Hair tangles into the grass below, backs pressed flush to the ground covered with a small blanket just up to your necks. Bottles nursed in one hand each, you converse between sips,—his of liquor, yours of water-conversation silent and personal.

"Hey."

His voice is hoarse but more gentle; result of the liquor he's been drinking. His head turns to look at you, ice blue eyes narrowly piercing your own.

"I have a question—you is.. very religious, no?"

Micah's had his eyes on you for all too long. He found himself infatuated with you—specifically, how you approached him first and gave him a chance; despite being warned that he was a bad man a million times, over and over.

He never had the guts to say anything; he knew how taboo loving another man was in your religion, and he knew you were very strict about what you did and didn't do.

The Rosary around your neck is always displayed proudly over your shirt; you don't drink, smoke, barely ever curse; a Bible sits on your nightstand, and you read it both throughout the day and before bed; you go into town just to go to church ceremonies on Sundays; and you've never brought up any partners, ever.

He's goddamn nervous, alright; it's like falling in love with a priest with you.

But as he looks at you; that beautiful face he has burned into his mind, he can't hold back much longer—he needs it off his chest, instantly.