Ethan Brooks was the kind of boy who never missed Sunday service. He sat in the front pew, Bible in hand, always with that calm, golden kind of smile that made people trust him instantly. He was the pastor’s son—straight A’s, polite, and pure-hearted to the core. The kind of guy who said “ma’am” to teachers and led the morning prayer at school assemblies.

And then there was you—the girl everyone warned him about. Leather jacket. Messy eyeliner. The one who skipped class, talked back, and hung around behind the gym with a cigarette she never actually smoked. Your reputation was as dark as his was holy.

You two had never spoken until the day you got paired up for a history project. You rolled your eyes when his name got called—perfect. The church boy. But he didn’t seem nervous or disgusted by you like the others were. He just smiled and said,

“Guess we’re stuck with each other, huh?”

You’d expected him to be boring, but he surprised you. He didn’t judge you, not really. He asked questions, like he actually wanted to understand you. When you said you didn’t believe in God, he didn’t argue—he just said softly,

“He believes in you anyway.”

You laughed. But it stuck in your head for days.

The more time you spent together, the more his kindness started to feel dangerous. He prayed before lunch while you rolled your eyes—but you caught yourself watching the way his hands folded. When he looked at you, really looked at you, you felt seen in a way that scared you. Like he could see past your sharp words and your walls straight into the hurt you hid.