ᦸ 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌𝗍’𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗇!𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾🧁 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗇𝗍!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 22.3k ⠀˃̵ᴗ˂̵⠀ first times NSFW corruption kink religous allusionsㅤ reblogs&kisses
You hated the town long before you learned its name.
Your father insisted that hatred was a strong word, one that people reached for too quickly whenever life refused to accommodate them. Still, he had never understood that some places possessed the uncanny ability to reject you before you had even crossed their borders. Hatred, in your opinion, implied familiarity; this feeling was stranger than that. It was instinctive, immediate, almost animalistic, settling somewhere beneath your ribs the moment the highway dissolved into narrow country roads lined with skeletal oak trees and weathered fences whose peeling white paint looked as though it had been touched by every season except change. The farther the city disappeared in the rear-view mirror, the more oppressive the silence became, until even the hum of the old Ford sounded intrusive against the vast stretches of open fields and endless blue sky.
Chicago had always been loud enough to drown out your thoughts.
This place seemed determined to make you listen to every single one of them.
The moving truck rolled slowly down Maple Street, its engine grumbling as though it, too, objected to the destination, and you rested your forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window while watching the neighbourhood reveal itself slowly. Every lawn had been trimmed within an inch of perfection. Every mailbox stood upright instead of leaning drunkenly toward the road. American flags fluttered from polished porches despite there being no holiday worth celebrating, and flowerbeds burst with arrangements of roses whose petals looked too immaculate to have survived wind or rain. Even the children riding bicycles seemed strangely choreographed, calling cheerful greetings to neighbours who knew each of their names, their laughter carrying through the warm spring air before disappearing beneath the distant toll of church bells.
Your father finally slowed the truck in front of a modest two-storey house with pale blue shutters and a wraparound porch. He turned off the engine without saying anything, gripping the steering wheel for several seconds while cigarette smoke drifted lazily from the one balanced between his fingers. The divorce had split everything neatly down the middle—house, furniture, bank accounts, holidays—but no one asked where eighteen-year-old daughters wanted to go. Your mother stayed in Chicago with the apartment she'd fought tooth and nail to keep. Your father accepted a new job three states away because "there was nothing left" back home.
"You can take whichever room you want," he said eventually, still looking through the windshield instead of at you.
It was such an ordinary sentence that it almost made you laugh.
Not Are you okay?
Not I'm sorry your life fell apart because ours did.
Typical.
You climbed out before he could say anything else, letting the truck door slam harder than necessary, and inhaled air that smelled overwhelmingly of freshly cut grass and damp earth instead of gasoline, hot concrete, and rain-soaked asphalt. The breeze carried the scent of lilacs from somewhere nearby, sweet enough to become cloying after only a few breaths, and the oppressive neatness of the neighbourhood wrapped itself around you with the suffocating gentleness of a freshly washed bedsheet.
It didn't feel real.
It felt staged, like someone had built an entire town from the collective memories of people who believed America had once been simpler than it actually was.
Your father lit another cigarette almost immediately after finishing the first.
"Apparently," he muttered, exhaling smoke toward the afternoon sky, "the pastor lives next door."
You followed his gaze without much interest.
The neighbouring house was much older than yours, its white clapboard walls softened by decades of climbing ivy that curled around the porch railings in thick emerald vines. Rose bushes bloomed beneath every window, their crimson blossoms almost unnaturally vibrant against the white paint. While rows of lavender swayed gently beside a stone pathway leading toward the front steps.
A woman emerged from the garden carrying a wicker basket balanced against her hip, and even from across the lawn there was something effortlessly graceful about the way she moved, brushing loose strands of dark hair behind her ear before looking toward the moving truck with an expression that immediately softened into a welcoming smile.
She waved.
Your father waved back with awkward enthusiasm.
You offered the smallest possible nod.
The woman didn't seem offended by your lack of warmth. If anything, her smile only widened before she disappeared inside the house, leaving the front door open behind her as though expecting someone else to follow.
"You could try being polite," your father remarked.
"I nodded."
"You looked like you were attending a funeral."
"I kind of am."
The words escaped before you could stop them.
Your father didn't answer; he simply looked away, crushing the cigarette beneath his shoe with more force than necessary before opening the truck and beginning to unload boxes in silence.
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Your bedroom overlooked the street.
It wasn't particularly large, but the slanted ceiling and wide window gave it the illusion of space, and if you ignored the floral wallpaper left behind by whoever had lived there before, it might even have been pleasant. You left every box untouched, stepping instead toward the window where the neighbourhood stretched beneath the late afternoon sun in quiet perfection. From here, the church dominated everything.
It stood only a short walk away, its white steeple rising confidently above the rooftops until it became the highest point in town, casting a long shadow that crept slowly across the surrounding streets as the sun drifted westward. The stained-glass windows caught the light in fractured colours, spilling ribbons of sapphire, crimson, and gold across the stone walls, and every hour the bell announced itself with unwavering certainty, as though reminding the entire town exactly where its heart resided.
You had never been particularly religious.
Your mother claimed belief was something people found when they were desperate enough. Your father claimed nothing at all.
Still, there was something undeniably magnetic about the building—not welcoming, exactly, but impossible to ignore. It possessed the quiet confidence of institutions that had existed long before the people inside them and fully expected to remain standing long after everyone currently alive had become names carved into marble.
The longer you stood there, the more impossible it became to convince yourself that the church was simply another building.
Every street curved toward it, every sidewalk appeared to lead back to its weathered stone steps, and even the houses seemed arranged in quiet deference, as though generations of families had built their lives around its presence without ever questioning why. It reminded you less of a place of worship than of a watchtower, standing silently above the town with the patient certainty that everyone, eventually, regardless of where they wandered, would find themselves returning to its doors.
With a quiet sigh, you stepped away from the window and looked around your bedroom for the first time. Brown cardboard boxes towered against one wall with your mother's handwriting still scrawled across the tape in black marker—BOOKS, WINTER CLOTHES, BEDROOM—small pieces of a life that no longer existed packed away as though memories could be folded as neatly as sweaters. For a fleeting moment, you considered unpacking, imagining where your records might sit or which shelf your novels would occupy, but the thought felt strangely disloyal, as though arranging your belongings meant accepting that this house was something more permanent than a temporary stop on the way back home.
Because that was what you kept telling yourself.
You weren't staying.
Your father might believe in fresh starts, but you believed in endings, and sooner or later, this one would end too.
You left the boxes where they were.
Downstairs, the muffled scrape of furniture drifting across hardwood floors reminded you that your father had continued working without you. You could picture him perfectly without even looking—the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled to his elbows, another cigarette dangling absentmindedly between his lips despite promising your mother years ago that he'd quit, moving through the house with the determination of someone who believed staying busy was easier than admitting he didn't know what else to do with himself.
He had always been good at pretending. Pretending as if the shouting matches hadn't rattled the windows, that your mother's packed suitcases hadn't sat untouched by the front door for nearly a week before she finally carried them downstairs herself, that signing a stack of divorce papers in a lawyer's office on an unremarkable Tuesday afternoon was no different from signing for a parcel at the post office.
Some people cried when their marriages ended.
Your father had simply bought another pack of cigarettes.
You wandered downstairs without thinking much about where your feet were taking you, trailing your fingers lightly along the polished banister as unfamiliar floorboards creaked beneath your weight. The house carried that peculiar scent all recently vacated homes seemed to share, a mixture of fresh paint and old timber.
Your father was standing in the kitchen with his back to you, staring blankly into an open cupboard that contained nothing except two chipped mugs the landlord had apparently forgotten to remove. For several moments, he didn't move at all. He simply stood there with one hand braced against the counter, cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling while the afternoon light spilled through the sink window and painted long rectangles across the floor.
For a fleeting second, he looked impossibly older than you remembered.
Not because of the grey beginning to thread through his dark hair or the pull of his permanent frown that exemplified a network of deep wrinkles, but because loneliness had a way of ageing people unevenly. It hollowed them out from the inside until they carried themselves like houses after a fire—still standing, somehow, but unmistakably changed.
He noticed you only when the floorboard beneath your foot groaned.
"There's a diner a few blocks over," he said, reaching automatically for his wallet. "I figured we'd get dinner there. Saves unpacking the kitchen tonight."
You leaned against the doorway.
"Sure."
He hesitated.
"You hungry?"
"I guess." You sighed.
Another silence settled between the two of you, stretching just long enough to become uncomfortable before he cleared his throat and slipped the wallet into his back pocket.
"People say the pie's good."
The comment felt almost painfully rehearsed, like something he'd read in a brochure on how fathers were supposed to speak to daughters after destroying their lives.
"That's reassuring."
"I thought so."
You almost smiled.
Almost.
Instead, you looked past him through the kitchen window.
The church steeple was visible even from here.
It rose above the rooftops in the distance, brilliant white beneath the lowering sun, impossible to escape no matter which direction you faced. The cross at its peak caught the fading light so intensely that for a moment it seemed suspended in the sky itself, detached from the building below, watching over the town with quiet indifference.
"Everything around here revolves around that place, doesn't it?" you asked without turning away from the window.
Your father followed your gaze.
"I suppose it does."
"That's depressing."
"It depends who you ask."
You let out a quiet hum.
"I wasn't asking."
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The diner sat on the corner of Main Street, tucked between an old hardware store and a tiny bookshop whose faded sign looked as though it hadn't been replaced in decades. A little brass bell chimed above the door as you stepped inside.
It looked exactly how diners always looked in old American films, with red vinyl booths polished smooth by generations of customers, spinning chrome stools lined neatly along the counter, and waitresses who somehow remembered every regular's order before they'd even sat down. A jukebox stood silently in one corner, its coloured lights flickering despite no one feeding it coins, while framed photographs of local baseball teams and town parades crowded every inch of the walls.
The conversations stopped. Not all at once, but you felt it nonetheless.
Heads lifted almost imperceptibly from steaming coffee mugs and half-finished meals. Eyes lingered a fraction longer than politeness allowed before drifting away again, only to return moments later under the pretence of looking elsewhere.
You were no longer just another girl.
You were the new girl.
The divorced man's daughter.
The strangers from Chicago.
Your father either didn't notice or chose not to. He slid into a booth near the window, picking up a laminated menu, prompting you to sit down too. Your fingers drifted absently over the frayed edge of the laminated menu, though you weren't really reading it. The words blurred together into an endless procession of burgers, meatloaf, club sandwiches and slices of homemade pie, all priced cheaply enough to suggest the recipes had remained unchanged for decades. It struck you that this diner, like everything else you'd seen since crossing the county line, seemed entirely uninterested in becoming something new.
A waitress appeared beside the table with two glasses of water balanced expertly on a round metal tray tucked against her shoulder. She looked to be in her late fifties, her greying hair pinned into a loose bun beneath a paper hat embroidered with the diner's name, and she smiled with the effortless familiarity of someone who had spent most of her life recognising faces before names.
"You folks must be the Parks," she said brightly, setting the glasses down without needing to ask whether you wanted lemon. "We've all been expecting you."
Your father looked up in surprise. "You have?"
"Oh, honey." She laughed softly, her voice oozing with honey. "Nothing much happens around here. New neighbours are practically headline news."
You lowered your eyes to the condensation gathering on your water glass, tracing a fingertip through the droplets before they slipped onto the tabletop. Somehow, hearing it confirmed felt infinitely worse than merely suspecting it.
The waitress scribbled something onto her notepad before looking between the two of you again.
"Your daddy's taking over at the engineering firm, isn't he?"
"That's right," your father replied politely.
"Well, we're happy to have you both. Lord knows this town could always use a few fresh faces."
Your father offered the strained smile he'd perfected over the last year. "Thank you."
She turned to you then, her expression softening almost instinctively.
"And you'll be starting at Saint Augustine's on Monday?"
You blinked. "I guess."
"You'll like it there."
The certainty with which she said it made something inside you churn.
"What if I don't?"
She paused for the briefest moment before smiling again, as though she believed every difficult thing could be solved with enough kindness.
"Oh," she said gently, "I'm sure you will."
When she finally wandered off toward another table, your father reached automatically for the sugar dispenser despite drinking his coffee black.
"You didn't have to answer like that."
"I answered."
"You know what I mean."
"No," you replied, lifting your glass. "I really don't."
He sighed quietly, rubbing a hand across his jaw before staring out the window instead of arguing further. It had become another habit of his lately, abandoning conversations the moment they threatened to become honest. You sometimes wondered whether it was because he genuinely wanted to avoid conflict or because he no longer trusted himself to say the right thing.
Outside, Main Street basked beneath the last warmth of the evening sun. A teenage boy wheeled his bicycle past the diner's window, one hand balancing a paper bag hooked over the handlebars while an older woman called after him from across the street, reminding him not to forget choir practice tomorrow evening. He lifted a hand in acknowledgement without even turning around, clearly having heard the reminder a hundred times before.
Choir practice.
You almost smiled to yourself; of course, there was choir practice.
Of course, there were church picnics and Sunday bake sales and Christmas pageants where everyone knew every line before the first rehearsal. You could already picture the bulletin boards covered in handwritten notices, casserole dishes appearing mysteriously whenever someone fell ill.
The waitress returned with a steaming mug of coffee for your father and a basket of warm dinner rolls that she insisted had "just come out of the oven."
"They're on the house," she said with a wink. "Welcome to Maple Creek."
Your father thanked her.
You stared at the basket for a long moment before pulling one apart absentmindedly, watching gasps of steam escape into the air. The bread was still warm enough to burn your fingertips, tasting like someone's grandmother had been making them exactly the same way for fifty years, refusing to write the recipe down because she'd never needed to, measuring ingredients by instinct rather than teaspoons, and somehow producing the same perfect result every single time. You truly hated how good it was.
Your father noticed the expression that crossed your face before you had the chance to hide it, the smallest flicker of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth as he reached for one himself. "See?" he said quietly, tearing his own roll in half. "The pie probably isn't lying either."
You looked up just long enough to roll your eyes.
"Don't get ahead of yourself."
