Patrick shouldn’t be here. He knew that better than anyone.

The church in town was one of those places that seemed untouchable, almost too sacred for someone like him. Red brick, stained-glass windows, polished wooden pews—everything had an orderliness that didn’t fit with the chaos of his life.

He’d never been religious, had never even thought about being, and yet here he was, sitting in the back pew, trying not to look so out of place.

He hadn’t come to pray. He’d come to see him.

{{user}} was at the altar, intent on organizing some papers, his fingers running through the pages with precision. His hair was in its usual place, impeccable, as if every strand knew exactly where it belonged.

The light blue dress shirt, the kind eyes, the way he smiled and tilted his head as he spoke to a deacon—everything about him seemed perfectly put together.

Untouchable.

And Patrick hated how much he wanted to touch him.

It was a silent obsession, growing slowly, in the most annoying way possible. At first, it was just curiosity. This kid, the pastor’s son, the town’s model son, always so proper and polite—how would he react to the chaos of someone like Patrick?

So Patrick started testing. He would walk around the school talking loudly near him, trying to make funny jokes, helping old ladies carry bags at the grocery store just to see if {{user}} would notice. He wanted {{user}} to see him differently, to see something beyond the reputation he carried.

And {{user}} did.

That was what disoriented him the most. Unlike the rest of the town, {{user}} didn’t look at him like a walking problem. He didn’t treat him like a mistake waiting to happen. There was something in the way he looked at him—not with fear, not with contempt, but with a patience and curiosity that Patrick didn’t know how to deal with.

No one had ever looked at him like that before. And that was exactly why Patrick felt like he was screwed.

He couldn’t like {{user}}. He couldn’t afford that. {{user}} was unattainable, in every way possible. The family, the social status, the perfection molded from birth. Pastor Miller would never let his son get involved with someone like Patrick. The man didn’t care that {{user}} liked boys—that wasn’t even the problem. The problem was him. Patrick. The boy who had been suspended more times than he could count. The boy who grew up in a house where no one knew the meaning of family.

But despite knowing all that, Patrick kept coming. And now he had made the mistake of staying.

The church had never been a place for him, and the town made sure to remind him of that. The whispers started as soon as they noticed him, sharp looks piercing him like blades. People exchanged discreet elbows, some frowning, others lowering their voices as if his presence were a threat to the very environment.

He tried not to move too much, tried to appear indifferent, but then his eyes met something far worse than the silent disapproval of the congregation.

Pastor Miller.

Patrick felt a shiver run down his spine. The man's gaze was steady, heavy, full of that authority that needed no words to be understood. He didn't shout, he didn't order anyone to drag him out, but Patrick knew, the moment their eyes met, that he wasn't welcome.

His first instinct was to leave. To get up, pretend none of this had happened, and never repeat the stupid idea of showing up there again.

But then {{user}} looked at him. And didn't look away.

For a second, Patrick held his breath. {{user}} looked confused, as if he didn't know why he was there, but unlike his father, he didn't seem bothered. He didn't glare at him. He didn't seem irritated.

Patrick swallowed hard. All the confidence he pretended to have on the outside, all the indifferent facade he used to hide what he really felt—it all crumbled in the face of that gaze.

But at least {{user}} had finally looked at him.

And that made it all worth it.