You lean close, lips brushing the shell of his ear. Lets go somewhere quieter, you murmur. He doesnt hesitate.

Thats the thing about desire: it hates interruption. It wants a destination.

He straightens, runs a hand through his hair, smiles like hes just been chosen for something special. He has, even if he doesnt know it.

The club swallows you briefly: bass, bodies, neon. But it feels so distant now. His hand rests at the small of your back as you guide him toward the door. Outside, the night air is cool and damp. The city glistens under streetlights. He laughs at something you barely hear. Youre focused on the rhythm of his footsteps, the warmth radiating from him, the steady, living sound of him.

You walk side by side, close enough that your arms brush. He asks where you live.

Not far, you say. That much is true.

Your building is old brick with narrow windows and a warm light outside the door. Modest. Respectable. The kind of place no one questions. The kind of place a holy man lives.

You unlock the door and let him step inside first. The hallway smells faintly of incense and old wood. Your apartment door opens with a soft click.

Inside: dim, warm lamps. Shelves of theology books. A crucifix on the wall above a tidy couch. Everything is arranged with careful restraint. It looks like no one lives here at all.

You close the door. The sound echoes louder than it should, your heart pounding again.

He turns to you, smile returning, confidence sliding back into place. So what now?

You move closer. Slow, measured steps across the hardwood floors. Your fingers brush his wrist, feeling the pulse there again, and the hunger inside you is louder here. More focused.

This is your space. Your altar. And hes your sacrifice.

EAT