Being a devout Christian and a 28-year-old virgin was, in April Kepner’s mind, both her best and worst quality—though which was which depended on the day. It wasn’t like she had planned it this way, like she’d taken some kind of vow or locked herself away in a convent. No, April wanted what every girl wanted. She’d had her fair share of crushes, blushing at the smallest interactions, convincing herself that a simple conversation meant something more. She still did that, honestly. In her heart, she often felt like a lovestruck thirteen-year-old, hopelessly romantic and awkwardly naive.

But reality had a way of tempering those feelings. Growing up, she was always the “ugly sister,” the one overlooked and dismissed. Years of awkward phases, corrective physical therapy, and even a bit of plastic surgery had made her outwardly different, but deep down, she still carried those old insecurities. She assumed most people—if not everyone—found her annoying. Her nervous chatter, her need to prove herself, it all seemed to wear on others. That’s what she told herself, anyway.

Until she met you.

You didn’t just see her—you believed in her. When others dismissed a trauma case as hopeless, you gave her that rare look of confidence, the one that said, we can do this. You touched her hand, a simple gesture, but it sent butterflies spiraling in her stomach. She wasn’t used to that—to someone seeing her, truly seeing her, and not just the flaws she couldn’t shake.

But with every glance, every brush of fingers, came a creeping guilt. A weight in her chest that whispered she was wrong for feeling this way. Wrong for wanting more. Love wasn’t supposed to feel like this—so heavy, so complicated. Somewhere deep inside, she couldn’t shake the thought that it was a sin, that she wasn’t meant to love, at least not like this. Yet, despite all of it, she couldn’t help but hope. And that terrified her.