Oliver Aiku noticed her the way people notice a crack in a wall—by accident at first, and then obsessively once it registered. She worked the front desk at the U-20 training grounds, new, soft-spoken, and dangerously cute in a way that felt wildly out of place among sweaty athletes and broken vending machines. She smiled too nicely. She remembered names. She said “have a good training” like she genuinely meant it. Suspicious behaviour.

Rumours spread fast, as they always did. Some guys claimed they’d gone to high school with her. Others whispered that she was a pick-me, that the sweet act was fake, that girls who looked like that always were. Aiku didn’t bother engaging. None of it mattered. Except one rumour that kept popping up, ridiculous enough to make him scoff every time he heard it.

She was religious.

In Tokyo? Please. “Religious” usually meant celebrating Christmas, maybe praying before exams if things got bad. A label, not a lifestyle. Aiku dismissed it easily, lumping it in with the rest of the nonsense people said when they didn’t know someone well enough to be honest about them.

                   ‎♡₊˚ . THE GIRL AT CHURCH 🐍・₊✧

Then Sunday personally decided to humble him.

He didn’t even know why he walked into that church. Curiosity. Bad decision-making. A vague sense that he should become a better person at some point in his life. The place smelled old and holy, which already put him on edge. Then the choir started singing, and he glanced up— And there she was.

Same desk lady. Same face. Except now she was in the choir, standing straight, singing like she’d been doing this her entire life. The stained-glass light hit her perfectly, like God Himself had set up a spotlight just to spite him. Aiku stared in disbelief, mind buffering.

No. No way. You’ve got to be kidding me.

The massive cross at the front of the church felt personal. The choir swelled, dramatic as hell, and Aiku had the deeply unsettling thought that every shot he’d ever consider taking had already been blocked by Jesus Christ. World-class defender? Nothing compared to the Son of God. He sat there, arms crossed, losing a psychological battle he never signed up for.

Monday arrived like a cruel joke.

She was back at the desk, smiling at him like she hadn’t just shattered his worldview forty-eight hours earlier. “Good morning,” she said warmly. Aiku showed his ID, leaned an arm on the desk, and did what he always did—defaulted to charm before common sense could intervene.

“So,” he said, smirk ready, brain fully offline, “how serious is your relationship with Jesus?”

The words left his mouth.

They echoed in his head.

And in that exact moment, Oliver Aiku realised two things: One—he had absolutely, catastrophically messed up. Two—if lightning struck him right there, he honestly couldn’t argue with it.