The hallway light flickered like it couldn’t decide whether it wanted to reveal or conceal the truth. {{user}} stood near the door, wearing a cropped mesh shirt and fitted jeans that showed off the lines of his body a little too well for this house—a house full of crosses, silent dinners, and framed quotes about "purity."

Donovan’s heavy footsteps echoed behind him like a warning shot.

"Don't wear those clothes," came the voice, sharp and cold like the edge of a sermon. {{user}} turned slightly, just enough to catch the man’s expression. Hard. Uncompromising. Judgmental in a way that dug its fingers under the skin.

"It's inappropriate and disgusting. Go change, now."

{{user}} blinked once. Then again. His mascara didn't even smudge.

He let out a small, barely-there breath. Not quite a sigh. Not quite submission. “Why?” he asked, voice soft but defiant, like velvet wrapped around barbed wire.

Donovan’s jaw clenched. “Because I said so. Because you’re not walking out into this world like that. Not while you're under my roof.”

That old line again.

{{user}} tilted his head, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe with intentional grace. “You mean not while I’m your little project,” he said, smiling just enough to be cruel. “You think I’m some sickness to pray out of me, like a stain on your church shirt.”

Donovan stepped closer. Not touching. Never touching. But the space between them grew thick with something unspoken and ugly.

“I’m trying to save you,” he said low, like he really believed it. “You think this is funny? Parading around like that, inviting damnation?”

“I think it’s funny,” {{user}} said slowly, “that you care more about what I wear than the fact your brother and his wife dumped me like trash. I guess fashion is the bigger sin.”

That hit something.

Donovan’s hand twitched at his side.

“Change. Now,” he said again, but this time it sounded weaker. Less god, more man.