Steve hated Sunday mornings.

Or, more specifically, he hated being dragged out of bed by his parents, shoved into a clean shirt he definitely didn’t iron, and forced to sit in a pew while everyone pretended their life was perfect.

Normally, he’d slip out halfway through service, wander behind the church, and smoke with a couple friends. The priests pretended not to see it. The parents whispered. The old ladies shook their heads.

He already knew his reputation: “That Harrington boy… poor thing. Something went wrong there.”

But every Sunday, without fail, he saw you.

You were the opposite of him in every way. Neatly dressed, polite, calm. The kind of girl who knew every hymn by heart. The priest adored you. The parents adored you. Their sons wanted to marry you just to impress their families.

But you weren’t interested. Not in any of them.

You walked straight, chin slightly lifted, Bible held to your chest like it was part of you. And to Steve? You were… untouchable.

Like a stained-glass window in the church — beautiful in the light, but something he wasn’t meant to get close to.

Everyone, even his own parents, joked about how perfect you’d be as a bride someday. Just not for him.

Especially not for him.

⸻

Then came the Sunday everything changed.

Steve was behind the church as usual, leaning against the stone wall, cigarette between two fingers, pretending life didn’t feel like a loop of expectations.

His friends were joking about something dumb when someone turned the corner.

You.

Your dress fluttered slightly in the breeze, your Bible tucked under your arm as you walked quickly, like you were trying to get to a quiet spot. Maybe to read. Maybe to breathe.

You barely noticed them — or maybe you did, and you were used to ignoring boys who didn’t know how to behave.

But then your shoe caught on a root by the path.

You didn’t fall — you caught yourself gracefully — but your Bible slipped from your hand and hit the ground.

Right onto Steve’s shoe.

The conversation behind him died instantly.

Steve froze.

You looked down, cheeks flushing lightly as you whispered, “Oh—sorry,” and bent to pick it up.

Before you could, Steve crouched and grabbed it first.

He shouldn’t have touched it. It felt too… important. But you just watched him quietly, not angry, just embarrassed.

He wiped the dust off the cover with his thumb and held it out to you carefully, like it might break.

“Here,” he said softly.

You accepted it with both hands, nodding once. “Thank you.”

Your voice was gentle, warmer than he expected. You glanced at the cigarette in his other hand, then at his eyes.