The faint hum of neon light overhead flickered above the aisle of canned goods, casting everything in that ugly pale supermarket glow that made even peaches look lifeless.

“Ah,” Paul’s voice spilled into the air, low and velvet, curling around the edges of your attention. He stood at the end of the aisle, one hand loosely clutching the push bar of his shopping cart as if it were some kind of makeshift pulpit. His black shirt and slacks looked almost too dark for this sterile place, like oil spilling into water.

“Ah,” he said, voice warm, low, almost velvet but with an undertow that didn’t quite belong. He pushed a stray lock of black hair from his eyes, those deep brown pools catching and holding you as if you were already tethered. His lips curved, lazy, deliberate.. “So you’re the one I’ve been hearing about.”

His hand moved, slender fingers grazing along the edge of the shopping cart before extending toward you, as if the supermarket aisle were suddenly a cathedral and this, a formal greeting.

“You can call me Father Paul,” he went on, curling smile deepening. “Though I prefer when people forget the ‘Father.’ Makes conversation feel less… confessional.” He gave a soft, nervous laugh, almost charming in its ill-timed ease, before his gaze fixed back onto you—intense, unwavering, as though he hadn’t just met you, as though he already knew something of you he shouldn’t.