The stage is empty. Instead of a set, there are straw bales. In the place of an audience, there is only a sea of lights.

Assumpta is dressed in a short denim dress – something she hadn't worn since she was a student. It's meant to be worn with a T-shirt underneath but to her horror, Assumpta has forgotten this particular article of clothing. The straps barely cover her exposed breasts.

Her first thought is to change – but into what? The lights stare on unwaveringly, exposing her every crevice, her every curve to the auditorium.

"There'll be no repeating it."

From nowhere, a deep male voice whispers in her ear. Peter. Peter…

She turns suddenly, before realising that her denim dress, in all of its scarcity, has now also disappeared. She is naked.

Peter drinks her in. "You're beautiful," he whispers as if in awe.

Assumpta feels herself falling towards him on a bale. As if of their own accord, her legs straddle either side of the Priest. "But wait," she begs as his hands make their way up her rib cage. "It's a sin…"

Peter looks at her and smiles. "For you it isn't."

Before his mouth is about to touch hers, Assumpta wakes up with a jolt.

A dream. Only a dream, she assures herself. Leaning over the dog, she takes a sip of water from the nightstand and glanced at the clock.

5.12 am.

This had been happening a lot lately, she realised. Too much. It was one thing indulging in the odd involuntary dream about him but it was really quite another when her waking world seemed to pale by comparison.

Peter hadn't called by the pub much lately. In fact, she hadn't seen him at all in nearly a week. At best, it was unusual not to see the curate for his afternoon pint at least once every few days. At worst? She didn't entertain it.

Fionn had taken his mistress' awakening as a sign that it was time to get up.

"Had enough of sleep, have we boy?" she sighed, swinging her legs out of bed. "Fair enough, then."

It was her third 5am start so far this week.

Following a lightening-quick shower, the publican threw on the first thing her hands reached from the wardrobe – a short, red floral dress that she hadn't worn since college.

Once changed, Assumpta looked through the window only to see yet another dreary day.

"Perfect" she commented acerbically. But rather than change, she just threw on a thick woolen cardigan and a pair of DMs, also incidentally from her student days.

"Your Ma is dressed like a teenager today, eh Fionn?" The dog let out a helpless whine. "Yeah, well. It'll do for your walk at least."

The publican was already a good distance from the house when the heaven's opened.

Rain. Marvellous.

Ill-equipped for the weather and ruing the moment that she selected her decidedly non-waterproof outfit, Assumpta took refuge under the nearest cover in her path. The curate's porch.

She didn't realise right away where she'd been standing, of course. It wasn't until the porch light illuminated and footsteps sounded through the door that she recognised the cherry red door next to her.

Oh dear…

Before she managed to make a hasty retreat, the door opened and out came a disheveled and very weary looking Father Clifford.

"Assumpta?"

"Father… I'm sorry, I…"

"Can I… help?"

Assumpta felt her cheeks burn. "Sorry, you caught me. Just taking refuge… from the rain."

Peter let his gaze linger over the barely-covered form of the landlady. Had she just returned from a rave?

"Do you want to come in?" he heard himself ask unexpectedly.

"Cup of tea?" she mumbled hopefully.

Father Clifford allowed her pass, leaving a wide-berth between them.

Assumpta stepped into the Priest's front room with Fionn and tipped her head forward, using her discarded cardigan to absorb most of the moisture from her hair.

Peter stood perfect still.

Unbeknownst to the publican, the dampness of her dress had caused the material to cling suggestively to the tops of her thighs.

This coupled with the calf-high leather of her boots roused something in the Priest that he'd been trying to forget for the best part of a week – for a year even; his unwavering attraction to Assumpta.

"I'll put the kettle on, then" he offered weakly without making his move. She'd moved to dry Fionn with the front of her dress. Peter noticed with alarm that she was practically tipping out of her neckline.

God help me.

"No sugar for me, thanks."

