“Is interpretation, as you told me yourself.” Matteo’s finger slides over mine more deliberately now. “Human interpretation of divine love.”
The touch of his skin against mine breaks down walls I’ve maintained for decades. “I’ve never kissed anyone,” I confess, the words barely audible.
Matteo’s eyes widen slightly. “Never?”
“Never wanted to. Until…”
“Until?”
My gaze drops to his mouth, then back to his eyes. “Until you walked into the Vatican that first day, challenging everything I thought I knew about myself.”
Matteo moves closer, our bodies nearly touching now. “Marco,” he breathes my name like a prayer. “May I?”
I nod, unable to speak, terror and longing consuming me in equal measure.
His hand rises to cup my cheek, thumb brushing gently across my skin. I close my eyes, overwhelmed by the tenderness of the gesture. Then his lips touch mine, soft and questioning.
The kiss is gentle, chaste almost, but it ignites something primal within me. My hands move of their own accord, gripping his shoulders as I respond with an intensity that surprises us both. Matteo makes a small sound in his throat, his arms encircling me, pulling me closer.
I pull back suddenly, the reality of what I’ve done crashing over me like ice water. My hands tremble as I step away from him, putting distance between us.
“Marco?” Matteo’s voice is concerned, confused.
“This was a mistake,” I whisper, unable to meet his eyes. “A terrible mistake.”
“Don’t say that.” He reaches for me, but I back away further.
“I’m the Pope.” My voice breaks on the words. “I took vows before God. I’ve just betrayed everything I stand for, everything I’ve dedicated my life to.”
“You haven’t betrayed anything,” Matteo argues. “Being honest about who you are—”
“Is a luxury I cannot afford.” I turn away, facing the window, seeing my reflection ghosted against the night sky—white cassock, the symbol of purity and devotion. “A billion Catholics look to me for moral guidance. What we just did…”
“Was human,” he finishes.
“Was sin,” I counter, the word burning my throat. “At least according to the Church I lead.”
The silence between us stretches, heavy with unspoken words.
“Go,” I finally say. “Please. I need… I need to pray. To think.”
I sense his hesitation, his desire to argue, to pull me back from the guilt already consuming me. But he respects my request.
“This isn’t over, Marco,” he says quietly as he gathers his documents. “What happened between us is real. Denying it won’t make it disappear.”
After he leaves, I fall to my knees on the hard marble floor, pressing my forehead against the cool stone. Tears burn behind my closed eyelids as I whisper desperate prayers for forgiveness, for strength.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” The familiar words of confession feel hollow in the empty library. “I have betrayed my vows, my calling, my Church.”
My body still burns with the memory of Matteo’s touch, his lips against mine. I press my palms harder against the marble, seeking its coldness to ground me.
“Please, Lord, take this from me.” My voice breaks, echoing softly among the ancient tomes. “Take this feeling, this desire. I’ve dedicated my life to Your service. I’ve surrendered everything to Your will.”
But even as I plead, a voice deep within me whispers a dangerous question: If God made me this way, why would He condemn me for it?
I push the thought away, terrified of its implications. Generations of Church teaching cannot be wrong. The weight of tradition, of doctrine, of two thousand years of theological certainty crashes down upon my shoulders.
“I am Your servant,” I continue, voice trembling. “The shepherd You’ve chosen to guide Your flock. How can I lead others if I myselfstray from the path?”
