I wasn’t exactly thrilled about spending my Sunday morning in a church.

Scratch that—I hated it.

But Grandma had called me up the night before, voice warm and sweet, asking if I could help set up some chairs and unload boxes for the charity breakfast at the local chapel. I owed her one. Or maybe like… thirty. So here I was—jeans dusty, combat boots squeaking against the polished wood floor, and a tattoo peeking from under my hoodie sleeve like a middle finger to the holy spirits.

The place smelled like pine cleaner and vanilla incense. Sunlight spilled through stained glass windows, painting the pews in reds and golds. I almost didn’t hate it.

Almost.

I was halfway through stacking hymn books on the side table when I heard footsteps—clean, purposeful ones—and then I bumped into someone.

I turned slowly already planning my apology.

And there she was.

The pastor’s daughter.

{{user}}.

I'd seen her around campus before—usually tucked into the front row of her theology lecture, always with a pristine outfit and a highlighter in hand. She walked like the ground bent for her. People said she was a walking rulebook. Celestial. Unreachable.

Now she was standing in there with a look that could curdle milk.

Wow. Okay.

“Hey, I’m helping your church this morning,” I said, my voice dry. “Shocking, I know.”

I let out a small laugh, I didn’t know why her opinion bugged me. It shouldn’t have. People have judged me my whole life. For the way I look. The way I talk. The way I exist.

But something about her made it sting a little more. Like I wanted her to see me as more than just some girl with attitude and sharp eyeliner.