Holy Sins

This story is a work of fiction and does not endorse or condone real-world abuse of religious authority, infidelity, or violence.Reader discretion is strongly advised. If any of the above are difficult subjects for you, please consider skipping this story.

AERIS

Men are fucking trash.

Liars. Snakes. The worst goddamn mistake God ever made.

I stood there at the grave, watching as they lowered that casket into the ground like it was nothing. Like my whole life wasn't buried right along with him.

Philip's mom sobbed beside me, wailing into some stupid lace handkerchief while relatives whispered fake prayers and patted her back. Me? I didn't cry.

Not a single tear fell for Philip.

He died in a hotel room naked, with his mistress beside him while I thought he was on call. That bastard had been sneaking around for five years and still looked me dead in the eye every morning, kissed my forehead like he loved me, called me "baby" before walking out to lie again.

The priest droned on about peace and heaven but what kind of peace does a man get who died horny as hell fucking another woman?

None. Zero peace coming for you now, asshole.

When they started shoveling dirt over his coffin I didn't flinch.

Didn't scream.

Didn't beg God to bring him back or some holy bullshit.

I just turned around once it was covered up... walked straight to my car without looking back.

Eleven minutes later I pulled into our house the one we bought together last summer after working double shifts just so we could afford a down payment.

Same damn house today: porch light off (he always left it on), driveway empty (his truck usually parked crooked). No signs of life inside either; everything silent... too silent...

Too clean.

No TV humming from upstairs where he'd fall asleep watching sports reruns...

No music playlists blasting through Bluetooth speakers...

Just... nothingness echoing through hardwood floors when stepped across them...

Like this place forgot how human lives worked here already...

I stepped through the front door, keys still in my hand.

The smell hit me first.

His cheap cologne mixed with that stupid sandalwood soap he always used. It clung to the couch cushions, his jacket hanging by the door like he'd just left five minutes ago.

Fucking hell.

I didn't touch anything. Didn't sit down. Just walked straight through past our wedding photo on the wall (smiling faces I couldn't look at anymore), past his damn sneakers kicked off by the rug and into our bedroom.

His side of it was untouched: black hoodie thrown over a chair, socks piled beside dresser drawers half-open... like he expected to come home tonight and change for bed again...

Like everything was normal.

But nothing ever had been.

Not since day one probably.

All those late shifts "covering emergency calls"? Bullshit.

Those "business trips" where I got one blurry hotel photo texted back with no context?

Lies upon lies upon fucking lies.

And now here were all his things still smelling like him... still taking up space...

Like they had any right being here after what he did.

My chest tightened not from sadness but rage.

Pissed-off silence type shit where your blood boils but you don't say a word out loud...

The closet door was wide open, like he'd been digging through it last.

Rows of his shirts hung there. The same ones I ironed every Sunday. Same damn plaid button-ups he wore to church just to play the good husband in front of God and everyone.

One had a coffee stain on the collar from months ago the day we argued about money and he stormed out without breakfast.

I didn't touch them.

Didn't grab one.

Didn't scream or throw shit across the room like they deserved.

But I hated them all so much.

Hated how clean they were, how neat everything was folded... hated that even now, in death he still looked put together while my whole life fell apart over him being a piece-of-shit liar who cheated on me for years.

My hands curled into fists at my sides as I stared at that closet full of lies wearing his face like costumes...

Then I turned away fast before something stupid happened...

I grabbed my phone off the nightstand screen cracked from dropping it last week when I got that one text from an unknown number with a photo attached.

A hotel room. A bed with tangled sheets. And Philip, shirtless, arms around some blonde woman's waist like he owned her too.

I screamed then.

Thrown the phone across the room.

Cried for three days straight before rage kicked in.

Now? Seeing his clothes... being back in this house...

It all came rushing back hotter than ever.

My mom called again while I stood there frozen.

"Aeris?" Her voice is soft but firm through the speakerphone. "You okay?"

No lie could cover this shit right now.

"I'm at home," I said flatly. "In our house."

Silence on her end for two seconds was enough time to know she understood everything without me saying another word.

"Baby... come home tonight."

I exhaled hard through my nose, thumb hovering over the "end call" button.

Home.

