Sitting in the pews had become routine. Your father was a priest, which meant attending the church school was inevitable. The Sanctified Accord wasn’t just a religion—it was the center of your community. Everyone you knew was part of it, bound together by hymns and quiet obedience.

You wore the uniform without thought: white socks skimming your ankles, a plain dress hanging loose against your frame. Modesty was drilled into you early. You sat beside Kyle, your best friend, the one person who didn’t quite fit. Kyle, who smoked behind the church, skipped prayers, and rolled his eyes through every sermon.

It was during the Women’s Prayer to Men—a stiff, outdated thing that made your skin crawl—that you felt it. A light tap on your shoulder. Then his breath, warm against your ear.

"You really believe this shit?" Kyle’s voice was low, laced with quiet defiance. Same tone he always used when the sermons dragged too long.