"I'm just saying," he replied with a shrug that felt almost familiar, "the place has potential."
"The bread has potential."
"I'll take that as progress."
"It isn't."
He smiled anyway.
It was brief—gone almost as soon as it appeared—but for the first time since you'd crossed the state line, your father looked a little more like the man you remembered. Before the lawyers, before the cardboard boxes stacked shoulder-high in your old living room, before every conversation between your parents had become another carefully measured negotiation about who got what and when. There had been a time when he laughed easily, when Sunday mornings meant burnt pancakes and classic rock playing too loudly through the house while your mother complained that neither of you knew the meaning of an inside voice. Sometimes it frightened you how difficult it was becoming to remember those versions of them.
The waitress returned, balancing two heavy plates against her forearm, a skill that could only come from years of doing the same job every single day. She placed your father's meatloaf before him first, thick slices drowned in peppered gravy beside a generous mound of mashed potatoes. She then set your cheeseburger and fries in front of you with a smile.
"Everything looks alright?"
"It looks fine," your father answered politely.
"You just let me know if you need anything. Ketchup's already on the table, and don't be shy about asking for more fries. Earl always makes too many."
She drifted away before either of you could respond, stopping at another booth to refill an elderly couple's coffee cups without needing to ask. The old man thanked her by name. She asked after his wife. Two booths over, someone else called her over just to tell her that his grandson had finally gotten into college, and she clasped both hands over her heart as though the news belonged to her own family.
You watched the exchange for longer than you meant to.
You had the uneasy feeling that, by tomorrow morning, half the town would know exactly where you'd eaten dinner on your first night. By the end of the week, they'd know which house you lived in, what car your father drove, and probably the fact that you'd barely spoken through the entire meal. In a place this small, stories didn't spread because people were cruel. They spread because there simply wasn't much else to talk about.
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You learned later that the woman from earlier was Mrs Sim, the pastor’s wife. She arrived with a still-warm peach cobbler, which your father accepted with a gratitude that seemed genuine, the lines around his eyes softening as she spoke to him about the community, the quiet, the good schools. You lingered in the doorway of your new bedroom, arms crossed, watching the performance of small-town benevolence. Mrs Sim’s eyes eventually found yours. “You must be y/n,” she beamed. “My son, Jake, is about your age. I’ll send him over later to help with the heavier boxes. It’s so nice to have young people in the house next door again.”
Jake.
The name meant nothing to you; it was simply another piece of information about a place you hadn't asked to know.
A pastor's son.
Someone who probably belonged here in the same way everything else seemed to.
You imagined someone polite, someone with perfect manners and neatly folded clothes, someone who had grown up knowing exactly where he fit in the world because everyone around him had spent his entire life reminding him. The kind of person who would wave at strangers while driving, volunteer on weekends, and probably know every verse of every hymn before he was old enough to understand why he was singing them.
Someone who would look at you and immediately know you didn't belong.
"That's nice," you replied.
Your father gave you a look, but you ignored it.
Mrs Sim only smiled. "You'll meet him soon enough."
Mrs Sim's words lingered in the air even after she had finished speaking, though you weren't entirely sure why. There was nothing particularly significant about them. She had simply mentioned her son in passing, the same way someone might mention a neighbour's dog or a nearby restaurant or which grocery store had the freshest produce. It should have been forgettable, another harmless detail about a town you had no intention of becoming attached to. Yet somehow, the certainty in her voice bothered you. You'll meet him soon enough. Not if you want to. Not if you happen to. Just a quiet assumption that, eventually, your lives would cross because that was how things worked here. Everyone knew everyone. Everyone belonged to someone. Everyone had a place already waiting for them.
You wondered if that was what made small towns feel so comforting to the people who loved them. There was no uncertainty. No endless possibility of becoming someone entirely different from who you were yesterday. In places like Chicago, people disappeared and reinvented themselves all the time. They changed schools, changed neighbourhoods, changed friend groups, changed everything about themselves until sometimes even the people who knew them best couldn't recognise who they had become. Here, it seemed impossible to escape the version of yourself that other people had already decided existed. Your family history, your mistakes, your reputation, your name—all of it followed you down every street and through every doorway.
Maybe that was why everyone here smiled so easily.
They had never needed to wonder who they were.
The conversation continued downstairs, though you stopped listening. Your father asked Mrs. Sim about the school district, and she answered with the same gentle enthusiasm she seemed to offer everything else, explaining which teachers were wonderful, which streets were safest, which shops had been around for generations. She spoke about Maple Creek as though it wasn't simply a town but a living thing, something delicate that required care and loyalty. You watched your father absorb every word, nodding along with an expression of relief that you recognised immediately.
He wanted this to work.
That was the part you hated most.
If he had been miserable, if he had admitted he regretted moving, if he had looked around this unfamiliar house and said that maybe he had made a mistake, then perhaps you would have felt less alone in your resentment. But instead, he seemed lighter here. Not happy exactly, but closer to it than he had been in months. The possibility that this place could become something good for him felt unfair somehow, because while he was finding a reason to believe in a future here, you were still grieving the one you had lost.
You quietly stepped back into your room before either of them noticed, closing the door without making a sound.
The peach cobbler sat untouched on the kitchen counter.
You could smell it even from upstairs.
Another thing this town seemed determined to make impossible to dislike.
You hated that. You hated that the houses were beautiful, that the neighbours were kind, that the diner food was good, that your father looked slightly less broken every time someone welcomed him. You had spent the entire drive here building a version of Maple Creek in your mind—a place where you could justify being angry, where every smiling face could be dismissed as fake and every gesture of kindness could be interpreted as pity.
But what were you supposed to do when people were genuinely nice? Anger was easier when you had something to fight against.
You sat down on the edge of your bed, staring at the unopened boxes surrounding you, and pulled your knees toward your chest. The room was quiet except for the faint sounds of movement downstairs, the occasional creak of floorboards beneath your father's footsteps, and the distant hum of traffic passing along the main road.
Somewhere outside, a church bell rang.
You looked toward the window instinctively. You had never understood the comfort people found in places like that.
The idea of faith had always seemed strange to you—not because you thought people were foolish for believing, but because certainty itself felt like something you had never possessed. Some people moved through life convinced there was a plan waiting for them, that every heartbreak had meaning and every loss had a purpose. They believed things happened for a reason.
You had never been able to understand how.
Your parents had loved each other once.
At least, everyone said they had.
There were photographs proving it. Old videos, memories you carried from childhood of them dancing in the kitchen, laughing over burnt dinners, holding hands while walking through crowded streets. There had been a time when their marriage had seemed as permanent as the church standing at the centre of Maple Creek.
And then one day, somehow, it wasn't.
So what exactly was faith supposed to do with things that broke?
What was the point of believing something was sacred if it could still be destroyed?
The question followed you as you unpacked only the things you needed for the night. A toothbrush. Clean clothes. Your phone charger. The essentials required to pretend that tomorrow would be normal, even though nothing about your life felt remotely familiar anymore.
You avoided opening the box marked BEDROOM, avoided touching the photographs, avoided anything that felt too much like admitting you were staying.
Downstairs, your father eventually called goodnight, and you answered automatically.
Then you were alone.
The first night in the new house was quieter than you expected. Not peaceful—peace implied comfort—but quiet in a way that made every small sound noticeable. The pipes shifting behind the walls. The wind moving through the trees outside. The occasional footsteps of your father crossing the hallway below.
And beneath everything else, faint but unmistakable, the church bells. They rang once more before midnight.
You lay in the unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling, listening as the sound travelled through the darkness.
You didn't know anything about Maple Creek.
You didn't know its streets, its people, its traditions, or the boy whose name had been casually introduced to you before you had even met him.
For now, though, all you knew was that you were eighteen years old, three states away from everything you had ever known, living beside a church you didn't believe in, in a town that seemed determined to believe in you before you had even decided whether you wanted to believe in anything at all.
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The next morning, Maple Creek looked almost deliberately beautiful.
You resented it immediately.
The sky was clear, the kind of bright blue that seemed almost too perfect to be real, and sunlight spilled across the streets as though the entire town had been carefully arranged for someone else's happiness. Birds moved between the trees, children walked toward school in groups, and neighbours greeted each other from opposite sides of the street with the casual familiarity of people who had been doing the same thing for years. There was something almost offensive about the way everything appeared untouched by the chaos that had brought you here. The lawns were freshly cut, the gardens were beginning to bloom with the first signs of spring, and every house seemed to sit peacefully beneath the morning light as though heartbreak, divorce, and starting over were things that happened somewhere far away to other people.
It was impossible to hate something that looked like it belonged in a memory.
You stood in the kitchen drinking coffee your father had made before getting ready for work. m He had already unpacked half the kitchen, organised the cupboards, and somehow found the patience to locate the coffee machine among dozens of unopened boxes that still crowded the dining room and hallway. It was such a typical thing for him to do that, despite everything, it almost made you smile. Your father had always dealt with uncertainty by creating order wherever he could. When things became unpredictable, he cleaned. When conversations became too difficult, he focused on practical tasks. When emotions became too overwhelming, he found something that could be measured, arranged, or fixed. He had spent the last year losing control over nearly every aspect of his life, and now that he had a new house with empty shelves and rooms waiting to be filled, he seemed determined to rebuild everything piece by piece.
You watched him move around the kitchen, placing mugs into cupboards and checking his work schedule on his phone, and you realised that this was probably the first time in months that he had looked like he knew what he was doing. It was strange seeing him like this. You had grown used to the version of him who sat silently at the dinner table, who stared at paperwork longer than necessary, who seemed to carry the weight of conversations he never dared to start. The divorce had changed both of your lives, but you had always been more focused on what you lost than you had forgotten he had lost something too.
That did not mean you were ready to forgive him for bringing you here.
It only meant you understood him slightly more than you wanted to.
"You should probably leave soon if you don't want to be late," he said, breaking the silence that had settled over the kitchen as he reached across the counter for his keys. He glanced briefly toward the clock hanging above the stove before looking back at you, his expression carrying the same quiet concern he had been trying to hide since the move. "First impressions are important."
You took another sip of your coffee, letting the warmth distract you from the uncomfortable feeling building in your chest. You glanced toward the clock above the stove, even though you already knew exactly what time it was.
"You already checked my schedule, didn't you?"
Your father paused for half a second, his fingers still wrapped around his keys, and that tiny hesitation gave him away immediately. He had always been terrible at pretending he wasn't overly involved. He tried to act casual, as though he hadn't spent the previous night reading through your school information or memorising your timetable, but you knew him too well. When he was worried, he disguised it as preparation.
"You need to admit that you would forget something important if I didn't."
You looked at him over the rim of your mug, unimpressed.
"I wouldn't."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, the kind that suggested he had been waiting for you to say exactly that.
"You forgot your passport before our flight to Florida."
You looked away.
"That was one time."
Your father leaned back against the kitchen counter, folding his arms across his chest.
"You forgot your wallet at a restaurant last summer."
"I got it back."
"After I drove back twenty minutes to get it."
You opened your mouth to argue, but he continued before you could.
"You left your phone on top of the car."
You immediately looked away.
"That happened once."
Your father's smile widened slightly, and for a moment, the heaviness that had followed both of you since the divorce disappeared. It was such a small thing, barely noticeable, but it reminded you of the person he used to be before everything became complicated. The father who teased you about losing things, who laughed when you became stubborn, who knew exactly when to push and when to leave you alone.
He picked up his briefcase from beside the kitchen table and moved toward the front door, but before he stepped outside, he stopped.
The hesitation was subtle. Most people probably wouldn't have noticed it, but you did.
"Are you nervous?"
The question was simple, almost too simple, and that was what made it difficult to answer. You looked toward the front window instead of at him, watching a neighbour across the street wave to someone passing by. Everyone here seemed so certain of themselves, so comfortable in a world that already knew their names. Meanwhile, you were standing in a kitchen that still smelled like cardboard boxes and unfamiliar paint, preparing to walk into a school where nobody knew you except as the girl who had just arrived.
You could have lied.
You almost did.
"No."
Your father didn't say anything, he didn't need to.
The look he gave you carried the quiet disbelief of someone who had known you your entire life and could tell when you were pretending.
You sighed, setting your coffee mug down on the counter.
"Maybe a little."
It was the closest thing to admitting the reality that you were willing to offer.
His expression softened immediately, and for a second, you prepared yourself for the kind of speech parents always gave in moments like this. Something about how everything would be okay. Something about making friends and giving people a chance and remembering that everyone felt nervous sometimes. You expected reassurance because reassurance was what adults usually offered when they didn't know how else to help.
Instead, he simply nodded.
"That's normal."
You looked back at him, almost surprised by how little he said.
"That's it?"
He shrugged slightly, his fingers tightening around the handle of his briefcase.
"What do you want me to say?"
You looked down.
"I don't know."
The honesty of the answer seemed to surprise both of you.
Your father let out a quiet breath, his gaze drifting briefly around the house. The unopened boxes stacked near the hallway. The unfamiliar walls. The unfamiliar kitchen. For the first time, he looked less like someone who had brought you here with a plan and more like someone who was simply trying to figure everything out alongside you.
"Neither do I," he admitted.
The words settled between you. And strangely, they helped more than any perfect speech could have.
Because your father had spent so long trying to make everything seem manageable that you had almost forgotten he was also struggling. He didn't have some hidden answer for how to rebuild a family after it had fallen apart. He didn't know the secret to making a new town feel like home or how to erase the memories you had left behind. He was just another person standing in unfamiliar surroundings, hoping that somewhere along the way, he had made the right choice.
"I'll see you after school," he said eventually.
You nodded.
"Okay."
He opened the front door, letting in a rush of cool morning air that carried the scent of grass and flowers from the neighbouring garden. He stepped outside, then paused with one hand still resting against the doorframe.
"Y/n?"
You looked up.
"Try not to get suspended on your first day."
You stared at him.
"Seriously?"
A small smile appeared on his face, the first genuine one you had seen that morning.
"I'm just saying."
"I haven't even been there yet."