"Right. Fine…"

Father Clifford tore himself away from the increasingly uncomfortable display in his living room and lingered far too long making tea in the kitchen.

Inexplicably, he'd prepared toast as well. But the offering was well received by his guest.

"You read my mind!"

Just as long as you don't read mine… "Happy to help."

Assumpta munched happily. "I can't tell you the last time a man made me breakfast."

"Really?"

Realising the connotations of what she just said, Assumpta immediately turned red. "Oh no, that sounds terrible doesn't it?"

"Quite the opposite, actually" he placated, trying to keep the relief from his voice.

Assumpta smiled sheepishly into her tea. "Perhaps I should take Enda up on his offer of a date."

Peter's face darkened. "Enda Sullivan?"

"The very same" she announced. "Niamh's all for it, of course. Tells me that eligible men in Ballykissangel are hardly like fish in a barrel and I should take what I'm offered."

"I'd say you're not short of offers."

"Hardly." The publican looked longingly into the tealeaves in her cup, as if trying to understand her own future. "If I agree to Enda, it'll be my first date in two years!"

"Two years?" Peter repeated in faux-outrage. "You're practically a Priest!"

"Very nearly" she agreed. "In fact, that scene…" Assumpta stopped short of revealing any more, realising quickly that she'd perhaps be sharing too much.

But Peter wasn't about to let it go. "That scene?"

His companion flushed and, averting her gaze, smiled brightly. "That scene with you and I… well, that was the first anything that I've had in more than two years."

Now it was Peter's turn to flush. "Me too…" he joked shyly.

Instead of joining in with his mirth, Assumpta held the curate in her stare as if she had something altogether different on her mind.

"What?" Peter caught her gaze. "What…" he repeated, his nervous laughter echoing around the room.

"At least it was worth it."

It was only now that Peter realised juts how uneasy the publican was in his presence. Her skin glistened with perspiration. Her breathing was shallow. And now, coupled with what she'd just admitted… could Assumpta be feeling the same thing too?

Taking his hesitation at face value, she commented. "Perhaps not for you, eh? So what was it – five hundred lines or a week's detention?"

"Eh?" he muttered, till reeling from his musings.

"Your punishment? I seem to remember that you were due a dressing down from Father Mac."

"Oh yeah," the curate dismissed. "It wasn't so bad."

"No?"

Peter hesitated before continuing. "He barred me… from Fitzgerald's."

"He what?" she responded in a hushed tone. "From my pub? Here's me thinking that I was the only one who could do that."

Peter smirked. "And Parish Priests."

"So it would seem. How long do you have to stay away?"

Forever. "Just until things blow over. Until there's a new town gossip to occupy everyone instead."

Assumpta clicked her tongue against her mouth. "Well," she announced after a moment. "If I stay here any longer, the town may just have it. C'mon Fionn."

Without another word, she arose from her chair. "Thanks for the tea. And the toast."

Peter nodded in accordance, trying to hide his disappointment at her departure. "Any time."

"Careful or I might hold you to that." The publican joked without looking at him.

She was about to reach for the door handle when Peter found his voice again.

"It was, you know."

Assumpta glanced up to find the curate staring intently at the doorjamb, at the wall – anywhere but at her.

"The kiss," he clarified and then, wearing that crooked smile that Assumpta had learned to love, Peter leaned close and looked her straight in the eye. "Totally worth it."

For a moment, Assumpta thought he was going to kiss her again. His mouth – now mere centimetres from hers – parted slightly; his eyes seemed to soften.

When he didn't, the publican lost her footing and stumbled backwards through the front door, tangling herself in Fionn's lead as she did so. To make matters worse, she saluted – saluted! – the curate before heading down the road in the wrong direction.

Peter watched her leave for longer than necessary, his insides twisting at the revelation that was now unfolding.

Something had changed. She was different. Less sure of herself. Girlish, even.

Could it be that someone had found his way into the heart of Assumpta Fitzgerald?

Another more pressing thought immediately followed.

Could it be that that someone was he?