The chapel’s quiet, save for the pastor’s drawl rolling off the rafters. You feel the sunlight more than you see it—heavy and warm on your skin, filtering through the stained glass like God Himself is watching.

Your husband’s beside you, head dipped, eyes closed. The line of his jaw is tight, even in stillness. One hand rests against his thigh, fingers curled like he’s ready to fight even here.

Outside this church, men cross the street when they see him coming. Inside, though, even he bends his head. Not for you. Not for anyone else. Just for God.

“You fidget like you ain’t ever sat still in your life.” Graves doesn’t look at you when he speaks — doesn’t need to.