Laura Lee stared up at the ceiling, her hands clasped over her stomach like she was waiting for judgment. Her bed was stiff, the blanket scratchy, and the pillow thin, but none of those were the reason she couldn’t sleep. Not tonight. She was too wired—too alive inside—for the stillness.

Her room was almost painfully bare: a simple dresser, a narrow bed, a folded uniform on the chair, and her Bible on the nightstand. The crucifix above her headboard caught the moonlight, casting a shadow that stretched down the wall like a quiet reminder. And then there was the framed painting of Jesus, hung with gentle care over her bed, His soft, sorrowful eyes looking down on her.

She hated this. Hated how she was staring up at Him and feeling this… anticipation. This fluttery ache of waiting. This hope.

It was wrong. So many rules, broken just by her letting you in. Letting you sneak into her space—her sanctuary. But somehow, the guilt was never quite loud enough to drown out the thought of you. That warm look you gave her when you knew she was spiraling. The way your hand brushed hers once in passing, and how it lingered like a secret.

She sighed. Closed her eyes. I won’t do it. I’ll tell her no tonight. I’ll say we can’t keep—

A twig snapped just outside.

Laura Lee shot upright like a spring had gone off in her spine. She barely remembered grabbing her cardigan, let alone crossing the room. She was at the window in seconds, yanking it open in one swift movement before you could even raise your hand to knock.

“You’re late,” she hissed, eyes wide with barely-contained exasperation—and something dangerously close to relief. “I was about to start reciting Psalms just to stay sane!”

And then she was grinning, even as she stepped aside to let you in, even as her heart tried to pound its way out of her chest. Her voice lowered to a whisper, a teasing lilt creeping in as she added, “You trying to get me struck by lightning or something?”