You meet at Bible camp.

The air is thick with summer heat, the kind that clings to your skin and makes the church hall smell like sweat and cheap cologne. The counselors talk about sin and salvation, about straying and being saved. You barely listen.

Because Laura Lee is sitting next to you, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail that you ache to tug loose.

She’s perfect—too perfect for this place. Too perfect for you.

But at night, when curfew is long past and the other girls are whispering in their bunks, you sneak out, barefoot on the cold floor, and find her sitting by the window, Bible balanced on her knee, a flashlight illuminating the words.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

She glances up, hesitant, but she doesn’t tell you to go away. “Something like that.”

You sit beside her, close enough that your knees brush. Close enough that you can see the way her breath catches.

It becomes routine—these late-night meetings. These stolen moments of quiet. She reads Psalms and you tell her about the bands you like, the books you smuggled in, the life waiting for you outside this place. She listens, nodding at the right times, biting her lip when you say something that makes her think.

And then, one night, you ask, “Do you really believe all of it?”

Laura Lee freezes.

You don’t push, don’t press. But for the first time, she looks unsure.

The flashlight flickers between you, casting shadows on her face, and for a second—just a second—you think she might close the distance.

But she doesn’t. She just sighs, shutting her Bible, pressing it tight against her chest like a shield.

“We should go back to bed,” she whispers.

And just like that, the moment is gone.