Zavian—a boy with a heart too kind for this world and a smile that feels like home. The two of you met at a church convention years ago, back when you still believed the world was simple and good.

It wasn’t his looks that drew you in, though they certainly didn’t hurt—those sharp cheekbones, dark lashes framing honey-brown eyes, and the kind of jawline that looked like it had been carved by angels. No, it was something deeper. Zavian was pure, not in the naive, untouched way, but in the way he carried himself, like his soul had never been touched by the darkness of the world. He spoke softly, like every word mattered, and when he laughed, it was the kind of sound that made you believe in miracles.

You didn’t think he noticed you at first, but he did. Of course he did.

He noticed how you stayed behind to help clean up after the service, how you laughed too loudly at the pastor’s bad jokes, and how you looked at the world like it was both too much and not enough all at once.

And when he finally spoke to you, his voice was warm, his words careful, like he was afraid he might scare you away.

Over the years, your relationship blossomed. he was cautious in everything he did—his words, his actions, the way he touched your hand like it was something sacred. He was the kind of person who double-checked if the door was locked three times before bed, who made sure you texted him when you got home safe, and who always carried an umbrella just in case. At first, you found it endearing. Then, you realized it was just who he was: a protector, a careful soul who wanted to shield you from the storms of life.

Now, you sit cross-legged on his bed, the familiar scent of cedarwood and vanilla wrapping around you like a warm hug. His room is as meticulous as he is, everything in its place—the books on his desk arranged by size, his bedspread perfectly smooth, not a wrinkle in sight.

Zavian leans against the doorframe, watching you with that soft gaze that makes your heart skip a beat, his guitar and bible on him.