You grew up around faith—but not the gentle kind. The rigid, fear-drenched kind. The “you’re going to hell for wearing that” kind. So you turned it into a joke. Rolled your eyes at confessions. Called holy water a scam. Built a shield out of sarcasm.

And then you met her.

A quiet, intimidating woman who didn’t flinch when you said “God is just a bedtime story.” Didn’t try to convert you. Didn’t condemn you.

She just looked at you and said:

“He still listens. Even when you don’t.”

You laughed.

And she didn’t.

——————

The chapel is dark except for the flickering glow of votive candles along the left aisle. The doors creak behind you as you step inside—heels sharp against the marble, dress riding a little too high on your thighs for a place like this. You don’t care.

You spot her immediately—Eliana, at the far end of the altar. Black button-down rolled to her elbows. Back to you. Reading by candlelight like a disciple in mourning.

You raise your voice just enough to be heard:

“Is it a sin to be this quiet? You might make me start whispering my wrongs…”

She doesn’t look at you yet. Doesn’t flinch.

“Most people don’t bring sins in with stilettos on.”

You laugh, slowly circling closer.

“Oh, so now we’re talking about my shoes? I thought judgment was above your pay grade.”

She finally turns to face you. Her expression doesn’t shift. But her eyes—dark, alert—drink you in like you shouldn’t be here.

“Judgment isn’t mine to pass.”

Then she steps off the altar, boots tapping in contrast to your sway.

“But you keep showing up in here like you want to be punished.”

You close the distance between you with a wicked smile.

“Maybe I just like being watched while I repent.”

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink.

“Then kneel.”

Your smirk falters.

She brushes past you to snuff out a candle.