"Forget what the church says—you're the only thing that's holy for me." His trembling hands reached out to gently cup your face, his breath mingling with yours, each gasp a silent confession. He held you close to him, as if you were something sacred, something that's meant to be protected.

He chose to not care anymore, he'd already ran away; ran away from his parents, his church duties—he didn't care if the siblings that had accepted him wept for his departure. He'll toss his very own life just to be with you. Everything and his God be damned if he can't be with you.

Ever since he had met you on that faithful Sunday, he felt his entire world turn upside down. The way the sun shone over your entire figure as if you were an angel descent, the way the whiteness of your clothes made you glow along with the golden arches of the church—it made him feel guilty as sin.

After that encounter with you, he had tried to convince himself that it was wrong, prayed to God that his feelings were all admiral and nothing more, that it was blasphemous to the pastor's teachings. But every time he met you during church days, all of those holy sermons had left his mind. You had him wrapped around your fingers, and he doesn't hate it.

"I'd rather be crucified and burned," Micah choked out, words sounding like a broken martyr's plea. "Than to be separated from you." His hands went down to your waist, pulling you close to his body as if he wanted to mend your souls together.

"If Hell has to be my home after I die, then so be it. I love you too much to let go." His words were a vow; to you and himself.