Not this house. Not this hollow shell of a life I built with Philip the man who died screwing someone else like it meant nothing.

No. My real home was where Mom lived three hours north in Larkhaven, that quiet little town with pine trees and no memories of him at all.

"I'm packing up," I said finally, voice steady but cold as ice. "Leaving this evening."

"Good." Just one word but you could hear the relief underneath it. The way her shoulders probably dropped hearing me say it.

I didn't cry.

Didn't hesitate.

Already moving toward our walk-in closet mine on one side, his shit taking up twice the space on his.

First thing? A suitcase pulled off the top shelf.

Then I started throwing clothes in: jeans... sweaters... socks... anything that wasn't stained by him or tied to this life anymore...

No photos came out.

No sentimental bullshit...

Just survival mode now

Get out.

AERIS

The drive back to Larkhaven was a goddamn nightmare. Four hours of nothing but my own thoughts, no music, no podcasts, just the hum of tires on asphalt and Philip's face flashing in my head every time I blinked.

Every exit sign felt like another mile closer to home the real one. Not that fancy city shit where we lived with its stupid high-rises and fake people. Nope. This was small-town real: dirt roads, churches with steeples too tall for their purpose, neighbors who stared through curtains but wouldn't say shit if you burned your house down.

I hated how familiar it all looked when I finally rolled past that crooked-ass "Welcome to Larkhaven" sign at 3:47 PM.

My chest tightened before I even saw Mom's street before any faces appeared outside windows or porch lights flickered on like nosy beacons warning everyone inside: She's here.

And sure enough...

Mrs. Whitcombe stood watering her damn hydrangeas like she had all day (she did), eyes locked onto my car the second it turned onto Maple Lane.

Two church ladies huddled near Mom's mailbox whispering behind gloved hands those plastic-ass sympathy smiles already painted across their wrinkly faces.

Before they could swarm me? My mom burst out the front door barefoot in pajama pants and an oversized sweater hair messy from napping earlier arms wide open as hell.

"Aeris," she said loud enough for half the block probably heard,and then yanked me into a hug so hard my suitcase almost tipped over right there on pavement

The hug hit like a truck Mom's arms locked around me, tight and warm, that same vanilla-and-detergent smell hitting my nose like I was ten years old again. She didn't say anything else. Just held on.

And for the first time since Philip's body was lowered into the ground?

I almost broke.

But I didn't cry, not right there in front of Mrs. Whitcombe and those judgmental church ladies who were absolutely memorizing every second of this scene to gossip about later at Bible study.

Mom finally let go just enough to cup my face in her hands, her eyes scanning mine like she could see all the shit I hadn't slept through or eaten through or cried over yet.

"You look exhausted," she said quietly, no pity, just truth straight up, no chaser.

"Yeah," is all I managed before glancing past her shoulder at those two women still lingering near the mailbox with their fake-ass concerned faces on display for God and everyone else.

One opened their mouth, probably gonna ask some dumb question...

How are you holding up? Was it sudden? Did he suffer?

Some stupid Christian platitude crap...

But Mom turned fast as hell

"Ladies," she said flatly but not unkindly either, the tone that meant get lost now, " we're good."

The two women froze for a split second like deer in headlights before catching the go away vibe radiating off my mom.

One of them, Mrs. Callahan from down the street, opened her mouth like she was gonna say something anyway..

Mom didn't even raise her voice. Just tilted her head slightly and gave them that look the same one she used when I was sixteen and brought home some punk with piercings who looked like he sold weed out of his trunk.

They got it.

Instantly.

"Oh! Right... sorry," Mrs. Callahan mumbled, clutching her purse to her chest like a shield before turning back toward their porch across the road.

The other lady shot me one last glance half-pity, half-curiosity then scurried after her friend without another word.

Silence settled again as soon as their heels hit concrete going away.

Mom exhaled through her nose and finally turned fully back to me.

Then without asking. She grabbed my suitcase handle with one hand,and wrapped an arm around my shoulders with the other,guiding me up toward the house fast as if speed could keep prying eyes from sticking further into our business today.

The front door clicked shut behind us solid, heavy wood that blocked out the world.

