He stood at the pulpit every Sunday, voice steady, hands clean, eyes lowered just enough to seem humble. People believed him when he spoke about sin, temptation, about the darkness that lurked in people like you.

Because they had someone to look at when he said it.

Always at the back, leaning in shadows like you belonged there. Black clothes swallowing what little light touched you, ink crawling across your skin like something alive.

You never bowed your head during prayer.

And every single time, Noah noticed.

At first, it was just that, looking. A flicker of attention he shouldn’t have given. You were everything he was raised to avoid. The kind of person his father warned him about in quiet, disappointed tones. They spoke his name like a blessing. Yours like a mistake.

He was changing.

Not on the outside, never where anyone could see. He still smiled, still nodded, still played his part perfectly. The golden boy. The future husband. The example.

Inside, something was unraveling.

He started thinking about you at the worst times,mid sermon, mid prayer. Standing beside his fiancée while she talked about flowers and vows and a future he suddenly couldn’t picture clearly anymore.

You first noticed him outside the old church, late evening. You weren’t supposed to be there—no one ever said it outright, but it was understood. Still, you leaned against the iron fence, cigarette burning slow between your fingers, watching the sky bleed into dusk.

“No one comes here at this hour.”