"I know my daughter." He smiled as you watched him walk down the front steps and toward his car, his briefcase held loosely in one hand while the morning sun stretched across the driveway
You grabbed your bag from beside your stool and checked your phone one last time before leaving. There were still messages from Chicago, but fewer than yesterday. The group chat that had been impossible to ignore during the drive had become quieter overnight, conversations naturally shifting toward things you weren't there to experience. Someone had posted a picture from a coffee shop you used to visit after school. Someone else had mentioned a teacher you had complained about for years. Tiny pieces of your old life continuing without you.
You stared at the screen for longer than you should have.
Then you locked your phone.
There was no point in torturing yourself with reminders of somewhere you couldn't return to.
At least, not yet.
You stepped outside, locking the front door behind you, and immediately became aware of the house beside yours. The pastor's home stood exactly as it had the previous evening, peaceful and untouched beneath the morning sunlight. The garden that had seemed almost excessive yesterday looked different now—not less perfect, but more alive. The roses beneath the windows moved slightly in the breeze, and the ivy climbing along the porch railing cast delicate shadows across the white wooden walls.
You wondered briefly what kind of person grew up in a house like that.
Not because you were interested, you reminded yourself of that.
It was just simply curiosity.
A house like that came with expectations. You knew enough about people to understand that. The pastor's son probably had a reputation before he was old enough to create one himself. People probably knew him as a child before they knew him as a person. They probably expected kindness from him, patience from him, goodness from him. They probably looked at him and saw his father's occupation before they saw anything else.
You wondered if that ever became exhausting.
The thought disappeared quickly.
You adjusted your bag over your shoulder and started walking toward school.
The route was shorter than you expected, which somehow annoyed you. You had imagined getting lost, having an excuse to turn around, having some dramatic reason to delay arriving at a place where you knew nobody. Instead, Maple Creek made everything inconveniently simple. The streets were easy to follow. The sidewalks were clean. The school appeared at the end of the road exactly where the map on your phone said it would be.
Even the town was refusing to give you a reason to hate it.
The school building was larger than you expected, though it carried the same old-fashioned charm as everything else in Maple Creek. Red brick walls covered in climbing greenery, tall windows reflecting the morning sunlight, neatly maintained gardens surrounding the entrance. It looked less like a school and more like a place people took photographs of during graduation.
You stood at the edge of the school grounds for a moment longer than necessary, letting the flow of students move around you as though you were standing still in the middle of a river. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going, which hallway they needed, which friends they were meeting, which teachers they needed to avoid before the first bell. There was a strange confidence in the way people moved through familiar places, the kind that only came from years of repetition. They weren't thinking about where to turn or whether they belonged there. They simply existed within the routine of it.
You missed that.
Not the school itself. Not the crowded hallways or the endless assignments or the people who had somehow made every small inconvenience feel like a personal crisis. But you missed knowing what to expect. You missed walking into a building where you knew which staircase was always empty between classes, which vending machine stole your money, which teachers would let you hand things in late without a lecture. You missed the comfort of being a person who already had a place, even if that place wasn't perfect.
Here, everything was unfamiliar.
And unfamiliar meant vulnerable.
You hated that feeling.
You followed the signs toward the main office, your shoes making quiet sounds against the polished floor as you entered the building. It was exactly what you expected inside. Framed photographs lined the walls, displaying graduating classes from decades before you were born, sports teams holding trophies with proud expressions, theatre productions captured mid-performance, students who had once walked through these same hallways and eventually left to create lives somewhere beyond the town.
It was strange seeing so much history preserved.
Back home, schools changed constantly. Posters were replaced, rooms were renovated, people came and went so quickly that it was easy to forget anyone had existed there before you. Here, the past seemed carefully protected. Maple Creek held onto things. It held onto houses, traditions, names, and memories with the kind of devotion usually reserved for things people were afraid of losing.
The thought followed you into the office, where a woman sitting behind the front desk looked up immediately. She had the same welcoming expression everyone here seemed to possess, the kind that made you suspicious because you couldn't understand why a stranger would look genuinely pleased to see you.
"You must be Y/n."
You stopped.
It was becoming unsettling how often people knew who you were before you had introduced yourself.
"Yeah."
The woman smiled and reached for a folder beside her computer. "I'm Mrs. Li. We spoke briefly with your father yesterday when your enrolment paperwork came through. Everything has been processed, and your schedule is inside.
She handed the folder across the desk.
You accepted it carefully, glancing down at your name printed neatly across the front.
"Thank you."
"You'll find everyone here is very welcoming," Mrs Li added.
There it was again.
The phrase everyone seemed determined to use.
Welcoming.
You wondered if there was a meeting where the entire town agreed on the same vocabulary.
You forced a small smile.
"I'll keep that in mind."
Mrs Li didn't seem offended by your lack of enthusiasm. If anything, her expression softened slightly, as though she understood more than you had said.
"Your first class is English. It's just down the hall and to the left. If you have any trouble finding anything, ask someone. We have a wonderful group of students here."
You nodded.
"Okay."
The hallway had become busier now, students moving between lockers and classrooms as the first bell approached. Conversations blended together around you, creating a constant stream of voices that you tried not to focus on. You kept your eyes on your schedule, pretending you didn't notice the occasional glance in your direction.
You knew what they were thinking.
Who is she?
Where did she come from?
Why is she here?
You had been the new girl before, but never like this.
In Chicago, being new meant being one person among thousands. There were always other transfers, other unfamiliar faces, other people trying to figure out where they belonged. Here, you felt like the entire town had watched your moving truck arrive. You weren't just a student who had transferred schools.
You reached your classroom and paused outside the door, hearing voices from inside. The urge to turn around was immediate and irrational. Not because you were afraid, but because walking through that door meant admitting this was real, that you were actually here and not on some sort of visit. You weren’t just passing through; this was your life now.
Eventually, you pushed the door open.
The classroom was brighter than you expected, sunlight spilling through the wide windows and casting shapes across the desks. Students looked up briefly as you entered before returning to their conversations, their curiosity subtle enough to be polite but obvious enough that you noticed. You had become aware, almost immediately, of how visible you were here.
You made your way toward the empty seat near the window and placed your bag down, grateful for the small distance it gave you from everyone else. For the first few minutes, you simply sat there, watching the classroom. The teacher arranged papers on her desk. Students exchanged conversations that seemed to continue from yesterday, last week, and years ago.
The rest of the morning passed in a way that felt strangely unreal, as though you were watching yourself move through someone else's routine rather than actually participating in your own. Every classroom had its own rhythm that you didn't understand yet; every teacher seemed to know exactly how much time to spend explaining something, exactly when to move on, exactly which students would answer questions before they even raised their hands.
You found yourself observing more than listening, studying the small details that revealed how deeply connected everyone was to this place. The girl in front of you had a sticker on her notebook from a local charity event. The boy beside the window wore a jacket with the school emblem stitched neatly onto the chest. Two students passing your desk exchanged a joke that clearly referenced something that had happened years ago, something you could not possibly understand because you had not been there to witness it.
By the time you checked your schedule again before your next class, you were already expecting another subject you would have to pretend to care about, another room where you would sit quietly and allow people to decide what they thought of you. Instead, your eyes stopped on the words printed beneath the next period.
Chapel.
You stared at it for several seconds, convinced that maybe you had misunderstood.
You looked back at the schedule.
Still there.
A mandatory chapel period.
Not an optional gathering. Not a once-a-week event. Not something students attended only if they wanted to participate. It was built directly into the school day with the same certainty as mathematics, English, or science, another requirement that everyone accepted without question.
You almost found it impressive.
Only a town like Maple Creek could create a school where religion was not simply something people practised, but something embedded so naturally into everyday life that nobody even considered questioning it.
Of course, they had a chapel.
You followed the other students toward the chapel building, trying not to let your expression reveal exactly what you were thinking. Nobody else seemed bothered. That was what caught your attention more than anything. They weren't walking there reluctantly. They weren't whispering complaints about having to attend. They weren't rolling their eyes or joking about finding a way to escape.
They simply went, like it was normal.
The chapel itself was beautiful, which added to your growing irritation. The building was old but carefully maintained, with dark wooden beams stretching across the ceiling and rows of polished benches facing a raised platform at the front. Sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows, breaking into fragments of blue, red, and gold that shifted slowly across the floor as the morning passed.
You took a seat near the back, naturally, the safest place for someone who had no intention of becoming involved.
The teacher at the front began speaking about faith, purpose, and community, and you tried to listen. You genuinely did. You weren't there to mock anyone or disrespect something that clearly mattered to the people around you. But there was a difference between understanding why something was important to others and feeling it yourself.
People always talked about faith like it was something that remained when everything else fell away, but what happened when the things you believed in failed you first? What happened when the people who promised they would always be there were suddenly the reason you had to leave your home? What happened when forever turned out to be something people said only because they wanted to believe it at the time?
Maybe that was why religion had always felt so distant to you. It wasn't because you hated it, and it wasn't because you thought people were foolish for believing in something greater than themselves. You understood the appeal of having something permanent to hold onto when everything around you felt temporary. The problem was that belief required a kind of trust you no longer knew how to give. You had spent too much time watching things people promised would last forever eventually fall apart, watching something that was supposed to be unbreakable become fragile enough to disappear. It was difficult to surrender yourself to the idea of certainty when your own life had become proof that certainty could be taken away without warning.
The clock above the doorway seemed to move more slowly with every passing minute, each second stretching longer than the one before it. You tried to convince yourself that you could sit there until the period ended. It was only one class. Forty minutes of listening, pretending, and doing what everyone else seemed completely comfortable doing.
But the longer you remained in that room, the more aware you became of how different you felt from everyone around you.
The chapel, which seemed to offer comfort to everyone else, began to feel strangely suffocating. You felt as though the room itself was asking something from you—some kind of acceptance, some willingness to belong, some acknowledgement that this was now your world too.
You looked around one more time, almost hoping to find someone else who looked as uncomfortable as you felt.
You didn't.
Every student seemed exactly where they were supposed to be.
Everyone seemed to have a place.
Except you.
The realisation irritated you more than it should have, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you quietly gathered your notebook and slipped your bag over your shoulder. You waited until the teacher turned her attention toward the front of the room before standing, moving carefully between the rows of benches and making your way toward the side exit. Nobody stopped you. Nobody questioned where you were going. For a moment, you wondered if that was because nobody noticed, or because in a place where everyone seemed to know everyone, you were still too new to matter.
Either option was strangely comforting.
The moment the chapel doors closed behind you, you exhaled.
The hallway outside was empty, and the sudden absence of voices felt like stepping out of a crowded room after holding your breath for too long.
You walked without a destination, following instinct rather than any actual plan, letting your feet carry you away from the main buildings where students gathered and teachers watched.
The further you walked, the quieter the school became.
Eventually, the polished pathways and carefully maintained gardens gave way to a less noticeable section of campus behind the sports fields. It was the kind of place people probably passed without ever really seeing, hidden behind a line of tall trees that separated it from the rest of the school grounds. The branches stretched overhead, creating patches of shade across the grass, while the old maintenance building stood quietly against the edge of the property, its brick walls worn by years of changing weather.
It wasn't somewhere students were supposed to be, which immediately made it somewhere you preferred.
There was something comforting about finding a place that hadn't been perfected. Unlike the rest of Maple Creek, which seemed determined to preserve every detail and present itself as something untouched, this corner of the school existed without trying to impress anyone. The grass grew unevenly. The walls carried marks left behind by time. Nobody had placed flowers here or added signs explaining its importance.
It was simply there.
And for the first time that morning, you felt like you could be too.
You leaned back against the wall, pulling the cigarette from your bag with the familiar ease of someone who had done this too many times to feel guilty anymore. You knew exactly what people would say if they saw you. You knew the assumptions that would immediately follow. The new girl from Chicago who couldn't even make it through her first day without breaking a rule. The divorced man's daughter who clearly had an attitude problem. The outsider who had arrived and immediately proved everyone right.
You almost laughed at the thought.
People loved being right about others.
It made them feel like they understood the world.
The lighter flickered in your hand, and for a moment the small flame was the only movement around you. You watched the cigarette catch before lowering your hand, allowing the smoke to disappear into the cool morning air. The irony wasn't lost on you.
You had escaped a chapel full of people searching for meaning only to find yourself hiding behind a building with a cigarette in your hand.
Maybe everyone had their own way of coping, and yours was just less socially acceptable.
For the first time that morning, you felt like you could breathe properly. There was no teacher watching you. No receptionist smiling at you like she already knew your entire story. No students glancing over and wondering where you came from.
Just complete silence.
You closed your eyes briefly, letting yourself enjoy the rare moment where nobody expected anything from you.
Then you heard footsteps.
At first, you assumed they belonged to another student who had discovered the same hiding place. You didn't bother moving. If anything, you were slightly annoyed that even your one quiet corner couldn't remain yours for longer than five minutes.
The footsteps came closer, slow and unhurried.
Not the hurried steps of someone trying to sneak away.
Someone who knew exactly where they were going.
You opened your eyes.
A boy stood a few feet away, one hand resting casually in the pocket of his uniform trousers, his expression difficult to read. He wasn't wearing the usual look people gave you when they caught you doing something wrong. There was no immediate judgement, no smug satisfaction, no excitement at having discovered someone breaking a rule. He didn't have the expression teachers usually wore when they found students somewhere they shouldn't be, that careful mixture of disappointment and authority that suggested they had already decided what kind of person you were before you had the chance to explain yourself.
Instead, he simply looked at you.
He appeared to be around your age, dressed in the same Saint Augustine's uniform as everyone else, though somehow he carried it differently. The other students you had seen that morning wore their uniforms like an extension of the school itself, every shirt neatly tucked, every tie perfectly adjusted, every detail reflecting the careful order that seemed to exist everywhere in Maple Creek. This boy didn't look careless, but there was something less deliberate about him. He looked comfortable, as though the uniform was simply something he wore rather than something he used to prove that he belonged.