Mom didn't say anything. Just dropped my suitcase by the stairs and kicked off her slippers, then turned back to me with that same quiet intensity she'd had since I was a kid and came home crying over some boy who broke my heart in middle school.

She studied me for a second like she could see every sleepless night, every tear I hadn't cried yet, every rage-filled thought about Philip rotting in his grave while some blonde stranger probably still wore his cologne on her skin.

Then she reached up... gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear...

And pulled me into another hug. Tighter this time. Deeper.

No words.

Just warmth.

Her heartbeat steady against mine through the sweater fabric.

For once?

I didn't feel strong.

I didn't have to pretend I wasn't breaking inside.

I just leaned into it and let myself be held like someone who mattered again after days of feeling invisible even when people were staring right at you.

The hug lasted longer this time, long enough that my arms finally gave in and wrapped around her too, clutching the back of her sweater like I was a little kid again who'd scraped their knee on the sidewalk.

No words. No sound but our breathing and the faint tick of Grandpa's old clock in the living room.

Then Mom shifted gently, breaking away just far enough to press another kiss to my forehead, right where she always had since I could remember. A mom thing. A you're safe thing.

"Come on," she said softly, voice low and warm like honeyed tea after a bad day.

She took my hand calloused from gardening, strong as hell and led me down the hall toward my room.

It looked exactly how it did when I left ten years ago: faded lavender walls (I picked them at sixteen), an old poster of some band no one remembered now peeling off one corner (God knows why we kept it up), dusty bookshelf with romance novels stacked haphazardly...

Everything untouched.

Frozen in time.

Like someone knew someday... you'd come crawling back here needing shelter

**************

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

No city hum. No distant sirens or AC units kicking on like they did back in Elderglen at night.

Just the faint tick of the old clock downstairs and maybe a floorboard creaking somewhere from settling wood or possibly just my imagination playing tricks.

I blinked into darkness.

The room was still, heavy with the kind of silence that only exists in old houses at night like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

I sat up slowly, stiff from lying on top of the covers instead of under them. My neck ached. So did my jaw, the stress clench I hadn't realized I'd been carrying since last week when they called to say Philip had died.

My phone wasn't charged.

No charger here because this was * Mom's house landline era.

No Wi-Fi signal strong enough for texts or emails either unless you stood directly outside by the router like some peasant praying for the internet like it was holy water.

But none of that mattered right now.

What mattered?

It was dark as hell outside.

The clock on the dresser said 12:47 AM in glowing red numbers the one Mom insisted stayed there "because emergencies happen."

And suddenly?

I remembered why I woke up

Throat dry as sandpaper after crying all night without actually crying once (those tears came later).

Water.

The hallway floor was cold under my bare feet , wood that hadn't been insulated right since the house was built in 1972. I padded quietly down the hall, avoiding the third step from the top, the one that always creaked like a dying animal.

The sitting room light glowed soft and gold through the half-open door.

Still on.

Just like Mom had left it earlier when she told me to rest.

And there she was exactly where I expected her to be: curled in her favorite chair by the fireplace, legs tucked under herself, a book open on her lap. Her reading glasses sat low on her nose, catching light just so they shimmered faintly.

She looked up instantly when I appeared, no surprise at all seeing me now. Like she'd known I'd come out eventually.

A small smile touched her lips as she marked the page with finger and closed the book gently, not angry or annoyed about being woken; never would be with me after everything today.

"Couldn't sleep?"

Mom pushed her glasses up into her hair and set the book some historical novel with a fancy leather cover on the side table. The cold tea sat beside it, untouched now for hours.

She didn't ask if I was okay.

Didn't offer empty sympathy or hug me again like she had at the door.

Just watched me with that quiet, all-knowing look the kind only mothers have after decades of reading their kids' faces better than they read books.

Then she nodded toward the kitchen without speaking.

I knew what that meant Water? Snack? Want something warm to drink?

So I went through anyway, the living room opening into a small eat-in kitchen where everything smelled faintly like vanilla and old spices. Mom always kept cinnamon sticks in a jar by the stove.

The fridge hummed quietly as I pulled open the door,reaching straight for a pitcher of filtered water.

The glass clinked softly when I set it down in the sink.

