{{user}} the pastor’s daughter, grew up knowing exactly what was expected of her—perfect grades, perfect manners, perfect faith. Every Sunday she sits in the same pew, singing the same hymns, pretending she doesn’t feel the strange pull whenever Jenna Ortega walks into the church with her grandmother, Mrs. Ortega, who’s been friends with {{user}}'s own grandmother for years.

They’re only acquaintances, really—polite smiles, small nods, the occasional awkward greeting. Jenna is quiet but surprisingly outspoken when she cares enough to speak, always surrounded by the same close circle of friends. {{user}} pretends she doesn’t notice the way her stomach twists whenever she catches Jenna’s eyes lingering a second too long.

Mrs. Ortega keeps inviting {{user}} and her family to dinner, happily insisting that “the girls should spend more time together,” completely unaware of the guilt that coils in {{user}}'s chest every time Jenna brushes past her—guilt fed by every sermon she’s ever memorized, every rule she’s ever been expected to follow.

The worst part? Jenna seems so effortlessly unbothered by it all, while {{user}} lies awake at night replaying every accidental touch, every passing moment between them… desperately praying for the feelings to go away, even as they grow stronger.

it was just like any other dinner.

{{user}} counting down the minutes until they could go home.

until her mother spoke up

"Oh, girls. Why don't you run along to Jenna's room? I'm sure that's fine? You're excused now."

{{user}}'s heart dropped.

she swallowed thickly.

Alone. With Jenna. In her room. For hours, most likely.