His eyes briefly moved toward the cigarette between your fingers before returning to your face, and you waited for the inevitable reaction. You waited for the sigh, the disapproving expression, the comment about rules and responsibility and how this was not the kind of behaviour expected at a school like Saint Augustine's.
Instead, when he finally spoke, his voice was calmer than you expected.
"You know, I'm pretty sure this isn't exactly where you're supposed to be during chapel."
You stared at him for a moment, caught slightly off guard by the fact that his words sounded more like an observation than an accusation. The cigarette remained between your fingers, smoke curling lazily upward before disappearing into the cool air surrounding the trees.
"I'm aware," you replied.
Your tone was sharper than necessary, but you had already spent the entire morning surrounded by people who were trying to make you feel like you were being welcomed while simultaneously reminding you that you didn't belong. Defensiveness had become easier than politeness. It was a habit you had developed without realising, something you reached for before anyone had the opportunity to hurt you.
The boy didn't seem bothered.
If anything, he looked slightly amused.
"Good," he said simply.
You frowned.
That wasn't the response you were expecting.
Most people would have continued. They would have taken your attitude as an invitation to argue, because people often mistook defensiveness for a challenge. They liked proving they were right, especially when they believed they were helping.
You studied him for a moment before asking the question you already knew the answer to.
"Are you going to report me?"
The question came out automatically, almost like a test. You weren't actually interested in whether he would tell someone. You were interested in seeing what kind of person he was. Whether he was the kind who followed rules because they mattered to him or because breaking them gave him a reason to feel superior.
For a moment, he didn't answer.
His gaze moved briefly toward the school building in the distance, where students were still sitting inside the chapel, probably listening attentively to whatever lesson you had decided you couldn't endure.
Then he looked back at you.
"No."
The simplicity of the answer made you hesitate.
"Why?"
He shrugged slightly, his expression remaining thoughtful rather than dismissive.
"Because I don't think getting you in trouble is going to change anything."
You tilted your head slightly. "What does that mean?"
"It means," he said, looking toward the ground for a moment as though choosing his words carefully, "that if someone doesn't want to be somewhere, making them feel worse probably isn't going to make them suddenly want to be there."
You looked away, taking another slow drag before exhaling toward the trees.
"You're surprisingly understanding for someone at a religious school."
There was a slight pause, then he smiled faintly.
"Is that supposed to be an insult?"
You shrugged. "I'm not sure yet."
That earned a quiet laugh from him, and the sound surprised you because it wasn't the kind of laughter you expected from him.
"You thought I was going to give you a lecture."
"I mean, you're standing behind a church school talking to someone who skipped chapel and is smoking," you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you as though the situation itself explained everything.
His eyebrows lifted slightly, not in disbelief, but in genuine thought, as though he was actually considering your words rather than waiting for his turn to respond. It was a strange reaction, and you found yourself watching him more closely because you couldn't figure out what he was trying to do.
"Do people usually do that?" he asked.
The question was so simple that it almost confused you.
You glanced away for a moment, looking toward the empty field beside the building where the morning sunlight stretched across the grass. "Usually."
You didn't need to explain what you meant.
He seemed to understand anyway.
"And does it work?"
The question caught you off guard.
Not because it was difficult, but because you had expected him to ask something else. You expected him to ask why you smoked, why you skipped chapel, why you seemed so determined to reject everything about the place you had just arrived in. You expected him to focus on the action itself, because that was what people usually did.
You looked back at him, studying his expression carefully.
"What?"
"Does it work when people lecture you?"
For a moment, you didn't answer.
The cigarette slowly burned between your fingers, the ash growing longer before falling quietly onto the ground beneath you. You opened your mouth, ready to give him the easy response. The sarcastic one. The answer you usually gave whenever someone asked a question that felt too close to the truth.
Something like depends who's asking.
Or clearly not, considering I'm still here.
But the words didn't come.
"No."
The answer came out quieter than you intended.
The boy didn't look surprised. He didn't look pleased, either, like he had somehow won an argument. He simply nodded slowly, as though your answer confirmed something he had already suspected.
"Then I don't see the point."
There was something unusual about the way he spoke, like he wasn't trying to convince you of anything. He wasn't saying it because he expected you to suddenly agree with him or because he wanted credit for being understanding. He said it like it was an obvious conclusion, like forcing someone to listen to advice they had no intention of accepting was just another way of making yourself feel useful.
You watched him carefully, trying to figure out what kind of person said things like that.
It was difficult because he didn't fit neatly into any of the categories you had already created for everyone in Maple Creek. You had expected people here to be predictable. You had expected the students at Saint Augustine's to be polite in the same rehearsed way the rest of the town was polite, carrying themselves with the quiet confidence of people who had never had to question whether they belonged. You expected judgment hidden beneath kindness, because that was what you had grown used to.
Before you could stop yourself, you spoke.
"You know, I don't think I ever got your name."
For a moment, something almost amused passed across his expression, like he hadn't realised until then that you had been standing there having an entire conversation without knowing who he was.
His eyes softened slightly, and he shifted his weight away from the wall, extending his hand in a gesture that felt strangely normal considering how unusual the circumstances were.
"I'm Jake."
You looked at him for a moment, your fingers still holding the cigarette as you tried to place where you had heard it before. It sounded familiar, but the thought disappeared before you could catch it. There were too many new names, too many new faces, too many pieces of information being thrown at you since arriving in Maple Creek.
You would remember eventually.
"Y/n." You replied.
He repeated your name quietly back to you, almost absentmindedly, like he was making sure he remembered it.
And you hated how much you noticed.
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The walk home felt strangely shorter than it had that morning, and you found yourself resenting that more than you probably should have. The Sim house came into view as you turned onto Maple Street, standing beside yours exactly as it had the day before.
You looked at it only briefly before turning toward your own house.
You didn't have the energy to think about anything else.
The day had already been long enough.
You dropped your bag beside the stairs, kicking your shoes off before walking further inside. The living room looked slightly different from when you had left that morning, although you couldn't immediately identify what had changed. Your father had clearly spent the day trying to make the space feel more lived in. A few boxes had disappeared, the curtains had been opened, and the empty shelves that had made the room feel like a stranger's house were slowly beginning to fill with pieces of your old life.
It was strange watching him rebuild everything so quickly.
Your father had always been good at practical things.
He knew how to assemble furniture without reading instructions. He knew how to fix things that broke. But making it a home was something else entirely, it required something you couldn't unpack from a cardboard box. It required time, memories.
You found him in the kitchen, standing at the counter with his sleeves rolled up while sorting through paperwork beside a half-empty mug of coffee. He looked up when he heard you enter.
"You're home."
You leaned against the doorway.
"Unfortunately."
A small smile tugged at his mouth before disappearing almost immediately.
It was one of the things you noticed about your father. He rarely laughed properly anymore. Since the divorce, happiness seemed to appear in brief moments before he remembered there were still things to worry about.
"How was school?"
You knew what he wanted. He wanted some kind of reassurance that this hadn't been a mistake. That moving three states away hadn't made everything worse. That his decision to leave Chicago, to take the job, to start over, had actually been the right one.
You could have given him the answer he wanted.
You could have complained about everything and proven yourself right.
Instead, you placed your bag down beside the counter and shrugged.
"Fine."
The word was deliberately vague, and you knew it the moment it left your mouth.
Your father knew it too.
He looked up from the papers he had been sorting, his expression changing only slightly, but you noticed the shift anyway. He didn't look angry or disappointed. He didn't even look surprised. If anything, he looked like someone who had expected that answer before he had even asked the question.
"Fine?" he repeated, leaning back against the counter.
You opened the refrigerator door, more to give yourself something to do than because you actually wanted anything inside it. The shelves were organised with the same careful precision that seemed to define everything your father had done since arriving. Groceries were arranged neatly, containers were stacked, and everything had already found a place despite the fact that you still hadn't decided where half your belongings belonged.
"Yeah."
You could feel him watching you.
"You know, most people would probably use more than one word to describe their first day at a new school."
You didn’t reply, and he didn't ask again.
Instead, he simply returned to the papers on the counter, allowing the conversation to move on without forcing you to explain something you weren't ready to explain.
After a few moments, he glanced down at the papers before speaking again.
"The Sims stopped by earlier."
You glanced back at him, immediately recognising the name. The woman from next door had already made more of an impression on your first day than most people had managed to in years, mostly because she seemed almost impossibly comfortable in a way you couldn't understand. She had arrived with a warm peach cobbler, spoken to your father as though they were old friends rather than strangers who had only just met.
"The neighbours?" you asked, even though you already knew the answer.
Your father nodded, placing the papers aside and leaning back against the counter. "Yeah. They invited us over on Sunday."
There was something about the way he said it that immediately made you cautious. Not because you disliked the Sims specifically, but because you had started to understand that in Maple Creek, every friendly gesture seemed to come with some deeper connection to the town itself.
You looked at him carefully.
"For what?"
Your father hesitated only briefly, but it was enough for you to notice. He had always been terrible at hiding things from you, especially when he knew the answer would probably annoy you. There was a certain expression he got when he was trying to approach a subject carefully, like he was mentally preparing himself for the reaction before the conversation had even started.
"Church."
You stared at him, waiting for him to laugh or explain that he was joking, but his expression remained completely serious. Of course, he was serious. This was Maple Creek, after all. You should have expected that the first invitation from the neighbours would involve the very building that seemed to watch over the entire town from its place above the rooftops.
Your father watched your expression carefully, already knowing exactly what you were
"I don't know why we have to go," you said, trying to keep your voice neutral, although your father clearly heard the resistance underneath it.
He set his mug down slowly, and for the first time since you walked through the door, you saw the patience he had been holding onto begin to weaken. You knew your father well enough to understand that the church was not the real issue. The issue was everything that had come before it — the constant rejection of every attempt he made to make this place feel less unfamiliar, the way you had spent days insisting that Maple Creek was a mistake before you had even given it a chance.
"They're being kind," he said.
"I know."
"Then why does it bother you so much?"
You looked away because you didn't have a simple answer. It wasn't that you thought Mrs Sim was a bad person. She wasn't. It wasn't that you thought your father was wrong for wanting to meet people. He wasn't. The frustrating part was that everything about Maple Creek was making it harder for you to stay angry.
Your father watched you for a moment before letting out a quiet breath, the kind that carried more exhaustion than frustration. "You know, I understand that you're upset."
You stayed silent.
"I understand that you didn't want this. I understand that you miss Chicago and your friends and the life you had before everything changed. I understand that you feel like you were dragged here because of choices you didn't make."
"But you have to understand something too."
You looked back at him.
"I didn't choose this either."
The words made you pause.
Because you had spent so much time thinking about what you had lost that you had forgotten your father had lost something too. He had lost the same home, the same routines, the same version of your family that you missed. The difference was that while you had been angry, he had been trying to make sure there was still something left to save.
"I am trying," he continued, looking around the kitchen that still didn't quite feel like yours. "I'm trying to make this work. I'm trying to make this place feel like somewhere we live instead of somewhere we ended up."
The honesty of it made you uncomfortable because you didn't know what to do with it. Anger was easier. Anger gave you something to hold onto. But your father's frustration wasn't coming from a desire to control you. It was coming from the fact that he was tired of feeling like he was the only person willing to believe things could get better.
"I'm not asking you to love Maple Creek," he said after a moment. "I'm not asking you to suddenly become someone you're not. I'm just asking you to stop deciding that everything here is against you before you even know what it is."
The kitchen fell quiet again, filled only by the distant sound of the town outside and the faint ringing of the church bell in the distance. You hated that the timing almost felt intentional, as though Maple Creek itself was reminding you that it was still there, waiting patiently for you to stop fighting it.
But after a long moment, you finally sighed and looked back at your father.
"One Sunday."
The surprise that crossed his face was immediate, and you regretted agreeing almost as quickly as you saw it.
"Don't make it a big deal," you warned.
A small smile appeared on his face, the first one you had seen since the conversation started.
"I won't."
You narrowed your eyes slightly because you both knew that wasn't entirely true.
"You will."
He laughed quietly, shaking his head as he picked up his mug again.
"Maybe a little."
You grabbed your bag and headed toward the stairs before he could say anything else, still uncertain about whether agreeing had been a mistake. You still weren't looking forward to Sunday. You still didn't understand why this town seemed so determined to pull you into its routines, its traditions, its carefully preserved little world where everyone seemed to know exactly where they belonged.
But as you entered your bedroom later that evening and looked out through the window toward the church steeple standing above the rooftops, you found yourself wondering what exactly waited for you there.
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The Sunday you were dreading seemed to come faster than you wished.
The pews creaked under the weight of the congregation as you sat rigid beside your father, the stiff collar of your dress scratching at your neck. The sermon droned on, the pastor's voice booming from the pulpit, but your attention drifted until the side door opened. A boy about your age slipped in late, Bible tucked under one arm, and took the empty seat two rows ahead. The moment his profile turned, your stomach dropped. It was him—the same guy who had caught you behind the school last week, cigarette between your fingers, smoke curling from your lips.
Jake.
For a moment, you wondered if he had noticed you, but he seemed completely absorbed in the service, carefully opening the worn Bible beneath his arm before offering a quiet apology to the elderly woman beside him for arriving late. She smiled as though she had forgiven him before he'd even spoken, patting his arm affectionately before turning her attention back toward the pulpit.
Every movement he made carried the unconscious ease of someone who had spent years within these walls. He knew exactly when to stand, when to sit, when to join the hymns without needing to glance at the page numbers announced from the front. Even the people around him seemed to move naturally around his presence, greeting him with small smiles whenever the congregation shifted or the peace was exchanged, as though he wasn't simply another student from school but somebody they had watched grow up.
You couldn't imagine what that felt like.
The service continued, the pastor's voice echoing beneath the high timber ceiling while coloured light from the stained-glass windows drifted slowly across the polished wooden floor. You tried—genuinely tried—to pay attention, but your concentration wandered almost immediately yet again, your gaze drawn back toward Jake every few minutes despite yourself. It wasn't curiosity anymore, at least not entirely. It was something closer to disbelief. The boy who had found you smoking behind the maintenance building somehow looked exactly the same here, yet completely different at the same time.
