Her words worked a track in his head. She'd gotten married just to put a 'definite line' between them? There was no way – surely she couldn't have meant it like that. She must have spoken without thinking. She couldn't care for him. Not like that. He needed for her to feel nothing for him. That was the only way he could go on. That was the only way he could give her up.

In theory he'd already given her up, but his retreat had turned into a joke in the face of the news he returned to. What she was asking for – a return to the friendship they'd had before – was just what he'd wanted, just what he'd hoped for, on leaving the retreat centre, full of determination, inspiration, resolve...

And now? He couldn't sleep. He lay awake, in her home, and heard Leo come in. He waited for the muffled sound of distant conversation and dreaded more.

He heard nothing.

An hour later he got up. Silence and hunger assured him it wasn't a terrible idea. A piece of fruit, a slice of bread, a cup of tea perhaps. Something to banish the grumble in his belly and draw the blood away from his head. It might work.

He opened the fridge.

Assumpta lifted her head – she'd been there all along, asleep, slumped over the kitchen table.

"Oh." He said. "Sorry."

She rubbed her eyes and stood, unsteady. "No. Excuse me."

"I was hungry is all." He let the fridge fall shut. "The problem with being awake at three in the morning."

She nodded, still holding onto the chair back.

"I thought you'd gone up." Peter said.

"Why face your problems when you can run from them?" She passed him an apple.

"Because you believe in something."

"Oh, so now you know what you believe in?"

He bit into the apple, his hunger raging at the prospect of satisfaction. "I believe in marriage."

"Ah, you're all theory, no practise."

He stopped chewing, swallowed. "Sometimes you make me so-"

She stepped up to him, "Angry?"

He looked her in the eye.

"I'm doing you a favour. If you hate me you can't-" She stopped, realising what she'd been about to say. But he held her gaze, confirming that it was true, even though she hadn't said it.

Was there a state of anger that could eclipse how he loved her? He averted his eyes, giving up the fight. He'd run out of the stuff he needed to play this out, to hope, to believe. He'd have to leave Ballykissangel. And not on retreat.

She lifted her hand to his cheek, turning his face so he'd look at her. His eyes switched, terrified, then that gave way and he leaned into the little touch.

She kissed his lips, but the surprise of it froze them both. The slightest shift of his weight, and he leaned into her, breathing her in, prompting her mouth open. She met him there, hands on his neck, eyes falling shut, intoxicated.

A foot fall on the stairs, closely followed by another, broke through the haze.

Peter pulled back, let go.

Assumpta turned from his fleeing form and had a full two seconds to compose herself before Leo came in. She picked up Peter's bitten apple from the table.

"Sorry, did I wake you? I was hungry."

Leo shook his head. "No, it's fine. Everything okay?"

"I fell asleep in here -" she laughed but it was all nerves. "I'm fine."

He nodded. "I'm going to head off early tomorrow. But I'll be back in time for the evening shift – don't worry."

She shook her head. "I won't."

"Well, goodnight." He turned and ascended the stairs.

Assumpta sat against the edge of the table, staring at the bite in the fruit. Then she stood, stepped through to the bar, searching for Peter. But he was gone.

She realised, in that moment, that he would go. He would leave Ballykay. She'd ruined everything, kissing him. But he had kissed her back. Of course he'd kissed her back. She was outside his door before she knew what she was doing. She knocked. No answer. She tried the door, it wasn't locked but it only budged an inch.

"What are you doing?" He asked as the door shifted.

She stepped in and closed it. He was sitting on the floor and leaned back on the door. He looked utterly defeated. What was she doing? "I have no idea." She knelt, hesitated for a beat, a breath, then kissed him again. At that angle her weight pressed all into his lips. He rolled forward onto his knees, to relieve some pressure, but met her body and felt his own come to life. He gasped and she stopped kissing him, looked into his eyes, her own honest and bare.

He couldn't send her away, and if he must leave it would not be before – he scooped her up, hands fast ascending her body, then held her firm, leaning over till she lay beneath him on the rough carpet.

She reached up, kissed him again, terrified that rational thought would intrude. If there was urgency in his posture, there was none for undressing. He ran his hands up into her hair, kissed her neck, ground his body into hers. She pulled her knees out from beneath him and groaned as he pressed against her again.

She didn't want it like this, like teenagers, fully clothed and playing pretend. Her hands went to his belt and he lifted himself to allow it, bravely looking her in the eye for a moment before he faltered, pressing his face to her breast. He unbuttoned her shirt and pressed the swell to his lips as she freed him. His breath staggered, hot against her flesh.

She reached up under his shirt then, hands splayed across his back, pulled him down. He kissed her again, fumbling for her clothing. He caught the expression of ecstasy on her face as his fingertips reached her thighs. He lifted her skirt to see her then looked up to meet her gaze, a final permission before he removed the last obstacle and pressed in.

Every sense thrilled. He moved without will or reason, obeying her every prompt, kissing her to keep from moaning with each beat. She rolled beneath him, her hands fierce on his hips. She groaned, pressed her face into his still-clothed shoulder, bit her lip and then felt him quake. Quickly, she claimed his mouth, swallowing his cries, and then her own, as her body opened and pulsed.

He lay his head on her chest and stayed right there, still inside her, only moving to unbutton the rest of her shirt. His hands on her, he lifted himself and kissed her again. She slipped her arms around him, their drunken kiss so leisurely it seemed to belong to some other time or place.

Weary of crushing her, he rolled to the side. Looking down at their barely-disrobed bodies he traced her form as if committing her to memory.

"What are we doing?" She said, watching his face, marvelling at how he adored her.

He nuzzled into her neck, exhaled a warm breath against her clavicle that sent shivers through her. "Making love." He said.

She swallowed the threat of tears and began unbuttoning his shirt. "Would you ever have-" She slipped her hand under and around his side, finding the words too heavy.

He nodded. "I will."

"What?"

"I can't be sorry for this. And if I can't be sorry, I can't be forgiven. I can't make it right, but I can't be a priest."

"Peter-"

"I wish you'd said – before I left – that you were on the cusp of something like this."

"I wasn't – till you left. I tried everything else."

He pushed her hair back from her cheek. "Now we've really tried everything."

"I don't think it's going to work, this particular experiment."

"No. Quite the opposite in fact."

She nodded and hugged him tight.

They eventually got up off the floor. Assumpta looked at his bed but left, returning to her own. And Leo, asleep. But he was gone when she woke up. So was Peter, an envelope on the kitchen table containing keys and settling the bill, without so much as a note.

She made a very strong coffee and tried to ignore all the many new things she had to worry about: pregnancy, adultery, the end of Peter's career, the end of her marriage, breaking Leo's heart, breaking her own heart. And Peter's heart, doomed no matter how this played out, whether it broke for her or his vocation, his faith, his God.

She found some comfort in the regular, menial tasks of every-day. Customers came and went. Father Clifford was mentioned once or twice, in passing, but the man himself never showed. Leo was back later than he'd said and apologised, told her he'd manage by himself, to make it up to her.

The guilt almost made her resist him, but she was glad to get out of there, the scene of the crime, or very near it. She walked and walked. The church wasn't open. The lights weren't on above the red door. She didn't see Peter.

She walked until her legs quivered and then returned home, slept to make up for the previous night, and started all over again the next day.