The moment I saw her again, everything I promised myself went quiet.
No words.
No warnings.
Just heat.
The kind that starts in your chest and spreads before you can stop it. The kind that doesn't ask permission—it assumes it still owns you.
She didn't rush me. She never did. She just stood there, close enough for me to feel her presence, close enough for memory to take over. Every look carried history. Every breath reminded me why walking away had been so hard.
"You came," she said softly.
I didn't answer.
I didn't need to.
The space between us disappeared—not fast, not slow, but inevitable. Familiar. Dangerous. Everything faith had warned me about wrapped in something that felt like comfort.
For a moment, I forgot the prayers.
Forgot the fear.
Forgot the cost.
All I felt was desire—raw, consuming, blinding.
Fire doesn't negotiate.
It consumes.
When it was over, the room felt different. Quieter. Heavier. Like something sacred had been traded for something temporary.
She rested against me, satisfied.
I stared at the ceiling.
That's when it hit me—not guilt, not shame.
Emptiness.
What once felt intoxicating now felt hollow. The fire still burned, but it no longer warmed—it scorched.
I realized then what made it so dangerous.
Desire doesn't leave when faith enters.
It waits.
And when it returns, it comes stronger.
I didn't feel victorious.
I felt exposed.
And deep down, I knew—this wasn't passion anymore.
It was addiction.