I turned off the faucet, wiped my hands on a dish towel (an old habit), and padded back into the sitting room barefoot, silent as ever over those creaky floors.

Mom was still where I left her.

The book is closed now.

Hands folded over her lap like she'd been waiting for me without saying so.

She looked up when I entered eyes soft but alert and then did something unexpected

Instead of asking how I felt or if sleep would come tonight?

She smiled.

That small, mischievous one, the kind that meant gossip was coming whether anyone wanted it or not.

"So," she said quietly,voice lower than usual,like sharing secrets even though we were alone,

"You wanna hear what's been going on around here?"

I blinked.

Not because I didn't care obviously I did but because this felt... normal.

Like the kind of thing moms do when their kids come home from college or a trip, not after someone just buried their husband.

But here she was. Offering me gossip like it was an olive branch to humanity again.

And honestly?

I needed that right now more than comfort or pity.

So without thinking, I nodded and sank onto the couch across from her the same spot as before and tucked my feet under me like some teenager staying up late for drama they weren't even part of but loved hearing about anyway.

Mom's face lit up slightly.

She closed her book fully this time,rested it on the coffee table,and leaned forward just a little...

Like she'd been waiting all day to spill town tea.

AERIS

( A Month Later)

The bell was already ringing when I came downstairs.

Same damn sound it's made every Sunday since before I could remember low, heavy, echoing over Larkhaven like God Himself was calling roll. But today? Today it was different. Not nostalgic or comforting just present, like a fucking reminder that life hadn't stopped just because mine had cracked open a month ago.

Mom stood in the kitchen wearing her usual church outfit, a modest skirt and cardigan,and took one look at me.

"You clean up nice," she said. Not fake sweetness either; honest observation from someone who knew what grief looked like on people's faces daily now that she ran half this town's social life through parish gossip circles.

I didn't say thanks.

I didn't need to.

We both knew this wasn't about looking good,it was about surviving another public appearance where everyone would stare subtly while pretending not to notice the widow daughter who came home after burying her husband too young.

"Ready?" she asked quietly instead of pushing more compliments out there uselessly between us two women standing awkwardly with nothing but silence usually filling these moments between family members post-bereavement shit happening around them constantly lately.

Yeah no shit I wasn't ready,but saying that out loud? That'd be selfish.

"Mm-hmm."

The walk to church was a parade.

Not literally,no floats or marching bands,but close. By the time we hit Main Street, people were already falling into step beside us like it was some unspoken Larkhaven rule: No one walks alone on Sunday.

First came the Hensleys,Mrs. Hensley waving with that manicured hand of hers, Mr. Hensley nodded solemnly in his stupid polo shirt (who wears those to church?).

Then the Doyles appeared outta nowhere, Mrs. Doyle immediately launching into complaints about how hot it was for September while her husband just grunted and kept walking.

Kids from town I didn't recognize zipped past on bikes or hopped off porches yelling at each other before spotting my mom and slowing down respectfully,the kind of automatic politeness small towns bred whether you liked them or not.

And then there she was,Aveline.

Waiting near Saint Michael's front steps like she'd been planted there by God Himself.

Arms crossed.

Sunglasses pushed up into her blonde hair where they always sat when she wasn't wearing them full-on sun-protection mode.

She saw me first,and damn if relief didn't flash across her face for half a second before she schooled it back behind cool-girl neutrality.

Then movement.

A hug,tight fast fierce,one arm locking around my shoulders like an anchor as soon as I got within reach.

"There you are," Aveline said low against my ear before pulling back just enough to scan my face properly

The hug was over fast,just long enough to say I see you, I'm here,and then Aveline grabbed my hand like she always did when she wanted to make sure I didn't drift off into grief-land.

She tugged me toward the church doors without another word, already scanning the pews inside like a general surveying battle lines.

"Seat's saved," she muttered, shooting a glare at Cordelia and her knitting circle hovering near our usual spot. "Barely."

Cordelia gave her one of those polite-but-passive-aggressive smiles,the kind that meant Oh sweetie, we were just about to sit there ourselves but backed off when Aveline didn't blink.

We slid into our row.

Mom took hers two back with Mrs. Hensley and another friend chatting quietly over hymnals.

