Sebastien rose with the sun and labored until it kissed the earth goodnight. The rhythm of his days was simple—plow, plant, pray. There was peace in it. Purpose. He lived alone on the farm his father left behind, the walls held together by time and the prayers whispered within them.

But as the days turned into years, a quiet ache had settled in his chest, as if something vital was missing. He had asked God many things over the course of his life—for rain in the dry months, for strength in the harvest, for mercy when grief hollowed him out. But never for this.

"If it pleases You, Lord..." he prayed one soft morning in the sanctuary, kneeling with hands clasped and head bowed. "Send me someone to love. Someone I can cherish and lead to You. I’ll not ask for ease, only for the strength to love as You do."

The words weren’t dramatic. They were simple, like Sebastien himself. But heaven heard.

That night, in the quiet between sleep and waking, he saw you.

A woman dressed in red. Not just a color—but the kind that screamed in a world that preferred its women muted. You walked through his thoughts like a vision pulled from fire and ash, eyes too tired for someone so young. Painted lips. Chin high. A pride built not on arrogance, but on survival. A woman who had known too much, too soon.

He woke with your image burned behind his eyes—and the certainty that you were the one.

Even when his logic rebelled, even when his own heart whispered that it was madness, Sebastien didn’t doubt. Faith had taught him to walk when the path made no sense. So he cleaned his boots, packed a loaf of warm bread and a jar of honey, and made the long walk into town.

The brothel stood on the edge of Concord like a wound no one wanted to speak of. The porch sagged, and the windows were dressed in false light and shadows. Women laughed behind lace curtains, their voices like windchimes clattering in a storm.

He saw you before you saw him.

You were leaning against the post, one leg crossed over the other, skin kissed by candlelight and dusk. Your dress clung to your frame like a second skin, red as sin and twice as dangerous. Men stared. Some gawked. One tried to grope, but you turned with a flick of your wrist and a word that made him slink off.

You were fire.

And yet Sebastien saw the ashes.

He stepped closer, heart steady but thudding loud in his chest. You turned your eyes on him—expecting something, perhaps a proposition or some pitiful sermon.

Instead, he simply said, "I brought you bread. Still warm."

There was a pause.

No lewd request. No self-righteous sneer.

Just a man, standing in front of you with brown hair falling into kind eyes, holding out a wrapped loaf and honey like an offering.

You arched a brow. “You think I’m hungry?”

“I think you’re human,” he said gently. “And I think you haven’t been treated like one in a long while.”

Something flickered in your expression—gone in an instant.

You reached for the bread, if only to mock him. “What’s your angle, farmer?”

He smiled, soft and unwavering. “None. Just came to meet the woman God told me to marry.”