I step into the narrow hallway behind the booth, chest tight, jaw locked.
Her door opens at the same time.
For a moment, she’s only a shape carved out of shadow—a small, compact silhouette framed in the dim candlelight. The storm’s glow bleeds through the stained glass behind her, outlining her like something summoned from the night itself.
Then she steps forward.
Her hair is rain-damp, strands clinging to her jaw and the slope of her throat. Water beads along the ends and trails down the collar of her shirt. Her clothes also revealed how tightly wound she was beneath the surface as they were soaked through and molded to her figure like a second skin.
Not fragile.
Not lost.
Coiled.
Ready.
She bows her head just enough to seem penitent—but only until she lifts her face.
Amber-brown eyes lock onto mine.
Sharp. Steady. Calculating.
And unafraid.
A warning shoots down my spine, but it’s not the holy kind. It’s the kind that comes from recognizing something familiar in a stranger—purpose, danger, intent.
She isn’t here for God.
She’s here for something else.
“Who are you?” My voice comes out rougher than it should. Priest or not, I can’t hide the edge scraping along every word.
She takes one slow step toward me.
Then another.
The narrow corridor forces proximity, closing the air between us to a dangerous sliver. I feel the warmth coming off her despite her soaked clothes. Feel her presence like a hand pressing into my chest.
Like temptation dressed as a request.
Her gaze flicks to my collar. It’s quick—too quick for anyone untrained to notice. But I do. And what flashes in her eyes isn’t reverence.
It's an assessment.
