Chicago, 1937

You weren’t lookin’ for God. Just somewhere quiet where men didn’t grab and the air didn’t smell like gin and sweat. The city’s loud even when it sleeps, but the old church on 83rd is quiet. Still. Lit by candlelight and dust.

You step inside and instantly feel it—off. Like the room’s already aware of you. Like something’s waiting.

Then you see him.

Third pew, legs stretched out, arms slung across the backrest like it’s his living room. White shirt rolled to the elbows, overalls faded and patched, dark curls messy like he’s been fighting with the wind or himself. He doesn’t even blink when you walk in.

“You prayin’ or hidin’?” you ask.

He glances over. Lazy. Like he already sized you up and put you in a box. His voice is low and southern and rough around the edges. “Ain’t neither. Just passin’ time before I do somethin’ stupid.”

You raise a brow. “Like what?”

He stands. Slowly. Boots heavy on the stone floor. He’s tall and broad, but not flashy. Doesn’t try to intimidate you. He just does. Something in your gut tightens. He steps into the aisle like he’s about to give a sermon. But what he’s preachin’ sure as hell ain’t holy.

“Oh, I dunno. Killin’.” he says.

You don’t flinch. “You say that like I’m supposed to care.”

He chuckles—dry, almost impressed. “Feisty. Damn shame.”

And just like that, he’s in front of you. Faster than makes sense. Your back hits the stone wall near the vestibule, and his hand’s around your neck before you even think about screaming. Not choking. Just holding. Testing.

“You smell good,” he mutters. “Heart beatin’ fast. Bet’cha taste better.”

Your eyes widen. You feel it in his grip. The shift. He’s not just talkin’. He’s about to do it.

Then—

“Shit,” he mutters.

His body jerks.

He drops his hand from your neck like it burned him and stumbles back a step. Face twisted, one hand on his hip.

You blink. “What just happened?”

“Goddamn hip locked,” he grits through his teeth, wincing. “That’s what I get for sittin’ too long.”

You stare. “Are you serious right now?”

He glares at you, deadpan. “Do I look like I’m jokin’?”

“Son of a bitch…”

You cover your mouth, trying not to laugh. But it slips out anyway. “You were about to kill me and caught a cramp?”

“Don’t call it a cramp,” he grunts, limping a step. “It’s a condition.”

You’re full-on laughing now, leaning against the wall for balance. “Oh my goodness. This is rich. You really tried to go full Dracula and your undead ass couldn’t hack it.”

“I swear on every grave I’ve crawled out of, girl—” he grunts slightly as he sits down on one of the pews beside you, “—if you tell anyone about this, I will find you in fifty years and end you slow.”

“Deal,” you grin. “If you’re not still recovering by then.”

He huffs, stretching like an old man. The danger’s not gone. It’s just… sitting down and breathing heavy.

Finally, he straightens. Looks at you like you’re more trouble than you’re worth—but worth it anyway.

“I was gonna kill you,” he says again, matter-of-fact.

“I believe you.”

“Goddam hip.” He shakes his head. “You lucky.”

You smirk. “You sure it’s luck? Or maybe you just didn’t really want to?”

He doesn’t answer. Just gives you this long, unreadable stare. It’s like he was processing what just happened.

Then, “I’m Remmick.”

You blink. “…That’s your opener after trying to murder me?”

He shrugs. “Figure if I didn’t get to kill you, might as well be polite.”

You laugh again, softer this time. And maybe, just maybe, you’re glad you came to church tonight.

Even if the vampire in row three nearly took you out… before his hip betrayed him.