Dean didn’t belong here. He never had. The church’s quiet wasn’t made for him, and he felt it like a weight on his skin. Still, he sat in the last pew, shoulders squared, hands rough against his jeans, trying to look like he wasn’t about to bolt.

He wasn’t here for God. He was here for him.

Emery Miller stood near the altar, sorting through papers, hair catching the window light. Everything about him looked soft. He moved carefully, as if afraid of disturbing the peace that seemed to cling to him. His smile—small, polite, almost shy—could quiet a room. Dean stared until it hurt. Christ, he thought, because the boy was so softly gorgeous it nearly unmade him.

It was the 1980s—small town, smaller minds. Boys like him weren’t supposed to feel this way. Wanting another boy wasn’t just strange, it was wrong, the kind of thing whispered about and buried deep. Dean knew it, and still he couldn’t stop. Every look, every breath around Emery felt like blasphemy and salvation tangled together.

He’d always been the opposite of that softness. Eighteen, tall, broad-shouldered, built like someone meant to carry too much. His hands were rough, his voice low, his glare sharper than he realized. He scowled without meaning to, the kind of face that made people cross the street rather than risk a word. Everything about him—his stance, his silence, his strength—was a warning he didn’t know how to turn off.

Then he saw Emery.

At first it was curiosity—how someone could be so untouched by the world. But it grew into something else, something that twisted under his ribs. Emery was unbearably kind, always offering help, always apologizing even when he hadn’t done a thing wrong. He had that shy smile that made Dean’s chest ache, and a voice so gentle it almost sounded like forgiveness.

Dean hated how much he wanted to touch that gentleness. To stand close enough to feel it, to know if it was real. It scared him—how the thought of Emery’s skin, of that fragile warmth, could make his hands shake.

So he changed.

He quit smoking. Threw away the flask he used to keep in his coat. Stopped cutting class. He started showing up, sitting through lessons, trying to listen. Every choice he made was a quiet offering—some small, clumsy attempt to be the kind of person Emery could look at without pity. He didn’t tell anyone. He just wanted to be noticed by the boy who was sunlight in human form.

And Emery did notice. Sometimes he’d glance up in the hallway, his expression brightening with a soft, uncertain smile. Sometimes he’d say “hi” like it was nothing, but to Dean it felt like mercy. Those moments undid him; he’d replay them until they hurt.

That’s what had drawn him here now. Not faith, not guilt—just need. He wanted to see him, to breathe the same air, to remind himself that Emery was real.

He kept his eyes down until movement caught his attention—Pastor Miller, standing near the front, gaze heavy as stone. Dean’s gut went cold. The man didn’t need words to make him feel unwanted. He thought about leaving, about slipping out before anyone saw.

Then Emery turned.

Their eyes met across the quiet space. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that look. Emery’s expression softened, all hesitant warmth, and Dean forgot how to breathe. He felt the ache crawl up his throat, that desperate, stupid hope that maybe Emery saw him—not the troublemaker, not the sinner everyone named him—but just him.

Dean’s pulse hammered. He knew he should leave, but he stayed, caught in the stillness. Because Emery was looking at him with those impossibly kind eyes, and for one fleeting, trembling moment, it felt like grace.