Aveline plopped down beside me hard enough for the wood seat to creak slightly under her weight.

Then came gossip time,because of course it fucking did.

Before any priest even walked out? Before music started?

Aveline leaned in close,voice dropping low,

eyes glinting with mischief.

"Okay... Florence caught Ambrose on a ladder again."

Aveline said it like she was delivering top-tier intelligence.

"Again?" I whispered back, eyebrow lifting.

"What the hell was he doing on a ladder this time?"

She smirked,wicked, delighted,and leaned in even closer, her voice dropping to that conspiratorial hush only church gossip could pull off without sounding ridiculous.

"He was trying to fix his roof gutter," she said slowly. "Alone. At 6 AM last Tuesday."

My lips twitched.

I didn't want to laugh.

It wasn't funny,but Ambrose being Ambrose? Always attempting DIY projects way above his skill level? That man had nearly killed himself more times than most people got divorced.

"And?" I prompted quietly as the organist started tuning up at the front.

Aveline's grin widened. "And Florence saw him from her window while watering plants and went out there yelling like a banshee because he'd forgotten safety lines again."

I snorted.

Then covered my mouth fast when several heads turned toward us,not including Mom's; hers stayed firmly forward on prayer mode already set for service about to begin properly any second now.

The music swelled slightly,soft opening chords of today's hymn starting up.

The organ hit that first heavy chord oom and the whole church seemed to exhale at once.

People straightened.

Hymnals opened.

A few folks shuffled into their seats late, slipping in quietly like they were hoping no one would notice.

But Aveline wasn't done yet.

She turned her head just slightly,still facing forward,but tilted it toward me so I could hear every word without reading lips,and dropped another bombshell.

"Cordelia's convinced the new organist is sleeping with Knight Maloney's wife."

My eyes snapped wide open.

Not because I cared about church drama,or even believed a word of this,but because Knight Maloney? The old guy who looked like he'd been dried out and hung in a closet since Vatican II?

And his wife? Sweet Mrs. Maloney who baked pies for funeral receptions and always wore floral dresses?

No fucking way.

I glanced sideways at Aveline.

She was biting her lower lip to keep from laughing, shoulders shaking silently under her jacket as she stared dead ahead like an angel behaving perfectly during service.

The church was filling up,people shuffling into pews, murmuring greetings, kids being hushed by parents.

The choir was still tuning when the priest walked in.

And Jesus, it hit me like a freight train,like someone had just cranked the air out of my lungs and replaced it with static.

He wasn't what I expected. At all. Not some soft-spoken, round-faced priest who looked like he belonged at a bake sale or some shit. Nope. This guy? Tall as hell, broad shoulders under that stupidly tailored black robe, dark hair cut sharp enough to kill a man,and those eyes?

Fucking hell. Gray-blue,cold-looking but not cold at all,and they scanned the pews slowly and deliberately like they were measuring every single person in here for something deeper than faith.

Aveline noticed me staring before I could even pretend not to be.

She turned her head slowly toward him... then back to me... then smirked...the biggest fucking shit-eating grin on her face you've ever seen

"Ohhhh," she whispered under her breath,not even trying to hide how amused she was by whatever expression must've been plastered across my dumbstruck face right now

When I didn't answer fast enough (because honestly? My brain short-circuited), Aveline leaned closer.

"That's Father Ronan Armand."

My mouth opened slightly,but nothing came out yet because wow okay this man radiated danger without saying one word loud enough for anyone else nearby catch wind of it

Aveline watched me like a hawk,amused, entertained, loving every second of my silent freakout.

"Yeah," she whispered, nudging my shoulder with hers. "That's him. Father fucking Armand."

She said his name like it meant something,like he was some legendary figure instead of just a priest who showed up on Sundays to say mass and pretend not to notice Cordelia's gossipy side-eye during communion.

And then? He started talking.

No mic needed. Just that deep, smooth voice cutting through the church air like velvet wrapped around steel,and damn.

Every word landed somewhere between your ribs and your spine because holy shit it wasn't fair how someone could sound both calm as hell and devastating at the same time?

I tried focusing on what he was saying,the sermon about grace or whatever,but no dice. My brain kept glitching back to:

Who is this man? Why does God look this good?

