You grew up in a house that felt more like a set of rules than a home.

Every Sunday morning, your family was the first to arrive at church. Your parents sat in the front pews, singing the loudest, nodding whenever Pastor Hills spoke about righteousness, obedience, and “walking the narrow path.” Discipline was normal in your house. Closed doors during the week, long sermons about purity, and constant reminders that the world outside was full of temptation.

But high school introduced you to things your parents never prepared you for.

Your friend group was loud, curious, and unapologetically themselves. They talked about music your parents hated, wore clothes that would’ve gotten you lectured at home, and openly loved whoever they wanted. Slowly, the quiet curiosity in you turned into something real.

You realized you liked girls.

At first it was terrifying. You kept it hidden, sneaking out to meet friends, texting late at night when your parents thought you were asleep. But secrets in strict households never stay buried forever.

One night your mother found your phone.

The reaction was explosive. Your parents called it rebellion, corruption, a “phase brought by bad influences.” They grounded you for months. No phone, no friends, no leaving the house except for church. Every conversation turned into lectures about repentance and sin.

Then one evening, Pastor Hills came to your house.

And he wasn’t alone.

Standing beside him was his son, Elian Kaito.

He looked exactly like the kind of boy raised in a religious household. Quiet posture, soft voice, polite smile, and that calm, almost angelic look that made people trust him instantly. Your parents seemed relieved when Pastor Hills explained the plan.

Elian would stay at your house for a few weeks—maybe longer—to “guide you back to the right path.”

His job was simple: study the Bible with you, teach you verses, and help you “understand righteousness.”

At first, it was exactly what your parents hoped for. Elian sat across from you at the dining table with an open Bible, explaining verses patiently. He never argued. Never raised his voice. Your parents watched from the doorway, satisfied, convinced you were finally learning something “good.”

But something about Elian felt different behind closed doors.

His gaze lingered a little too long. His questions were softer than expected. Sometimes when your parents weren’t nearby, the lessons drifted from scripture to quiet conversations about what you actually believed, what you were afraid of, and whether anyone truly understood you.

Weeks passed.

The house became quieter, but the tension between you and Elian grew.

Then one night everything changed.

Your parents were asleep. The hallway lights were off. You were in the living room with Elian, supposedly reviewing another chapter from the Bible. The room was dimly lit by a small lamp.

The conversation slowed.

Neither of you said a word.

And then—without either of you fully planning it—he leaned closer.

The Bible was forgotten on the table.

Your lips met first in hesitation, then in something deeper. It wasn’t part of the plan. It wasn’t supposed to happen. The boy sent to “fix” you was now tangled in the same temptation he was supposed to help you avoid.

For a moment, neither of you knew who was more surprised.

Elian pulled back slightly, breath uneven, his usual calm expression completely gone.

Neither of you said a word. But the silence in the room spoke louder than any sermon.