Eventually the pastor closed his Bible, offering a final blessing before the congregation answered in practiced unison. Almost immediately the atmosphere changed. The solemn quiet dissolved into conversation as people rose from their seats, hymn books slid back into their holders, and families gathered in the aisles with the familiar ease of people who had repeated the same ritual every Sunday for decades. Children darted between rows of pews while older couples lingered to catch up.
Your father stood beside you, smoothing invisible creases from his shirt before offering you a hopeful glance.
"Come on," he murmured. "We should say hello."
You resisted the urge to sigh.
Instead, you followed him reluctantly through the growing crowd, offering polite nods whenever another unfamiliar face introduced themselves. Everyone smiled. Everyone seemed genuinely pleased that you were there.
It was exhausting.
Across the room, you caught sight of Mrs Sim weaving effortlessly through the congregation with the same warmth she'd shown the day she'd arrived at your house carrying a peach cobbler. The moment she noticed the two of you, her face lit up, and she crossed the room with surprising speed before your father had any chance of escaping.
"I'm so glad you came," she said brightly, clasping your father's hands between hers before turning that same smile toward you. "And you must be surviving your first week at school."
"Barely," you replied.
Mrs Sim laughed, apparently choosing to interpret your answer as a joke.
"I'm sure it'll get easier."
You weren't convinced.
"Oh," she said suddenly, looking over her shoulder. "Jake!"
You followed her gaze instinctively.
Jake had been speaking with an older man near the front of the church, but at the sound of his mother's voice, he excused himself immediately and made his way over, offering the man a polite smile before crossing the aisle. Up close, he looked exactly as he had behind the school, except for the blazer he'd pulled on over his shirt and the Bible still tucked beneath one arm.
"Jake," Mrs Sim said warmly as he reached the group, resting a gentle hand against his arm. "I'd like you to meet our new neighbours."
He turned obediently toward your father first, offering a polite smile before extending his hand. "Hi, sir. I'm Jake."
"Nice to meet you, Jake," your father replied, returning the handshake. "I'm Daniel, and this is my daughter." Only then did Jake's attention shift towards you.
Recognition crossed his face almost immediately, so brief that anyone else would have mistaken it for an ordinary pause, but you caught it anyway. His eyes widened the slightest fraction before settling, the corners of his mouth threatening a smile he seemed to think better of almost as quickly as it appeared.
He hadn't expected you to be here.
You hadn't expected him either.
"Hi," he said after the briefest hesitation, extending his hand towards you exactly as though the two of you had never spoken before.
You looked at his outstretched hand for a second before taking it.
"Y/n."
"Jake."
The corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly, "It's... nice to meet you."
You caught the tiny pause before meet, and for a moment you wondered if anyone else had noticed it. Judging by the bright smile spreading across Mrs Sim's face, they hadn't.
Mrs Sim's smile widened with obvious satisfaction as she looked between the two of you, entirely convinced she had just witnessed the beginning of a perfectly ordinary introduction. "Isn't that lovely?" she said, clasping her hands together for a moment before turning her attention back to your father. "I've been telling Jake all week that he should properly come over and welcome you both, but between school and helping his father prepare for Sunday, we simply haven't had a moment."
Jake withdrew his hand slowly, offering his mother a small, almost sheepish smile that suggested this was hardly the first time she'd volunteered his time on his behalf. "Sorry about that," he said, his attention returning to you for only a moment before politely addressing your father again. "I should've introduced myself sooner."
"It's been a busy week for everyone," your father replied easily. "We're still finding boxes we forgot to unpack."
"I can imagine."
The conversation settled into an easy rhythm almost immediately, though you found yourself contributing very little. It wasn't intentional; there simply wasn't much to say. Your father and Mrs Sim seemed strangely well suited to one another's company, discussing the town with the comfortable enthusiasm of two people standing on opposite sides of the same experience—one eager to tell stories, the other grateful to hear them. Your father listened with genuine interest, asking questions whenever she paused, and you realised with some surprise that he was smiling more than you'd seen him smile since leaving Chicago.
"You survived your first week."
Jake's voice came quietly from beside you. You turned your head just enough to find him standing beside you, close enough to speak without raising his voice but careful not to crowd your space. He wasn't looking directly at you. Instead, his attention rested somewhere across the sanctuary where a little girl in polished black shoes chased her younger brother between the pews before their mother caught both of them with an exasperated laugh. The corners of Jake's mouth lifted ever so slightly at the sight, his expression carrying the quiet amusement of someone who had probably watched the same scene play out countless Sundays before.
"Barely," you admitted, your answer escaping with a dry honesty that surprised even you.
A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it, dissolving almost as quickly as it appeared. For a brief second, the carefully composed image everyone seemed to have of Jake dissolved, revealing someone your age rather than the pastor's son everyone else appeared to see.
"I figured," he said, the smile lingering faintly as he glanced down for a moment before looking back toward the sanctuary.
You studied him for a second, curiosity getting the better of you.
"You figured?"
His attention finally shifted towards you, and there it was again—that impossibly gentle expression that somehow never felt rehearsed. "Most people," he said with the faintest trace of amusement colouring his voice, "don't decide to skip chapel on their first day."
You couldn't help the quiet smile that tugged at the corner of your mouth, the memory arriving almost uninvited. You could still picture the look on his face when he'd stepped around the maintenance building and found you leaning against the brick wall with a cigarette balanced lazily between your fingers. You had been so certain you knew exactly how that conversation would unfold. You had expected disappointment, a lecture rehearsed from years of Sunday sermons, or at the very least the smug satisfaction of someone catching another person doing something they shouldn't.
"No," you replied, folding your arms loosely across your chest. "I figured I'd make an impression."
Jake's head dipped as another quiet laugh escaped him, this one accompanied by the smallest shake of his head. "You definitely managed that."
"Oh?" you asked, unable to resist. "I was under the impression you were trying very hard not to think about it."
"I was."
"But?"
"But..." He hesitated, searching for the right words with the same care he seemed to give everything he said. "You're not exactly easy to forget."
The admission seemed to surprise him almost as much as it surprised you. The words hung between you for a moment before a faint flush climbed slowly across his cheeks, and you watched the realisation dawn on him that he'd spoken aloud instead of keeping the thought to himself.
"I didn't mean—"
"I know what you meant."
His shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, grateful that you hadn't chosen to make things more embarrassing than they already were. A sheepish smile tugged briefly at the corners of his mouth before he ducked his head, his fingers absentmindedly tightening around the worn spine of the Bible tucked beneath his arm. It was strangely endearing, watching someone who seemed so composed unravel over a sentence as innocent as that.
For a moment, neither of you spoke, then Mrs Sim's voice drifted across the sanctuary before either of you had the chance to say anything else.
"Jake, sweetheart," she called, waving him over with an affectionate smile. "Would you mind helping your father carry the coffee urn into the hall?"
Jake glanced over his shoulder toward his mother, then back at you, and for a moment he looked almost reluctant to leave.
"I should probably..." he began, his voice trailing off as he nodded toward where his mother was waiting.
You glanced in the same direction before looking back at him.
"Go," you said, unable to hide the amusement in your voice. "Before she sends someone else over here to get you."
He adjusted the Bible beneath his arm, his fingers brushing over the worn leather cover as though he needed something to do with his hands.
"It was..." He paused, searching for the right words, and the hesitation was so unlike the confident, composed version of him everyone else seemed to know that it almost made you smile. "It was nice to officially meet you."
You looked at him for a moment, letting the irony sit between you.
"We're still pretending that's what happened?"
A small smile appeared on his face, one that he tried and failed to hide.
"...It was nice to officially meet you too."
Something about your answer seemed to genuinely please him. His smile widened, then he disappeared into the crowd, moving easily between familiar faces and Sunday conversations, stopping every few steps to greet someone who knew him by name. You watched him for a moment longer than you intended.
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The weeks after that passed slowly enough that you almost didn't notice when Maple Creek began feeling less like a place you had been sent to and more like somewhere you actually existed.
You still missed Chicago in ways you didn't always admit. You missed the noise of the streets outside your old apartment, the constant movement of people who didn't know your name and didn't care enough to ask. In Maple Creek, everyone knew everything, or at least they acted like they did. The neighbours waved whenever you walked past. Teachers remembered your name. People asked how you were adjusting with genuine concern, and you never quite knew what to do with their kindness.
It wasn't that the town had suddenly become home. It hadn't. There were still mornings when you woke up convinced that if you looked out of your bedroom window, the familiar skyline of Chicago would somehow have returned overnight, replacing the church steeple that stood stubbornly above the rooftops. There were afternoons when you found yourself reaching instinctively for your phone to text friends who were no longer part of your daily life, only to remember that conversations became difficult when they were separated by three states and an entirely different routine. Life back home continued without you, just as yours continued without them, and there was something quietly devastating about how quickly people adapted to absence.
School settled into something resembling routine before you realised it had happened. The novelty of being the new girl faded as other distractions claimed everyone's attention, and the curious glances that had followed you through the corridors during your first week gradually disappeared. Teachers stopped introducing you to every class. People no longer whispered your name after you walked past.
To your surprise, you found yourself sharing more classes with Jake than you had expected.
English, where the seating plan placed him one desk beside you after Mrs Henderson announced she wanted "fresh perspectives" before rearranging the entire room. History, where he somehow managed to answer questions without sounding like he was showing off, speaking only when the teacher called on him and never a moment longer. Even Chemistry, where your assigned lab partners changed every fortnight until, through what you suspected was extraordinarily bad luck, you ended up standing opposite him at the same scratched black laboratory bench.
"You look disappointed," he observed one afternoon while measuring chemicals into a graduated cylinder with infuriating precision.
"I was hoping for someone who'd let me do absolutely nothing."
The corner of his mouth lifted, though he kept his attention on the clear liquid slowly rising against the measurement lines.
Your eyebrows rose.
"You did?"
"No."
You let your head fall back with exaggerated disappointment.
"There goes my entire plan for the afternoon."
Jake finally glanced up, the faint smile still lingering on his face.
"You had a plan?"
"I usually don't," you admitted as you leaned against the bench, absentmindedly spinning an empty beaker between your hands. "That's probably the problem."
"I noticed."
You looked at him suspiciously.
"Was that supposed to be an insult?"
"No."
"It sounded like one."
"It wasn't."
"You didn't even deny noticing."
"I didn't think I had to."
For a second, you simply stared at him before a reluctant laugh escaped you. Jake smiled in return, before returning his attention to the experiment.
It was becoming increasingly difficult to remember why talking to him had once felt awkward.
The strange thing about Jake was that conversations with him never felt like conversations you had to win. He never treated your sarcasm like a challenge or an invitation to argue. Most people responded to your remarks by trying to outmatch them, determined to prove they were cleverer or funnier or somehow immune to the walls you built around yourself. Jake simply accepted them for what they were, answering with the same gentle humour every time until, before you realised it, you found yourself talking without thinking quite so carefully about every word.
You hated how easy that was becoming.
One morning you arrived at English to find the teacher running late, and Jake had absentmindedly saved the empty seat beside him without either of you acknowledging it. You would steal half his fries at lunch because, according to you, "sharing was a Christian virtue," and he'd sigh with theatrical disappointment before sliding the carton a little closer anyway. Another afternoon you discovered your pen had run out halfway through a history test, and before you could even ask, another one appeared silently on your desk. He never made a point of it. By the end of the lesson, he'd simply asked for it back with an absent-minded, "I only own two."
Neither of you ever spoke about it.
There simply came a point where being around one another stopped requiring an invitation.
By the time October settled over Maple Creek, the trees lining Main Street had begun surrendering their leaves one by one, covering the sidewalks in deep shades of amber and burnt gold that crunched beneath your shoes on the walk home. The afternoons grew cooler, sunlight fading earlier than it had only weeks before, and your routine settled into something that almost resembled normality. School. Home. Homework you pretended to hate. Dinner with your father, who looked a little less exhausted every evening.
One Friday evening, you arrived home to find the house smelling faintly of rosemary, garlic and something roasting in the oven. Music drifted quietly from the old radio your father had finally unpacked, filling the kitchen with the familiar sound of Fleetwood Mac while every available surface had somehow become covered with bowls, chopping boards and ingredients.
"What happened?" you asked, eyeing the organised chaos spread across every available surface.
Your father looked over his shoulder, the wooden spoon still resting in his hand, his brow creasing with mild confusion.
"What do you mean?"
"You cooked."
A quiet laugh escaped him as he returned his attention to the saucepan.
"I do know how."
"You ordered takeaway four nights this week."
"I was busy."
"And now?"
He hesitated for only a second before a small, almost satisfied smile settled across his face.
"I invited the Sims over for dinner."
The words landed with enough force that you straightened instinctively.
"You... invited them?"
"I did."
You stared at him for a long moment, trying to decide whether he was joking. Judging by the calm expression on his face as he sprinkled herbs into the saucepan, he wasn't.
"The pastor's family?"
"Our neighbours," he corrected gently.
You let out a slow sigh, dropping into one of the kitchen chairs as you rubbed a hand across your forehead.
"You really expect me to survive an entire evening of polite conversation?"
Your father smiled to himself as he stirred the sauce once more.
"I think you'll manage."
You narrowed your eyes at him.
"I think you're overestimating me."
His smile only grew. "Dinner's at six tomorrow."
You groaned quietly, letting your head fall back against the chair.
"I wasn't asking."
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The following evening arrived with surprising speed, carrying with it the kind of nervous anticipation you refused to acknowledge. By half past five, the house had been transformed into something almost unrecognisable. The dining table, which had spent the better part of a month buried beneath unopened mail and half-unpacked boxes, now sat neatly arranged with your father's best plates and polished cutlery that hadn't seen daylight since Chicago.
Your father had changed shirts twice.
You knew because you'd watched him do it.
