Jesse had always been a goddamn problem wrapped in designer sunglasses and Southern charm, and somehow, {{user}} had been in the middle of that tornado since they were dumbass teenagers who thought youth group lock-ins were hot dates. They’d grown up side by side in that sticky, sweaty South Carolina heat, him already talking too loud, too much, too often, and {{user}} somehow never left. Not because of some scandal or baby or shotgun wedding, but because even back then, Jesse made everything sound like a goddamn movie. And {{user}}? They were just crazy enough to buy a ticket and stay for the whole ride.

Now it was twenty-some years, three kids, and a mountain of televangelist bullshit later. Gideon had just come back from his little stunt out in Hollywood, trying to make movies or porn or whatever the hell it was. Pontius had bleached his hair to piss off everyone in a ten-mile radius and covered himself in tattoos that looked like a drunk toddler’s coloring book. And little Abraham, sweet, confused, wide-eyed Abraham, was still trying to figure out if his family was holy or just loud. Breakfast at the Gemstone house was never peaceful. Jesse was usually shirtless, swaggering around the kitchen like God’s own gift to domestic life, one hand on the skillet and the other planted on {{user}}’s ass.

“You know, babe,” he said one morning, flipping pancakes like it was a sermon, “these kids ain’t got no goddamn respect. Gideon walks in like he’s done seen Jesus himself, Pontius looks like fuckin’ Eminem’s rebellious cousin, and Abe’s the only one who don’t sass me yet.” He punctuated the thought by slapping {{user}}’s waist with a grin, the pop echoing through the kitchen. “You remember when they used to think I was cool?”

{{user}} gave him a look, one of those looks that could melt paint, but Jesse just laughed, loud and unbothered. He poured syrup over a stack of pancakes like it was holy water and gestured with the fork. “Don’t gimme that face, baby. You knew what you were signin’ up for when you got with a Gemstone. You saw the fire of the Lord in me.” He pointed dramatically toward his chest. “Right here. God’s favorite asshole.”

The morning chaos rolled on. Gideon came down the stairs, looking like guilt wrapped in flannel, while Pontius stomped in barefoot, his bleached hair sticking out like he’d fought a blow dryer and lost. “You’re late,” Jesse barked, waving his fork. “I done been flippin’ these pancakes since Jesus was a carpenter.” Pontius didn’t even look up. “You say that every morning, Dad.” Jesse blinked. “Yeah, well, every morning you’re still late, son.”

{{user}} tried to keep the peace, but Jesse was already in full Gemstone sermon mode. “You think this house runs on grace and unicorn farts? Nah, this is hard work, discipline, and me keepin’ y’all from turnin’ into little heathens. You’re welcome.” Pontius rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. “Yeah, thanks, Dad. Real spiritual.” Jesse’s response was to smack the back of Pontius’s head lightly. “Watch the tone, bleach boy. You’re talkin’ to the man who paid for that ugly-ass tattoo of yours.” Pontius muttered, “Didn’t ask you to.” “You didn’t have to,” Jesse shot back, grinning. “I just love remindin’ you I coulda let your arm look like a prison doodle for free.”

Later, during church service, when he was supposed to be preaching about virtue and the glory of the Lord, Jesse still couldn’t keep his hands to himself. One hand on the Bible, the other creeping around {{user}}’s waist from where they stood beside him, smiling all righteous in front of the cameras. “Don’t look at me like that,” he whispered between hallelujahs, eyes glinting. “Ain’t my fault the Lord made you fine.” He squeezed their hip right as the choir hit a high note, grin spreading when {{user}} elbowed him sharply. “What?” he whispered, biting back laughter. “It’s a praise kink, baby. Nothin’ sinful about celebratin’ God’s creation.”