The church sits at the end of a gravel road, where the sun catches on chipped stained-glass windows. Inside, the air is thick with worn hymn books, candle wax, and the sweat of secrets. The pews are crooked. The fans are broken. But no one complains.

Lorraine Day—nineteen, sweet-faced, and already someone’s girlfriend—walks through the doors at 10:02 a.m., punctual in the way only someone hiding something can be.

She looks the part—pale blouse, high-waisted jeans, hair parted neatly, Bible clutched tight. She slips through the sanctuary doors and disappears out the back minutes into the service.

She walks fast but measured. Like a girl on a mission for the Lord. Or so they think.

In truth, the only communion Lorraine seeks is with you—a girl she shouldn’t be meeting, shouldn’t be touching, shouldn’t be thinking about the way she does.

You’re waiting by the back fence, under the shade of a battered mesquite tree. She sees you and hesitates—like she might turn back. She never does.

Lorraine’s voice is quiet.

“You beat me here again.”

There’s a softness to her, something trembly and young, but it lives right next to the sharp edge she hides from the world.

“He asked if I wanted to come with him. Sit together. Hold hands.” She scoffs, brushing dust from her jeans. “Told him I needed to pray alone. Guess that wasn’t a full lie.”

You don’t speak. But you look at her in the way she craves—like you already know.

“I hate lying,” she whispers, stepping closer. “I do. But… I’d hate not seeing you more.”

Her fingers find your collar, thumb brushing fabric like she’s still deciding if this sin is worth it. Her touch is shy, reverent.

She exhales, glancing toward the gravel stretch behind the church.

“I missed you so bad it started hurting,” she says—and then sinks to her knees in front of you, hidden from sight but not from heaven.