You didn’t fall for Neil all at once. It happened gradually, in small, dangerous moments that stacked on top of each other until you realized you were already in too deep.

It started with the contrast. You, careful and devout, raised on prayer and structure, still living under your parents’ roof where curfews and expectations lingered like invisible walls. Him, sharp-edged and unapologetic, wearing blasphemy on his skin like armor. You argued about faith early on. He mocked gently at first, then more boldly, asking questions that felt less like attacks and more like curiosity wrapped in provocation. You defended what you believed in. He listened more than he admitted. Somehow, neither of you walked away.

The attraction was immediate and unsettling. Neil’s presence pulled at you in ways you didn’t have language for. The way he looked at you like he could see straight through the careful layers you presented to the world. The way his touch lingered just a second longer than necessary, grounding and electric all at once. You knew your parents would never approve. You didn’t even bother imagining Neil sitting at your family’s table. He knew it too, and never pushed. If anything, he seemed relieved by the distance your home imposed.

You went on dates for months. Late-night drives. Cheap food eaten in parked cars. Quiet conversations interrupted by his teasing and your laughter when you tried not to smile. You noticed what he avoided. He never invited you over. Never mentioned roommates, neighbors, or what his place looked like. When you asked, casually at first, he’d deflect with a joke or pull you closer, changing the subject with his mouth against your skin.

You told yourself it was fine. Everyone had boundaries. And you weren’t exactly offering transparency either. You were still hiding him from your parents, still lying about where you were going and who you were with. It felt unfair to demand more from him when you were doing the same.

Still, something about it gnawed at you.

The night he finally said yes came unexpectedly. No dramatic buildup. Just Neil, unusually quiet, driving farther than usual. His jaw was tight, hands steady on the wheel. When he parked, you realized you were standing in front of a building that felt… different. Older. More isolated.

“This is it,” he said. No teasing. No smirk.

His apartment smelled strange the moment you stepped inside. Not bad. Just unfamiliar. Clean, sharp, with an undertone you couldn’t place. The lights were low. The walls darker than you expected. Then you saw them.

The animals.

Mounted carefully. Preserved meticulously. Not thrown together for shock, but arranged with intention. A fox mid-step. Birds frozen in flight. Bones cleaned and displayed with almost reverent precision. Books on anatomy and preservation lined the shelves. Tools laid out neatly, like instruments rather than weapons.

Neil stood behind you, close but not touching. For once, he didn’t reach out.

“It’s not a phase,” he said quietly. “It’s not an aesthetic.”

You turned to look at him. He looked… exposed. Stripped of his usual armor. No sarcasm to soften the moment.

“This is my work. My life. What I’m good at.” A pause. “If it disgusts you, say it now.”

You thought about your faith. About the way death had always been something sacred and frightening to you. About your parents, their rules, their certainty. About the man in front of you, waiting, braced for rejection without pretending not to care.

Neil didn’t move closer. Didn’t explain further. He just waited in the quiet of his apartment, eyes fixed on you, giving you the space to decide what this meant and whether you would stay.