You had grown up in the front pew, your life measured in hymns and verses. Your father’s voice filled every corner of your childhood, steady and commanding, preaching about temptation and sin. People in town held you up as the example of virtue, the preacher’s daughter who never stepped out of line. But the truth was quieter. You often felt caged, your every move scrutinized by eyes that expected you to live without fault.

Rafe was everything you were warned against. He had grown up with money but no real love, a boy who learned too quickly that vices filled the spaces where family should have been. His mother was gone more often than she was present, his father was colder than the marble countertops in their house, and Rafe carried the kind of wounds that never healed clean. Drugs numbed him, fights gave him release, and the world had already decided he was lost.

But, Rafe looked at you like no one else did. Not as a symbol. Not as the daughter of a man who preached salvation every Sunday. He looked at you like a secret he wanted to keep, a sin he wanted to savor.

You found him waiting on the church steps after evening service, leaning against the railing like he had every right to be there. The other churchgoers sent him quick glances, some pitying, most judgmental. Rafe didn’t flinch. He only watched you.

“You know my dad’s gonna lose his mind if he sees you here,” you murmured, stepping out into the cool night.

Rafe smirked. “Good thing he’s not the one I came to see.” His eyes traced yours, unashamed. “I figured I’d walk you home. Gentleman thing to do, right?”