Chapter 4: Hands That Shouldn’t Touch
1192 Words
Hands That Shouldn’t Touch
Adrian
"You don't have to scrub so hard," I said gently, stepping into the sanctuary. My voice echoed lightly from the effect of the vaulted ceilings. She was on her knees, bent over the altar rail, her hair falling over her shoulder like dark silk.
She turned her head slightly. "I like things clean," Layla replied, without looking at me directly. "It helps me think."
"You could think anywhere," I said. "Why here?"
She finally looked at me. Her eyes...bright, too observant. "Because you're here."
The room suddenly became suffocating.
I stepped forward slowly, as if moving too fast would shatter something fragile and forbidden. "Layla, that's not a good reason."
She shrugged, going back to polishing the altar's brass edge with too much focus. "Maybe I don't care."
"You should." I moved closer, drawn by something I couldn’t name. I needed to stop, but I didn’t. "This is sacred."
She looked up again, her lips parted. "So am I. Or do you not believe that anymore, Father?"
My breath hitched on hearing that. She’d said it was like a challenge. Like a dare. And God helped me, I wanted to answer it.
"You shouldn’t say things like that," I murmured, glancing at the crucifix above us. "Not to me."
She smiled, but it wasn’t smug. It was soft, sad. "Why? Because you might believe me?"
My jaw clenched as I forced myself to remain calm. I looked away, pretending I hadn’t felt the burn crawling down my whole body. Pretending the front of my collar didn’t feel like a noose.
She stood, brushing her palms on her jeans. "You told me once you loved someone. What happened to her?"
I looked at her, really looked. She was too young. Too wild in her grief. Too much like the past I buried.
"She died," I simply replied.
"How?"
"In fire," I answered, with no details. Because the truth never needed dressing. "I couldn’t save her."
Layla took a step closer. "But you wanted to, right?"
"More than anything in the world."
"Is that why you became a priest?"
I nodded once, not able to talk. "Guilt is a holy motivator."
She was now just inches from me. "And what motivates you now?"
"Redemption," I whispered. But the word felt thin between us.
Layla bent her head, her eyes never leaving mine. "Is that what you're doing when you watch me? Trying to redeem something?"
My body stiffened. "I don't watch you."
"You do."
"Layla...."
She reached out first. Her fingers brushed mine as she handed me the cleaning cloth. The skin-on-skin contact felt like an electric shock. I froze immediately.
She didn’t pull away. And neither did I, because I wanted her touch so badly.
The silence between us was so suffocating. My heart slammed against my ribs, threatening to burst open. I should have stepped back. I should have said a prayer. I should have run.
Instead, my hand turned and enclosed hers.
"We can't," I said, though my thumb was stroking the inside of her palm.
"But you want to," she whispered.
I didn't speak. I couldn’t give her an answer.
Her other hand rose, touched the edge of my cassock, then slid up until her fingertips grazed my jawline.
I closed my eyes. Just one kiss. One moment. One sin.
I leaned in slowly.
Our lips were just a breath apart.
"Father Adrian!"
The door creaked open almost immediately, at the wrong time. The voice...belonged to Sister Felicity.
I jerked back like I'd been burned, guilt pouring over me in hot waves. Layla stepped back too, eyes wide, breathing uneven.
"You left this behind, Layla," Sister Felicity said, walking in with a notebook. I recognized it instantly. That was Layla's journal.
She froze on seeing it. "Oh my God."
I reached for it. "I...I'll hold on to it. In case she needs it."
Felicity raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. She handed it to me, then left.
Layla stared at the notebook in my hands. "Please don't read it."
I gave a faint nod. "You should go."
She hesitated, then turned and left without another word.
My hands trembled as I looked down at the leather-bound cover.
The moment I was alone, I quickly opened it.
And the first page read:
"Forgive me, Father, for I am falling in love with you. And I don't want to stop."
My chest constricted. Then the word left my mouth.
Then I flipped to the last page she wrote. The ink was still fresh. It said:
"If he touches me again, I will let him ruin me. But does he want to? Or is he just afraid of how much he already has?"
I closed the notebook slowly.
Was I still in control? Or had I already surrendered?
Did she know I would open it? Or did she want me to?
>>>>>>>>>>>
"That's private."
Her voice was sharp, startled but nothing close to being angry. It kind of awakened something in me. I looked up from the worn pages of her journal and caught her eyes. Her chest rose and fell like she’d run all the way here, and I felt the words I’d just read still thrum inside me like the aftershock of a sin.
I closed the book gently, as though her confessions were sacred scripture.
"You’re not wrong to feel, Layla."
Her lips parted slightly. For a heartbeat, she said nothing. Just standing there and looking at me. I saw her eyes move to the journal in my hands, then to my face, as if trying to read whether I was disgusted or turned on. I didn’t know which I was either. Even my collar felt tighter than usual.
"You read all of it?"
I nodded slowly.
"You weren’t meant to."
"And yet," I murmured, stepping closer, "you left it. Where did I find it?
Her breath hitched the moment I said that. Her hands trembled slightly as she crossed her arms. The library was dim, silent, and we were alone...too alone. I could smell the faintest trace of lavender and something warmer, something only hers.
"Maybe I wanted you to," she whispered.
I stepped closer, every instinct screaming to retreat but my feet dragging me into fire.
"Layla..."
"No. Let me talk now. Please."
She moved closer until I could feel the heat coming off her skin. "I meant every word I wrote. Every thought I harbored. Every image I created in my head. Every time I picture your hands on me instead of mine..."
"Stop."
"....your lips on my throat instead of prayers in my ears."
"Layla."
She didn’t stop. Her fingers slid into my wrist. A feather-light touch, and yet it burned. "You’ve haunted me. I try to pray, and I see your mouth. I try to repent, and I think of how your breath would feel on my neck. I woke up aching."
I wanted to run. I wanted to stay. I wanted to damn myself for one more taste of her.
And then her hand touched my
chest.
"Please tell me you’ve thought about me too," she whispered.
"Every night."
- Writer