Every glance his way sent another stupid jolt through me,raw attraction mixed with something dangerously close to obsession already forming after exactly zero conversations

Then came eye contact

His eyes swept over the pews,methodical, like he was scanning every face for something.

And then they landed on me.

Not just a glance. Not some polite priestly sweep past. Nope. A full, deliberate look long enough that my stomach flipped hard and fast like I'd been punched in the gut by Cupid with zero chill about boundaries or appropriate timing.

I didn't blink.

I forgot to breathe.

My hands clenched slightly in my lap because what the fuck was this feeling?

Aveline noticed instantly,and without missing a beat, she muttered under her breath.

"Ohhh shit."

She wasn't even trying to hide it anymore. Just watching me short-circuit while Father Fucking Armand held my gaze across an entire church full of people

Then,a tiny movement from him.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Just barely.

Like amusement? Interest? Something else entirely?

It lasted half a second before he looked away again,but holy hell it felt significant as fuck

The service ended with the usual hymn,some slow, somber thing about light or redemption,and then people started shuffling out like always, chatting, hugging, forming their little church-clique circles in the courtyard.

I stayed seated for a second too long because my brain was still stuck on that look he gave me. That stupidly intense eye contact that shouldn't have meant anything but somehow felt like a whole conversation.

Aveline stood and stretched. "C'mon," she said quietly,not pushing hard but clearly ready to move on from standing around staring at priests like some lovesick schoolgirl

We got up together and walked outside into the bright Sunday morning sun.

The churchyard was buzzing now: kids running around playing tag near statues; Cordelia already deep in conversation with three other women probably spreading new scandal theories; Mom laughing loudly somewhere near her friend group

And there he was.

Father Armand.

Moving through crowds effortlessly,smiling politely here and there,but not stopping much yet just making his way across the courtyard toward one of the side entrances maybe?

Then suddenly,he changed direction.

Straight toward us

Aveline stiffened slightly beside me as she noticed him too,because yeah, no way you don't notice a man that tall and commanding cutting through a crowd like he owns the place.

Then he was right there.

Up close? Worse.Or better. I still couldn't decide. His face was sharper than it looked from afar,strong jawline, those piercing gray-blue eyes now even more noticeable without the distance,and up close, his presence wasn't just attractive; it was overwhelming in this quiet, intense way

He stopped in front of us with that same calm authority,but then smiled faintly at Aveline first like they were familiar or something

"Father," Aveline said casually,not overly formal but not rude either; just normal polite tone people use with priests around here probably

His gaze slid to me then,and fuck if my pulse didn't spike again under that steady stare

He didn't say anything right away.

Just looked at me,really like he was trying to figure something out. Not in a creepy way, but like...he recognized me from somewhere. Or maybe just sizing up who I was now that I'd shown back up after years gone

Then finally he spoke.

" Sister Vaelina's daughter."

My name must've been all over the place before I left Larkhaven for good,but hearing him say it like that? With no introduction or pleasantries first? Straight to business?

It threw me slightly off balance

"Yeah," I said simply, voice steady even though my heart wasn't playing along with calmness at all

He nodded once,like that confirmed something in his head,and then did the most unexpected thing.

He smiled.

Not a fake priest's smile. Not one of those polite, performative grins people use to make others feel comfortable without actually meaning anything behind it.

Nope.

This was real.

Small,but genuine. The kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes just slightly and made him look...human? Approachable?

Fuck.

It hit me harder than I wanted it to

"Welcome home," he said.

And damn if that didn't send another stupid jolt through my chest because why was a priest of all people,the first guy since Philip who'd made my pulse do shit like this

Aveline stayed quiet beside me,smart girl. She wasn't interrupting, just observing with that sharp, knowing look of hers like she could already see the disaster unfolding in my head.

Father Armand didn't linger long though. After a beat,just one more second where his eyes stayed locked on mine like he was memorizing something,he turned slightly and nodded at Aveline again before stepping away smoothly

No handshake.

No awkward small talk.

Just...a polite exit after giving me that smile and those words

And then he was walking off toward another group of parishioners who immediately swarmed him with greetings and questions

I exhaled slowly once he was gone,not realizing I'd been holding my breath.