Part 1

She scrubbed the sink with such force that her fingers ached. Suds flew up and floated gently down unto the tiles, shimmering in the sunlight. Sister Bernadette stopped for a moment to get a better grip on the slippery sponge, then attacked the sink with renewed vigour.

She had hoped that the cold water and silky texture of the sponge would ground her. However, her hands knew the motions required of them and her mind began to wander. Not even the dull ache that started between her shoulder blades caused by her hunching could keep her thoughts in check.

She had only to close her eyes and see his face. She could dream the little dimple in his chin, the way his dark hair flopped over his forehead, his large and calloused hands…

"Focus!" she hissed as she made a large sweeping movement, causing water to slosh over the edge of the sink and drip unto the lino.

"I think that sink is as spotless as it's ever going to be," a gentle voice remarked. Sister Bernadette spun around. Doctor Turner stood on the threshold of the kitchen, his bag in one hand, a saucer and china cup in the other and a smile trying to hide in the corner of his mouth. Sister Bernadette felt herself blush and averted her eyes.

"I'm sorry, did I startle you?"

"I did not know you were here, doctor," she said. She forced herself to look at the foam that dribbled slowly to the centre of the sink.

"I forgot my bag," he said, holding it up for her to see.

"A doctor without his bag won't do," Sister Bernadette agreed. She dug the nails of her left hand into her palm.

"No, not at all. Say, do you know where I can find Sister Julienne? I thought she would be here," he asked.

Don't look at him, keep looking at the sink, for God's sake don't stare… Sister Bernadette repeated the words in her head like a mantra.

"Sister Julienne was called out. She's been a while. She won't be long now, I don't think," she said. She toyed with the sponge, squeezing it and forcing to focus herself on the sensation of cold, soapy water that trickled over her fingers.

"Ah, I see. Well, I should be on my way. No rest for the wicked," Doctor Turner said and put the cup and saucer down.

"You haven't eaten the biscuit," Sister Bernadette said, angling her body towards his without noticing and finally looking him in the face.

"I hadn't noticed, I…" he stopped mid-sentence. The smile that had hid around the doctor's mouth now showed itself.

"Is something funny?" she asked.

"You have a bit of…" he said, putting his bag down, closing the space between them with two long strides and raising his hand to her face. He placed his fingertips lightly on her left cheekbone, using his thumb to brush away a bit of foam. His touch was so light that she could almost tell herself that she imagined it.

"I think you would call that the zygomatic bone," she whispered. Everything in her cried out that he should remove his hand, that he should not touch her face, not even with his fingertips, but she could not bring herself to say it. She realised it was because, even though he should not touch her, she wanted him to.

"You are correct," Doctor Turner said. His voice had grown husky and very soft. Their eyes found each other and their gazes locked. She could see the flecks of gold sprinkled in the hazel, the tiny speck of dust that clung to one of his lashes, and felt that she had never seen something more beautiful.

Later, she could not say exactly when she had snapped out of her paralysis, if she had made the first move or whether the doctor had. She just knew that his hand no longer lay along her cheek, but cupped her chin instead and tilted her head upwards. His lips almost touched hers when he seemed to hesitate. His eyes sought hers, looking for something.

Desire?

Trust?

Permission?

Her breath hitched as she brought her mouth to his. His lips touched her as lightly as his fingertips had. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the sensation. His lips were a bit dry and flaky, his breath warm.

It took only seconds before their lips lost contact. Electricity shot along Sister Bernadette's spine. Every smouldering nerve sprang to life, a raging inferno that burned within her. She felt as if she was on fire. Something clicked in her throat as she swallowed. He pressed his lips against her again. This kiss was less fragile, more demanding. His right hand pulled her face closer, deepening their kiss, as his left snaked around her waist and splayed on her back. Her hands travelled along the lapels of his coat, one nestling on the border where the fabric met stubbled skin, the other nestling in his hair. She brushed his ear with the top of her thumb. He shuddered and pressed his fingers into her back. She could feel the heat through the layers of her habit and clung to him to prevent her knees from giving out. He hooked one of his digits beneath the strap of her wimple, tickling the sensitive flesh of her throat where her pulse thundered.

They did not hear the staccato of approaching footsteps till a clear voice rang out "Sister Bernadette?" and someone stepped into the kitchen.

The invisible force that had pulled them together now separated them just as quickly. Doctor Turner stepped back and nearly fell over his doctor's bag. Sister Bernadette stumbled into the sink and planted her hands in the suds to stop herself from toppling, spraying herself with cold water. Sister Julienne stood on the threshold, a questioning look written plain on her face.

I wonder what she can read plainly on my face, Sister Bernadette thought. Suddenly, shame coiled in her belly. Her face turned scarlet and her heart beat so fast in her chest that it felt more like a little drummer than anything else.

"Can somebody tell me what is going on?" Sister Julienne asked.