The first one had apparently been "too wrinkled." The second, according to him, made him look like he was trying too hard. Eventually he'd settled on a navy button-down you'd seen him wear exactly twice before, smoothing imaginary creases from the sleeves every few minutes as he checked the oven for what had to be the sixth time.
"You know they're only coming for dinner," you observed from where you leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching him fuss over the table with growing amusement.
Without looking up, he adjusted one of the forks by what couldn't have been more than half a centimetre.
"I know."
The doorbell rang precisely at six.
Your father disappeared into the hallway before you had a chance to move, and moments later the sound of warm greetings drifted through the house, accompanied by the unmistakable laughter of Mrs Sim. You remained exactly where you were for another moment, taking a steadying breath before reluctantly following.
The Sims stood just inside the front entrance, autumn coats folded neatly over their arms after escaping the cool evening air. Mrs Sim was the first to notice you, her face brightening instantly as she crossed the hallway with the same effortless warmth she seemed to carry everywhere, wrapping you in a brief hug before you had any real opportunity to avoid it.
"Oh, sweetheart," she said, stepping back to admire you with an approving smile. "It's lovely to see you again."
You returned an awkward smile, still adjusting to people who expressed affection so freely.
"You too."
Pastor Sim stood nearby, extending a firm hand toward your father while thanking him again for the invitation. He carried himself with the same quiet authority you'd heard in his sermons, though stripped of the pulpit and formal robes, he seemed considerably less intimidating than he had on Sunday morning. He laughed easily, spoke gently, and thanked your father three separate times before stepping inside.
Jake lingered near the back of the group, waiting until everyone else had entered before quietly closing the front door behind them. Unlike church, where he'd worn pressed clothes and carried a Bible tucked neatly beneath one arm, tonight he looked comfortably ordinary. Holding a charcoal knit jumper over his arm, he wore a pale collared shirt whose sleeves had been rolled casually to his forearms, and his hair, usually kept neatly in place throughout the school day, had begun to curl slightly around his forehead in the cool evening air.
His eyes found yours almost immediately.
A small smile appeared before either of you spoke.
"Hi."
"Hi."
The greeting was simple, almost laughably so after weeks of sharing classrooms and conversations, but somehow it felt different here. There were no teachers nearby pretending not to overhear you, no church congregation moving around you, no hurried walk between classes limiting the conversation to a few passing words. This was your house. He was standing in your hallway.
"So..." you said, leaning casually against the hallway wall as the adults disappeared into the dining room. Your eyes moved over him with deliberate curiosity, taking in the fact that the boy who spent his days looking perfectly composed at school was now standing in your house looking slightly out of place. "This is how you spend your Saturday nights?"
Jake glanced towards the dining room before looking back at you, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. He seemed caught between defending himself and admitting you had a point.
"Apparently."
Before you could say something back, Mrs Sim called for both of you from the dining room, and Jake gestured for you to go ahead.
You looked at him suspiciously as you walked past.
"Just manners?"
He smiled.
"Just manners."
Dinner was easier than you expected.
You had prepared yourself for an evening of uncomfortable silence and forced conversation, the kind where every question felt like an interrogation and every answer had to be carefully chosen. Instead, the night moved naturally. Your father and Pastor Sim carried most of the conversation, discussing the town, work, and everything you had missed during your first few weeks in Maple Creek. Mrs Sim filled in the quieter moments with stories about the neighbourhood, laughing whenever your father admitted something embarrassing about adjusting to a smaller town.
You mostly listened. Jake sat across from you, occasionally catching your eye when the adults became too invested in their conversation. Each time, there was a quiet understanding between you both—a shared amusement at the fact that neither of you had expected the evening to be as normal as it was.
By the time the dinner had ended, the plates were cleared away, the last traces of conversation drifting from the kitchen as your father and the Sims continued talking.
You had just started relaxing into the evening when your father returned from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel as he glanced between you and Jake.
"You know what?" he said, wiping his hands on a towel. "You should show Jake your vinyl collection."
You looked up immediately.
"My what?"
Your father ignored the disbelief in your voice, leaning casually against the doorway.
"You spent all that time organising them last week."
You narrowed your eyes at him, already knowing exactly what he was doing.
Jake glanced towards you, a small smile forming.
"I'd like to see them." He responded.
"Fine.", you sighed, standing from your chair.
Your father smiled in victory.
"But if you judge my music taste," you added, pointing at Jake, "I'm making you leave."
A quiet laugh escaped him as he followed you towards the stairs.
You led the worn wooden stairs creak under Jake's weight as you guided him up to your room. You could feel the heat of his gaze on the back of your neck, a palpable thing that had nothing to do with the heat of the evening. "My dad has a few old gospel records," he said, his voice softer than it had been downstairs. "But they're predictable. The same messages."
You pushed your bedroom door open, "Predictable is boring," you stated, your tone leaving no room for argument as you gestured for him to enter. He stepped over the threshold like he was crossing into another world, his eyes wide as they took in the turntable on your desk.
You watched his throat work as he swallowed.
You pulled a record from its sleeve, toying with the black disk in your hands. "This one," you said, not asking, as you placed it on the platter and lowered the needle. A slow, grinding bassline filled the room, something primal that seemed to push against the walls. Jake flinched, just slightly. "Listen," you instructed, standing close enough that your arm brushed his. You didn't move away. "Hear the difference?."
He stared at the spinning record, but his attention was fractured, pulled to where your skin met the crisp cotton of his polo shirt. "It's intense," he managed, his voice tight. You turned to face him fully, closing the small distance. You saw the conflict in his eyes, the lifetime of doctrine warring with a raw, waking curiosity.
"You don't have to analyse it, Jake," you murmured, your hand coming up to not quite touch his cheek. You let it hover. "You just have to experience it." His breath caught. His eyes fluttered shut for a second, and when they opened, the look in them was one of surrender. You finally let your fingertips graze his jawline. He leaned into it, ever so slightly.
Your other hand found his, prying his fingers open from the fist he hadn't realized he'd made. You guided his palm, placing it flat against the album cover on your desk. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?" you asked, the music swelling around you both. He didn't speak. He only nodded, a slow, deliberate dip of his chin, his eyes locked on yours.
The song ended with a final, resonant thrum, and the sudden silence felt louder than the music. Jake’s hand remained on the album cover, his knuckles pale. You watched him, the rise and fall of his chest beneath his starched shirt a little too quick. You didn’t move your fingers from his jaw. The air in the room grew thick, charged with the things he’d been taught to confess and repent.
You finally broke the contact, turning back to the turntable. You lifted the tonearm, the click of the switch cutting off the faint surface noise. “There’s more,” you said, your voice a low murmur, not looking at him as you flipped through the crate, the cardboard sleeves stacked against each other. You could feel him watching you, his eyes following your every move.
You selected another record, this one with a stark, abstract cover in deep reds and blacks. “This one builds slower,” you explained, your back still to him as you slid the vinyl out. “It takes its time. It makes you wait for it.” You placed it on the platter, setting the needle down with care, and a single, clean piano note echoed through the speakers, followed by another, spaced apart by a breath of silence. Jake let out a slow exhale behind you. You heard the soft rustle of his clothes as he shifted his weight.
You turned then, leaning back against the edge of your desk, crossing your ankles. You studied him openly—the way his hair fell a little too perfectly over his forehead, the rigid set of his shoulders that was beginning to soften. His eyes were fixed on the record as it spun, but you knew he wasn’t really seeing it. He was listening, truly listening, to the music.
“Do you understand now?” you asked, your voice barely above the level of the unfolding melody. His gaze flickered to yours, and in the low light from your desk lamp, you saw the first crack in his composure, a fine, hairline fracture. He gave another small, silent nod. You held his look for a long moment, then let your eyes drift back to the spinning black disk, letting the music fill the space where words would have been a trespass.
His fingers slowly curled, lifting from the album cover. He brought his hand back to his side, but it didn’t hang with its usual relaxed posture. It was a fist again, though looser this time, as if holding onto the ghost of the sensation. The piano melody wove around a slow, deliberate drumbeat. He took a half-step forward, then stopped, as if an invisible line on your floor marked a boundary he wasn’t sure he was allowed to cross.
You didn’t invite him closer. You simply watched, your expression neutral, giving him nothing but the space to choose. His eyes traveled from the turntable to your face, then down to your lips, before snapping back up, a faint flush coloring his neck. The music built, layer upon layer, a sonic cathedral of something entirely secular. It was beautiful in a way that felt dangerous to him, you could tell.
“Where did you find this?” he finally asked, his voice rough. It was the first question he’d dared to ask since entering your room. It wasn’t about the music, not really.
“A little shop downtown,” you answered, your tone casual. “The owner knows what I like.” You uncrossed your ankles and stood up straight, taking a single, slow step toward him. He didn’t retreat. The distance between you was now just a matter of a few inches. You could see the rapid pulse at the base of his throat.
“It doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever heard,” he admitted, the confession seeming to cost him something. His gaze dropped to your collar, to the hollow of your throat, before he forced it back to your eyes. He was trying so hard to be polite, to maintain eye contact, even as every instinct was pulling him elsewhere.
You reached out again, this time not towards his face, but towards the stiff collar of his polo shirt. You didn’t grab it. You merely hooked a single finger under the fabric, just beside his neck, and gave the slightest tug. His breath hitched audibly, a sharp sound swallowed by the swelling music. His entire body went still, a deer caught in headlights.
A slow, wry smile touched his lips, a flicker of his usual self breaking through the tension. “Checking the thread count?” he asked, his voice a rough whisper that carried a surprising hint of humor. It was a defense mechanism, a quick-witted retreat into something safe and mundane, but it faltered as your finger remained, the back of your knuckle resting against the pounding pulse in his throat.
You released the collar, your finger brushing the warm skin of his collarbone as you withdrew. “Just seeing if it’s as ruined as your demeanor,” you replied, matching his tone but letting your gaze drop meaningfully to his lips. The color in his cheeks deepened, but he held your look. The music built around you, a complex tapestry of sound that felt like it was weaving the two of you together in the dim light.
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “My mom insists on a specific laundry routine. Says a crisp appearance reflects a… an ordered mind.” The words were a confession and an offering, a glimpse into the world of rules that shaped him. He was letting you in, piece by piece, even as his body trembled on the precipice.
Your hands came up to frame his face, your thumbs stroking over his cheekbones. He leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. You kissed him, your mouth demanding against his, and after a moment of stillness, Jake responded with a desperate, hungry fervor that shattered his careful composure. His hands came up, hovering awkwardly at your sides before finally settling on your waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt. A low groan vibrated from his chest into yours. You walked him backward until his legs hit the edge of your bed, and he sat down with a soft thump, breaking the kiss only because he had to.
You stood between his knees, looking down at him. His lips were swollen, his breath coming in short pants. You reached for the hem of his polo shirt again. This time, you didn’t tease. You pulled it up and over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. His chest was pale and smooth, his skin heating under your gaze. Your fingers went to the button of his chinos. He watched, mesmerized, as you undid it, then the zipper. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his pants and his briefs. “Lift,” you commanded softly.
He obeyed instantly, raising his hips so you could strip the last barriers from him. He was fully, beautifully exposed, sitting on the edge of your bed. You let your eyes travel over him, a slow, appreciative look that made him shiver. Then you sank to your knees on the floor before him. His eyes widened, a soft “oh” escaping him. You didn’t make him wait. You took him into your mouth, your tongue sweeping a broad, wet stroke along his length. His whole body jerked, a choked cry tearing from his throat. His hands flew to your hair, not pushing or pulling, just tangling in the strands as if he needed to hold onto something solid.
You set a slow, deep rhythm, your mouth a warm, slick haven. His hips began to move in tiny, helpless thrusts, a rhythm as old as time but entirely new to him in this context. His breaths were ragged prayers, gasps of “please” and “God” that had nothing to do with the divinity he’d been raised to worship and everything to do to the sinful paradise you were building with your lips and tongue. You could feel the tension coiling tightly in him, his thighs trembling against your shoulders. Just as he was teetering on the edge, you pulled back, leaving him gasping and bereft. You looked up at him, your chin glistening. “My turn,” you whispered, and you rose to guide him back onto the bed.
He hesitated for only a second, his face flushed with shame and arousal. “I… I shouldn’t,” he whispered, voice trembling. “This is wrong… I was taught to resist this kind of temptation.” Yet his body betrayed him. His cock twitched visibly, already leaking at the tip, and he didn’t resist when you pushed him onto his back. He lay there obediently, arms at his sides, fingers clutching the sheets like he was praying for strength. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, wide and pleading. “Tell me what to do,” he said softly. “I’ll do it. I’ll be good for you.”
You guided him onto his back, and he went without resistance, settling against the sheets with his arms loose at his sides. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths. His cock lay hard against his stomach, flushed dark and twitching with every pulse of his heartbeat. You climbed over him, straddling his hips, and his eyes followed your every movement like he was watching something forbidden yet irresistible.
"I shouldn't," he whispered again, the words catching in his throat. "It's a sin. I've prayed against this... against wanting it." His voice cracked on the last word, but his hips lifted slightly, seeking contact even as he spoke against it. His hands stayed where they were, fingers digging into the bedding, waiting for your command.
You leaned down until your lips brushed his ear. "Then pray while I use you," you told him. A soft, broken sound escaped him, half a whimper and half a moan. You reached between your bodies, wrapped your fingers around his cock, and lined him up. His whole frame tensed as the head pressed against your entrance.
"Please," he breathed. "Tell me I'm allowed. Tell me to take it."
"Push up," you ordered.
He obeyed at once. His hips rose in one smooth thrust, sliding into you with a single, desperate motion. The moment he was buried to the hilt, a strangled prayer tore from his lips—half-formed words of repentance mixed with raw need. You stayed still above him, letting him feel every inch of your heat gripping him, while his thighs trembled beneath you.
"Move," you said.
He started with shallow, careful thrusts, trying to keep some measure of control, but it quickly unraveled. His hips snapped upward harder, chasing the slick friction, each stroke punctuated by soft, guilty gasps of "God" and "forgive me." His hands finally left the sheets to grip your hips, not to guide you but to hold on as if you were the only thing anchoring him. Every time he bottomed out, his eyes squeezed shut like he was both praying for strength and begging for more.
