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The impossible promise hangs between us, fragile and precious. For this moment, in this forgotten garden, I allow myself to believe it could be true. His arm circles my waist, drawing me closer until I’m nearly in his lap, our foreheads touching, breath mingling in the small space between us.

“I never knew it could feel like this,” I confess, the words barely audible. “To want someone so much it feels like drowning.”

His eyes darken further at my words, his hand at my waist tightening possessively. “I’ve wanted you since that first meeting,” he admits. “When you spoke about love being broader than human understanding. I saw something in your eyes then—a truth you were hiding from everyone, maybe even yourself.”

His honesty emboldens me. I let my fingers trace the outline of his lips, marvelling at their softness in contrast to the masculine strength of his jaw. “I’ve spent my entire life running from this part of myself,” I tell him. “Believing it was wrong, sinful.”

“And now?” His question hangs between us, weighted with possibility .

“Now I don’t know what to believe,” I answer truthfully. “Except that this—” I press my palm against his chest, feeling his heartbeat strong and steady beneath my hand, “—feels more right than anything I’ve ever known.”

He kisses me again, gentler now but no less affecting.

My body responds instantly, leaning into him, seeking more contact, more heat, more of everything he offers.

For these precious moments, I am not the Pope, not the Holy Father, not the successor to Peter—I am simply Marco, a man discovering for the first time what it means to desire and be desired in return.

* * *

Later, I kneel in the private chapel adjacent to my apartments, evening prayers becoming a tumult of confession and question. The memory of Matteo’s touch lingers on my skin like a brand, impossible to ignore even in this sacred space.

“Your Holiness?” Father Domenico’s gentle voice breaks through my troubled meditation. The elderly priest enters quietly, his familiar presence usually a comfort.

“Father,” I acknowledge, unable to meet his eyes.

He settles beside me, his aged knees creaking slightly as he kneels. “I did not mean to intrude on your prayers.”

“You’re never an intrusion,” I assure him.

We sit in silence for a moment, the candles flickering before the altar. I can feel his gaze on me, seeing more than I wish to reveal.

“Your spirit seems troubled tonight, my son,” he says finally, the familial address a reminder of our long association before my elevation.

I stare at the crucifix before us. “Is it so obvious?”

“Only to one who has known you since you were a novice in seminary,” he says gently. “Would you like to make confession? ”

The question hangs heavy in the air. What would I confess? That I have discovered corruption at the heart of the Church I love? Or that I have discovered something about myself that the same Church condemns?

Something breaks within me—perhaps the weight of secrets too long carried alone.

“Yes,” I whisper. “I would.”

Father Domenico nods, moving to sit in the confessional booth that stands in the corner of the private chapel. I follow, my heart pounding as I take my place on the penitent’s side.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” The familiar words catch in my throat. How strange to speak them now, as Pope, to a priest who once guided me as a seminarian.

“God is listening, my son,” Father Domenico says gently.

“I have betrayed my vows,” I begin, my voice barely audible. “I have… I have developed feelings for someone. Feelings that go beyond spiritual connection or friendship.”

“Continue,” he encourages when I fall silent.

“It’s the Prime Minister,” I say finally, the confession rushing out like water through a broken dam. “Matteo Valentini. We’ve been working together on the corruption investigation, and we…” I can’t bring myself to describe what has happened between us, and what I want to happen.

“You care for him,” Father Domenico says. Not a question, but a statement of understanding.

“Yes.” The admission feels both terrifying and liberating. “More than I should. More than my position allows.”

“And does he return these feelings?”

“Yes.” I close my eyes, remembering the tenderness in Matteo’s gaze. “We kissed tonight. In the gardens. Not for the first time. I know it’s wrong, I know what the Church teaches about such relationships, but—”

“Marco,” Father Domenico interrupts gently, using my name rather than my title. “Look at me.”

I raise my eyes, expecting to see disappointment or condemnation. Instead, I find only compassion in his weathered face.

“I have served the Church for over fifty years,” he says. “In that time, I have seen doctrine interpreted and reinterpreted. I have watched as teachings once considered absolute were gradually understood in new light.”

“But this—” I begin.

“Is about love,” he finishes. “And love, in all its authentic forms, comes from God.”

I stare at him, scarcely believing what I’m hearing. “The Church’s teaching—”

“Was written by men, Marco. Imperfect flawed men trying to understand divine will through the limitations of their time, culture, and arrogance.” He reaches through the screen to place his hand over mine. “God loves all His children. This has never been in question.”

“How can you be so certain?” I ask, desperate for the reassurance he offers.

“Because I have heard thousands of confessions over decades of service. I have witnessed the same struggles, the same pain in countless souls who believed their capacity for love was somehow sinful.” His eyes hold mine steadily.

“And I have seen the damage done by those who use doctrine as a weapon rather than a guide to compassion.”

Tears form in my eyes, falling unchecked. “I don’t know what to do,” I confess. “I have responsibilities to the Church, to the faithful. But I also feel that denying this truth about myself—about what I feel for him—would be its own kind of lie.”

“The greatest responsibility you have is to lead with authenticity and love,” Father Domenico says. “The Church has survived for two thousand years not because its doctrines remained static, but because at its heart, it seeks to embody Christ’s love in an ever-changing world.”

“Are you saying I should pursue this relationship?” I ask, astonished.

“I’m saying you should not condemn yourself for experiencing love,” he clarifies. “What path you choose—how you balance your personal truth with your public office—that is between you and God. But know this: God does not reject you for who you are or who you love.”

The absolution he offers feels like cool water on parched soil. “How do I reconcile this with my position as Pope?”

Father Domenico smiles gently. “Perhaps that is precisely why God placed you in this position, Marco. Not despite who you are, but because of it.”

“You believe my… orientation… could serve a purpose in God’s plan?”

“I believe that authentic witness to God’s inclusive love is what the Church needs most in these troubled times.” He makes the sign of the cross. “God’s mercy is boundless, His understanding far greater than our human doctrines can contain.”

As he pronounces the words of absolution, I feel something shift within me—not the elimination of conflict, but perhaps the beginning of integration. The man and the Pope, the private self and public office, the doctrine I’ve sworn to uphold and the truth I can no longer deny.

“Thank you, Father,” I whisper as we rise.

“Remember, Your Holiness,” he says, reverting to my title though his eyes remain kind, “Christ’s harshest words were never for those who loved too much, but for those who used religion to exclude and condemn.”

As Father Domenico leaves me alone in the chapel, I turn once more to the crucifix. My prayers are different now—still questioning, still uncertain of the path ahead, but no longer fractured by shame .

“Guide me, Lord,” I whisper. “Not away from this love, but toward the truth of how it might serve Your greater purpose.”