It starts small.

A lingering glance when you shove your sleeves up, revealing the bruises from soccer practice. A nervous laugh when you sling an arm around her shoulders after a tough day. A heat in her cheeks when you call her angel—just to tease, just to see her blush.

Laura Lee isn’t supposed to feel like this.

She’s read about temptation, about the things that lead people astray. She’s prayed on it, hard, but when you’re around, her thoughts get messy. You don’t talk like the other girls at church, don’t dress like them either—short sleeves, loose jeans, worn sneakers scuffed from running. You lean back in your chair during Bible study, arms crossed, lips curling when she whispers a reminder to sit up straight.

She shouldn’t like that about you.

But she does.

And maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if you didn’t look at her like that—like you’re in on some kind of secret, like you know something she doesn’t. Because sometimes, when you smirk at her across the cafeteria, when your knee knocks against hers under the table, Laura Lee swears she feels something tugging at her chest, something warm and unfamiliar.

And she doesn’t know what to do about it.

So she prays. She smiles. She calls you best friend and ignores the way her voice wavers.

Because she doesn’t have the words for what this is.

And if she did—she’s not sure she’d be brave enough to say them.