You leaned forward, pressing your chest to his, and whispered against his mouth, "You're being so good for me. So obedient."
A shudder ran through him. "I want to be good," he panted. "I want to please you. Even if it's wrong. Even if I have to confess later." His thrusts grew faster, more urgent, the wet sound of your bodies meeting filling the room. Pre-cum leaked steadily from him inside you, mixing with your own slickness. His abs flexed with every movement, the muscles in his arms standing out as he held you.
You sat up again, rolling your hips in a slow circle that made him cry out. "Don't come yet," you warned.
He nodded frantically, biting his lower lip hard enough to leave marks. "I won't. I won't until you say. I'll hold it. I'll be good." His cock throbbed inside you, right on the edge, but he forced his hips to slow, following your command even as his entire body shook with the effort. Sweat beaded on his forehead and chest. His eyes stayed locked on yours, wide, glassy, and completely surrendered.
You stayed seated on him, savoring the way his cock pulsed inside you with every desperate heartbeat. His grip on your hips tightened, but he kept his thrusts shallow and controlled exactly as you ordered. Sweat glistened across his pale chest, and his lips moved in silent prayer even while his body betrayed every word of it.
"Good boy," you murmured, rolling your hips in a slow grind that dragged a broken moan from his throat. "Keep praying. Let me hear it."
His voice cracked as he obeyed. "Forgive me... Lord, forgive me for this... for wanting it so much..." Each word dissolved into a gasp when you clenched around him. His thighs quivered beneath you, and his cock twitched hard, threatening to spill, but he fought it back with visible effort.
You leaned down and kissed him hard, swallowing the next plea. When you pulled back, a thin strand of saliva connected your mouths. "Now fuck me properly," you told him. "Hard. Don't stop until I tell you."
The permission hit him like a command from above. His hips snapped up in one powerful thrust that drove the air from his lungs. He buried himself to the hilt again and again, the wet slap of skin filling the room. His fingers dug into your flesh hard enough to leave marks as he used every ounce of strength to obey. Each stroke punched a ragged sound from him—half curse, half prayer.
"Yes... yes, use me," he panted. "I'm yours... I'm so sorry, God, but I'm yours right now." His eyes stayed locked on yours, glassy with guilt and lust. Pre-cum leaked steadily from him, mixing with your slickness and making every thrust louder, filthier.
You reached between your bodies and rubbed your clit in tight circles while he pounded into you. The sight of him—flushed, sweating, desperate—pushed you closer. "Don't come," you warned again. "Not until I do."
He nodded frantically, jaw clenched, veins standing out in his neck. His rhythm never faltered even as his whole body shook with the effort of holding back. "I won't... I promise... I'll be good... I'll wait..." His cock swelled inside you, so close to the edge it hurt to watch, but he kept driving upward exactly as you wanted.
You rode him faster, chasing your own release while he suffered beautifully beneath you. His prayers had dissolved into wordless, broken sounds. Every thrust hit deep, the head of his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you until your thighs started to tremble.
"Now," you gasped. "Come with me."
The permission shattered what little control he had left. His hips jerked upward in one final, brutal thrust as he came hard, flooding you with hot pulses. A loud, guilty cry tore from his throat—your name mixed with another broken apology to God. His cock throbbed violently inside you, emptying everything he had while his body arched off the bed. You clenched around him and came right after, your walls pulsing and milking every drop from him.
He kept thrusting weakly through both orgasms, unable to stop even after he was spent. When the last aftershocks faded, he collapsed back against the sheets, chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut in shame and relief. His softening cock still twitched inside you, sensitive and overstimulated.
You stayed on top of him, letting him feel the mess he'd made. After a long moment he opened his eyes, looking up at you with raw, wrecked devotion.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For... for letting me. Even though I shouldn't have."
◌ֹ 💭 ִ ՞
You hadn't expected Jake to become so desperate for you. Then again, you couldn't argue against it since the boy had never touched anything until that night in your bedroom. That night had been your experiment, a little game to see if the golden boy preacher’s son would crack, and he had shattered. Now, three weeks later, the crack had become a canyon, and he was falling through it daily, reaching for you.
He appeared at your usual smoke spot, his crisp button-down looking absurd against the scarred wall. His hands were shoved deep in his khaki pockets, his shoulders tense. "The archives in the library basement," he said, his voice low and urgent, skipping any greeting. "The theology section. No one goes there on Wednesday afternoons." His eyes, usually so clear and certain, were clouded with a need that looked like physical pain. You took a long drag of your cigarette, blowing the smoke out slowly, watching him flinch. Not from the smoke, but from the delay.
It became a pattern. A folded note tucked into your sociology textbook with a time and a location scrawled in his neat handwriting: *Boiler room, 3 PM.* A text message that just read *Empty classroom, second floor, east wing. Now.* He never asked if you wanted to. He simply presented the opportunity, a sinner offering his own temptation, his voice always carrying that same ragged edge. You’d find him there, pacing or standing perfectly still, his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might break. The moment he saw you, the calm would evaporate, replaced by a frantic energy as he fumbled with his belt, or yours, his prayers forgotten, replaced by whispered pleas against your skin.
You met him in the designated broom closet. It was cramped, smelling of lemon cleaner and dust. He had you pressed against the shelves before the door clicked shut, his mouth hot and demanding on yours, his hands pulling at your clothes with a clumsy haste. "I can't stop thinking about it," he gasped against your neck, his hips already moving against you. "About you. That's all I think about." His confession was torn from him, as he learned your body with a fervor he'd once reserved for scripture, each touch a new verse in a gospel of his own damnation.
Afterward, he would help you dress with trembling hands, his fingers brushing your skin as if memorizing it. He’d smooth his own hair, try to rearrange his face into something resembling the composed Jake everyone else saw. But the look in his eyes gave him away—a hollowed-out, hungry thing. "Tomorrow," he'd say, not as a question, but as a statement of fact, a necessary appointment for his survival. "The photo development lab. During the yearbook committee meeting."
You saw him at a campus ministry barbecue two days later. He was flipping burgers, laughing politely, the perfect picture of clean-cut devotion. His eyes scanned the crowd, found you leaning against a tree at the edge of the lawn. He held your gaze for a fraction of a second too long, and the plastic spatula in his hand snapped clean in two. He looked down at the broken pieces, then back at you, a slow flush creeping up his neck. He turned back to the grill, abandoning the ruined burger, and walked away from the crowd without a word to anyone.
The broken spatula was the first public crack. He didn't come to the smoke spot for two days, and you assumed maybe the guilt had finally won, that the prayer circles and his father’s disappointed eyes had rebuilt the wall. You were almost disappointed. Then, on the third day, as you were leaving a late class, a hand closed around your wrist from the shadow of a doorway. It was Jake, but he looked ravaged. Dark circles smudged under his eyes, his hair was uncharacteristically messy, and his collar was undone.
"Walk with me," he said, his voice hoarse. It wasn't a request. He didn't let go of your wrist as he steered you away from the main paths, toward the old greenhouse at the edge of the botanical gardens. It was locked for the night, but he produced a key from his pocket. Inside, the air was thick and humid, and he finally released you, turning to face you under the ghostly light filtering through the glass ceiling. "I tried," he breathed out, the words sounding ripped from his chest. "I prayed. I read. I went to confession." A harsh, humorless laugh escaped him. "It just made it worse. All I could think about was the smell of your skin in that closet."
He reached for you then, but his touch was different. It wasn't the frantic groping of before. His hands framed your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks with a terrifying tenderness. "You ruined me," he whispered, his forehead leaning against yours. "Do you understand that? Completely. And I don't want to be fixed." His mouth found yours, and this kiss was a slow, deep claim, devoid of its earlier panic. It was a surrender. He guided you down onto a bed of soft peat moss behind a tray of orchids, his movements deliberate.
He took his time. He peeled your clothes away with a reverence that was more unsettling than his prior desperation. He mapped every inch of you with his lips and tongue, whispering things that sounded like prayers but weren't. "This is my communion," he murmured against your stomach, his breath hot. "This is my only truth." When he finally entered you, it was with a slow, devastating roll of his hips that made you cry out, the sound swallowed by the dense air. He moved with a focused intensity, his eyes locked on yours, watching every flicker of pleasure on your face as if studying for a final exam.
After lying tangled together on the borrowed jacket he’d spread beneath you, he didn't scramble to leave. He traced idle patterns on your arm, his head on your chest. "My father is giving the sermon at the downtown mission on Friday night," he said, his voice quiet in the humid dark. "The office in the back will be empty. The door locks." He stated matter-of-factly. The dependency had crystallized into something calm and absolute.
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Your father stood at the stove, absently stirring a saucepan while an old Fleetwood Mac song played softly from the radio, the familiar melody blending with the quiet clink of cutlery as you wandered in to grab your jacket from the back of a chair.
"You've been going out a lot lately."
His voice was casual, almost conversational, though you could feel him watching for your reaction.
You shrugged one shoulder as you zipped up your jacket.
"So?"
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he looked back at the saucepan, stirring it slowly.
"I don't know..." he said after a moment, choosing his words carefully. "You just seem happier."
Your hand paused around your keys, turning to look at him properly, a faint crease appearing between your brows, "Really?"
He nodded once, meeting your eyes for only a second before his attention drifted back to dinner, "I think so."
You let out a quiet breath, leaning your hip against the counter as though considering the possibility for the first time.
"...I didn't notice."
"I don't think you were supposed to."
The silence that followed settled easily between you, neither awkward nor heavy. The saucepan continued to bubble softly on the stove while somewhere outside, a car rolled slowly down Maple Street.
You pushed yourself away from the counter, slinging your jacket over your shoulders.
"You're not going to ask where I'm going?"
Your father smiled to himself, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.
"I thought about it." He admitted.
"And?"
He looked back at you then, amusement warming his expression.
"I figured you'd tell me it was none of my business."
A slow grin spread across your face, "See you later."
"Don't stay out too late," he called after you, though there wasn't much authority behind it anymore.
You glanced back over your shoulder, a teasing smile still lingering on your face.
"No promises."
The downtown mission was cold and smelled of old wood and candle wax. He was waiting for you in the dark, a silhouette against the faint light from the stained-glass window depicting the crucifixion. He didn't speak, he simply took your hand and led you to the low, padded kneeler at the front of the small room. He guided you to kneel, then knelt beside you, not before the altar, but facing you. His hands trembled as he reached for the hem of your skirt, pushing the fabric up your thighs.
His repentance began with his mouth between your legs, there on the kneeler, his whispered prayers lost against your skin. Each flick of his tongue was a plea for forgiveness, each deep, worshiping stroke a confession of his weakness. He drank from you like communion, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady as he sought his own form of absolution in your taste. When your back arched and a stifled moan escaped your lips, he only pressed closer, his own need evident in the desperate sounds vibrating against you.
After, as you trembled, he rose to his feet. He unzipped his dress pants with a soft hiss that was obscenely loud in the quiet. He took your hand and wrapped your fingers around him, his own hand covering yours, showing you the rhythm. "Do it," he breathed, his eyes clenched shut, his head tilted back toward the vaulted ceiling. "Let me feel you… take your penance from me." Your hand moved on him, slow at first, then faster at his urging, his hips jerking into your fist. His other hand came up to cover your mouth, muffling the sound of his own ragged, broken gasps as he spilled over your fingers, his release hot and sudden in the dim, holy space.
He sank back onto his heels, breathing heavily, his forehead resting against your shoulder. The silence returned, thick and heavy. He pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket, the kind he always carried, and carefully wiped your hand clean. Then he wiped himself, folded the soiled cloth, and tucked it back into his pocket without a word. He stood, straightened his clothes, and ran a hand through his hair. He looked at you, still kneeling on the padded bench, your skirt rumpled, and in his eyes was a profound, unsettling peace. The crisis had passed. The sin was complete. He offered you a hand up, his touch now steady.
Sunday night found you in the back pew of the very same church, the evening service sparsely attended. Jake was at the pulpit, his voice clear and strong, speaking about grace and the burden of temptation. He looked every inch the devoted son, his suit crisp, his expression serene. His eyes scanned the congregation and landed on you. There was no flicker of recognition, no secret smile. His gaze passed over you as if you were a stranger. The sermon ended. The final hymn was sung. People filed out, offering him quiet greetings which he returned with gentle nods.
You waited until the last person had left, until the sexton had dimmed the lights and exited, leaving only the eternal flame flickering near the altar. The heavy door clicked shut. Jake remained at the front, his back to you, staring up at the cross. You stood and walked down the center aisle, the sound of your footsteps swallowed by the cavernous space. He didn't turn. You stopped a few feet behind him. For a long moment, there was only the faint hum of the building's electricity.
"Tell me you're sorry," you said, your voice soft but echoing slightly in the empty church.
He finally turned. In the dim light, his face was unreadable. He took a step toward you, then another, closing the distance. He didn't touch you. He simply looked down at you, his expression a mask of perfect, placid devotion. "I am washed clean," he stated, his voice low and even. Then his hand came up, not to your face, but to the top button of his own shirt. He undid it. Then the next. He took your hand and placed it flat against his bare chest, over the frantic, hammering beat of his heart. His skin was fever-hot. His eyes never left yours. The lie was a physical thing between you, trembling under your palm.
"I haven't been able to sleep," he rasped, his voice sounding ruined. "Every time I closed my eyes, I felt you. Every time I spoke of purity, I could taste you on my tongue."
He didn't kiss you softly. He claimed your mouth with a bruising intensity, his tongue demanding entrance as if he were trying to consume you. There was a desperate edge to him now; the seal had been broken, and the floodgates were wide open. He wasn't just a man resisting temptation anymore—he was a man who had tasted the forbidden fruit and found he couldn't survive without it.
His hands were frantic, sliding up your thighs with a familiarity that made your heart race. He knew exactly where you were most sensitive, exactly how to touch you to make you arch your back and moan his name into the silence of the church.
