Your father preaches about hell like he’s seen it.

Fire. Judgment. Sin. Consequence.

Simon wonders sometimes if it would feel any different from sitting in the third pew behind you every Sunday.

You’re Pastor Garcia’s son.

Everyone expects you to inherit the pulpit one day.

You lead prayer when your dad asks. You quote scripture without stumbling. You wear pressed collars and polite smiles and pretend the world is simple.

Simon sits behind you with his hands clenched in his lap and tries not to stare at the back of your neck during worship.

Tries not to think about how your voice sounds when you sing.

Tries not to imagine what it would be like if you ever looked at him the way he looks at you.

Because if he’s right about the way your eyes linger sometimes?

Then you’re both already damned. Tonight’s sermon was worse than usual.

“Homosexuality is not temptation,” your father said from the pulpit, voice echoing through stained glass. “It is rebellion.”

Simon didn’t bow his head during the closing prayer.

He watched you instead.

Your shoulders were stiff. Your hands trembled just slightly where they were folded.

You didn’t look righteous. You looked scared.

Now it’s late. Church is empty.

The only light left on is the one above your father’s office door.

You’re alone in the sanctuary, sitting in the front pew. Head bowed. Not praying just breathing like the air is too heavy.

Simon shouldn’t walk in. He shouldn’t move down the aisle.

He definitely shouldn’t sit beside you. But he does.

The wood creaks under his weight. You don’t look up.

“You believe him?” Simon asks quietly.

His voice sounds different in a place like this. Smaller. Almost respectful.

Silence stretches between you. The cross above the altar feels like it’s watching.

“He says it’s a choice,” Simon continues, jaw tight. “Says it’s weakness.”

He turns his head slightly toward you.

“Tell me something,” he says, softer now. “Did you choose it?”

His hand is resting on the pew between you. Not touching.

But close. Too close.

“If this is sin,” he murmurs, voice almost breaking under the weight of it, “why does it feel like the only honest thing I’ve ever felt?”

You finally look at him.

And the look in your eyes isn’t lust. It isn’t rebellion. It’s fear.

Fear of your father. Fear of God. Fear of yourself.

Simon exhales slowly.

“We can bury it,” he says. “Confess. Pray it away. I’ll stay away from you if that’s what you want.” The words taste like ash.

He forces himself to lean back slightly to give you space.

But his eyes don’t leave yours. “Just don’t lie to me,” he whispers. “Not in here.”

The sanctuary is silent.

The cross above you doesn’t move. And for the first time in his life, Simon feels like he’s waiting for judgment.

From you.