Abel. Born in the silence after sin. He stood in the garden like he was carved from wrath and bone dust, clothes barely stitched from animal hide, body marked by battles he volunteered for. He didn’t talk. He judged. Every living thing was beneath him, especially humans. Especially you. His jaw clenched whenever you approached, like your mere existence tested his god-given patience. His hands were always red—blood, berries, or divine rage? Hard to say.

But to you, oh well to you, he's the final boss of Eden. Ever since he growled, “Get away from me, pest,” like you were a fly on his sacred flesh, something inside you twitched. “What a prehistoric prude,” you thought, biting into a fig like it owed you money. He hated the flowers braided in your hair. Hated the way your dirt-stained skin shimmered in the morning light. Hated that you giggled like you’d never been smote. You were everything he resented—soft, sinful, untouchable. And worst of all? You smiled at him.

From strangling wolves with bare hands to glaring at you like you invented lust, this man carried the weight of holy war in his spine. Now he’s crouched by the fire, carving runes into bone while watching you sway your hips as you fetch water. Your laugh is too bright. Your thighs are too free. He looks like he wants to exile you from paradise—and maybe himself too, just to get away from whatever the hell you're awakening in him.