"You've ruined me," he groaned against your skin, his lips trailing fire down your neck to the swell of your breast. "I go to the altar and all I can think about is the way you scream when I'm deep inside you. I'm a liar. A hypocrite. And I don't care."
He reached down, his fingers trembling slightly as he freed himself from his trousers. He was already rock-hard, pulsing with a need that eclipsed any sense of divine duty. He gripped your hips, pulling you to the very edge of the table so he could align himself with you.
He looked you in the eyes, his expression a mix of agony and ecstasy. "Tell me you want this," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous vibrate. "Tell me you want me to forget everything but the way you feel."
As you whispered your consent, he drove into you in one fluid, powerful motion, filling you completely. He let out a guttural sound—half-sob, half-growl—as he buried himself in you, his forehead crashing against yours. The rhythm was savage, a relentless pounding that shook the heavy table, the sound of your colliding bodies echoing through the hallowed halls.
For Jake, this wasn't just sex; it was a desecration, and every thrust felt like a deeper plunge into a beautiful, shimmering hell. He clung to you as if you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth, his movements becoming faster, more desperate, as he chased the blinding peak that would leave him shattered and ruined once again.
The sound of the mahogany table groaning under the weight of their colliding bodies filled the room, a rhythmic, visceral thud that drowned out the distant chiming of the church bells. Jake was no longer the composed man of God; he was a storm of sweat and desperation, his breath coming in jagged, ragged gasps that sounded like prayers to a different kind of deity.
He gripped your hips so hard his fingers left crescent marks on your skin, anchoring you as he drove into you with a relentless, punishing force. Every thrust was deeper than the last, hitting a spot that made your vision blur and your toes curl. You could feel the sheer size of him filling you, stretching you, the friction building a heat that threatened to consume you both.
"I can't... I can't stop," he groaned, his voice a guttural wreck. He shifted his angle, lifting one of your legs and hooking it over his shoulder to plunge even deeper. The sensation was overwhelming, a piercing, electric pleasure that radiated through your entire body.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down, your nails digging into his shoulders through the thin fabric of his shirt. You whispered his name—not as a plea, but as a command—and the sound of it seemed to break the last shred of his restraint.
Jake’s movements became frantic, a blur of motion and heat. He was chasing a release that felt like it would tear him apart. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, his voice a low, shaking moan of "Oh God, oh God..."—though now, it wasn't a prayer. It was a surrender.
The tension reached a breaking point. You felt the first wave of your orgasm crash over you, tightening your walls around him in a series of rhythmic, pulsing contractions. The feeling of you gripping him was the final trigger. Jake let out a loud, unrestrained cry—a sound of pure, unadulterated release—as he thrust one last time, buried as deep as he could possibly go.
He shuddered violently, his entire body locking up as he spilled himself inside you in hot, heavy bursts. He collapsed against you, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. For several long minutes, the only sound in the vestry was the sound of two people trying to remember how to breathe.
As he slowly pulled away, the cold air hit your skin, but the heat between you remained. Jake didn't move immediately. He stayed there, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes clouded with a mixture of absolute bliss and a crushing, lingering guilt.
He looked down at the wreckage of their clothes, then back at you, a dark, hungry smile playing on his lips. He leaned in, kissing you softly.
"I'm condemned," he whispered, "And I think I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure we both burn for this."
୨୧ from ♡ 𝑘𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑎𓏼⑅ ♥︎ ୧
this is the longest fic i have ever wrote... so it is kind of proofread... i rlly hope you guys like this because i put so much effort into this and im scared u guys wont!! also im not trying to offend anybody with this fic, its purely for entertainment and entirely fictional!!!
+ this layout is inspired by katsuiki
ᦸ 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌𝗍’𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗇!𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾🧁 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗇𝗍!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 22.3k ⠀˃̵ᴗ˂̵⠀ first times NSFW corruption kink religous allusionsㅤ reblogs&kisses
You hated the town long before you learned its name.
Your father insisted that hatred was a strong word, one that people reached for too quickly whenever life refused to accommodate them. Still, he had never understood that some places possessed the uncanny ability to reject you before you had even crossed their borders. Hatred, in your opinion, implied familiarity; this feeling was stranger than that. It was instinctive, immediate, almost animalistic, settling somewhere beneath your ribs the moment the highway dissolved into narrow country roads lined with skeletal oak trees and weathered fences whose peeling white paint looked as though it had been touched by every season except change. The farther the city disappeared in the rear-view mirror, the more oppressive the silence became, until even the hum of the old Ford sounded intrusive against the vast stretches of open fields and endless blue sky.
Chicago had always been loud enough to drown out your thoughts.
This place seemed determined to make you listen to every single one of them.
The moving truck rolled slowly down Maple Street, its engine grumbling as though it, too, objected to the destination, and you rested your forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window while watching the neighbourhood reveal itself slowly. Every lawn had been trimmed within an inch of perfection. Every mailbox stood upright instead of leaning drunkenly toward the road. American flags fluttered from polished porches despite there being no holiday worth celebrating, and flowerbeds burst with arrangements of roses whose petals looked too immaculate to have survived wind or rain. Even the children riding bicycles seemed strangely choreographed, calling cheerful greetings to neighbours who knew each of their names, their laughter carrying through the warm spring air before disappearing beneath the distant toll of church bells.
Your father finally slowed the truck in front of a modest two-storey house with pale blue shutters and a wraparound porch. He turned off the engine without saying anything, gripping the steering wheel for several seconds while cigarette smoke drifted lazily from the one balanced between his fingers. The divorce had split everything neatly down the middle—house, furniture, bank accounts, holidays—but no one asked where eighteen-year-old daughters wanted to go. Your mother stayed in Chicago with the apartment she'd fought tooth and nail to keep. Your father accepted a new job three states away because "there was nothing left" back home.
"You can take whichever room you want," he said eventually, still looking through the windshield instead of at you.
It was such an ordinary sentence that it almost made you laugh.
Not Are you okay?
Not I'm sorry your life fell apart because ours did.
Typical.
You climbed out before he could say anything else, letting the truck door slam harder than necessary, and inhaled air that smelled overwhelmingly of freshly cut grass and damp earth instead of gasoline, hot concrete, and rain-soaked asphalt. The breeze carried the scent of lilacs from somewhere nearby, sweet enough to become cloying after only a few breaths, and the oppressive neatness of the neighbourhood wrapped itself around you with the suffocating gentleness of a freshly washed bedsheet.
It didn't feel real.
It felt staged, like someone had built an entire town from the collective memories of people who believed America had once been simpler than it actually was.
Your father lit another cigarette almost immediately after finishing the first.
"Apparently," he muttered, exhaling smoke toward the afternoon sky, "the pastor lives next door."
You followed his gaze without much interest.
The neighbouring house was much older than yours, its white clapboard walls softened by decades of climbing ivy that curled around the porch railings in thick emerald vines. Rose bushes bloomed beneath every window, their crimson blossoms almost unnaturally vibrant against the white paint. While rows of lavender swayed gently beside a stone pathway leading toward the front steps.
A woman emerged from the garden carrying a wicker basket balanced against her hip, and even from across the lawn there was something effortlessly graceful about the way she moved, brushing loose strands of dark hair behind her ear before looking toward the moving truck with an expression that immediately softened into a welcoming smile.
She waved.
Your father waved back with awkward enthusiasm.
You offered the smallest possible nod.
The woman didn't seem offended by your lack of warmth. If anything, her smile only widened before she disappeared inside the house, leaving the front door open behind her as though expecting someone else to follow.
"You could try being polite," your father remarked.
"I nodded."
"You looked like you were attending a funeral."
"I kind of am."
The words escaped before you could stop them.
Your father didn't answer; he simply looked away, crushing the cigarette beneath his shoe with more force than necessary before opening the truck and beginning to unload boxes in silence.
◌ֹ 💭 ִ ՞
Your bedroom overlooked the street.
It wasn't particularly large, but the slanted ceiling and wide window gave it the illusion of space, and if you ignored the floral wallpaper left behind by whoever had lived there before, it might even have been pleasant. You left every box untouched, stepping instead toward the window where the neighbourhood stretched beneath the late afternoon sun in quiet perfection. From here, the church dominated everything.
It stood only a short walk away, its white steeple rising confidently above the rooftops until it became the highest point in town, casting a long shadow that crept slowly across the surrounding streets as the sun drifted westward. The stained-glass windows caught the light in fractured colours, spilling ribbons of sapphire, crimson, and gold across the stone walls, and every hour the bell announced itself with unwavering certainty, as though reminding the entire town exactly where its heart resided.
You had never been particularly religious.
Your mother claimed belief was something people found when they were desperate enough. Your father claimed nothing at all.
Still, there was something undeniably magnetic about the building—not welcoming, exactly, but impossible to ignore. It possessed the quiet confidence of institutions that had existed long before the people inside them and fully expected to remain standing long after everyone currently alive had become names carved into marble.
The longer you stood there, the more impossible it became to convince yourself that the church was simply another building.
Every street curved toward it, every sidewalk appeared to lead back to its weathered stone steps, and even the houses seemed arranged in quiet deference, as though generations of families had built their lives around its presence without ever questioning why. It reminded you less of a place of worship than of a watchtower, standing silently above the town with the patient certainty that everyone, eventually, regardless of where they wandered, would find themselves returning to its doors.
With a quiet sigh, you stepped away from the window and looked around your bedroom for the first time. Brown cardboard boxes towered against one wall with your mother's handwriting still scrawled across the tape in black marker—BOOKS, WINTER CLOTHES, BEDROOM—small pieces of a life that no longer existed packed away as though memories could be folded as neatly as sweaters. For a fleeting moment, you considered unpacking, imagining where your records might sit or which shelf your novels would occupy, but the thought felt strangely disloyal, as though arranging your belongings meant accepting that this house was something more permanent than a temporary stop on the way back home.
Because that was what you kept telling yourself.
You weren't staying.
Your father might believe in fresh starts, but you believed in endings, and sooner or later, this one would end too.
You left the boxes where they were.
Downstairs, the muffled scrape of furniture drifting across hardwood floors reminded you that your father had continued working without you. You could picture him perfectly without even looking—the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled to his elbows, another cigarette dangling absentmindedly between his lips despite promising your mother years ago that he'd quit, moving through the house with the determination of someone who believed staying busy was easier than admitting he didn't know what else to do with himself.
He had always been good at pretending. Pretending as if the shouting matches hadn't rattled the windows, that your mother's packed suitcases hadn't sat untouched by the front door for nearly a week before she finally carried them downstairs herself, that signing a stack of divorce papers in a lawyer's office on an unremarkable Tuesday afternoon was no different from signing for a parcel at the post office.
Some people cried when their marriages ended.
Your father had simply bought another pack of cigarettes.
You wandered downstairs without thinking much about where your feet were taking you, trailing your fingers lightly along the polished banister as unfamiliar floorboards creaked beneath your weight. The house carried that peculiar scent all recently vacated homes seemed to share, a mixture of fresh paint and old timber.
Your father was standing in the kitchen with his back to you, staring blankly into an open cupboard that contained nothing except two chipped mugs the landlord had apparently forgotten to remove. For several moments, he didn't move at all. He simply stood there with one hand braced against the counter, cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling while the afternoon light spilled through the sink window and painted long rectangles across the floor.
For a fleeting second, he looked impossibly older than you remembered.
Not because of the grey beginning to thread through his dark hair or the pull of his permanent frown that exemplified a network of deep wrinkles, but because loneliness had a way of ageing people unevenly. It hollowed them out from the inside until they carried themselves like houses after a fire—still standing, somehow, but unmistakably changed.
He noticed you only when the floorboard beneath your foot groaned.
"There's a diner a few blocks over," he said, reaching automatically for his wallet. "I figured we'd get dinner there. Saves unpacking the kitchen tonight."
You leaned against the doorway.
"Sure."
He hesitated.
"You hungry?"
"I guess." You sighed.
Another silence settled between the two of you, stretching just long enough to become uncomfortable before he cleared his throat and slipped the wallet into his back pocket.
"People say the pie's good."
The comment felt almost painfully rehearsed, like something he'd read in a brochure on how fathers were supposed to speak to daughters after destroying their lives.
"That's reassuring."
"I thought so."
You almost smiled.
Almost.
Instead, you looked past him through the kitchen window.
The church steeple was visible even from here.
It rose above the rooftops in the distance, brilliant white beneath the lowering sun, impossible to escape no matter which direction you faced. The cross at its peak caught the fading light so intensely that for a moment it seemed suspended in the sky itself, detached from the building below, watching over the town with quiet indifference.
"Everything around here revolves around that place, doesn't it?" you asked without turning away from the window.
Your father followed your gaze.
"I suppose it does."
"That's depressing."
"It depends who you ask."
You let out a quiet hum.
"I wasn't asking."
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The diner sat on the corner of Main Street, tucked between an old hardware store and a tiny bookshop whose faded sign looked as though it hadn't been replaced in decades. A little brass bell chimed above the door as you stepped inside.
It looked exactly how diners always looked in old American films, with red vinyl booths polished smooth by generations of customers, spinning chrome stools lined neatly along the counter, and waitresses who somehow remembered every regular's order before they'd even sat down. A jukebox stood silently in one corner, its coloured lights flickering despite no one feeding it coins, while framed photographs of local baseball teams and town parades crowded every inch of the walls.
The conversations stopped. Not all at once, but you felt it nonetheless.
Heads lifted almost imperceptibly from steaming coffee mugs and half-finished meals. Eyes lingered a fraction longer than politeness allowed before drifting away again, only to return moments later under the pretence of looking elsewhere.
You were no longer just another girl.
You were the new girl.
The divorced man's daughter.
The strangers from Chicago.
Your father either didn't notice or chose not to. He slid into a booth near the window, picking up a laminated menu, prompting you to sit down too. Your fingers drifted absently over the frayed edge of the laminated menu, though you weren't really reading it. The words blurred together into an endless procession of burgers, meatloaf, club sandwiches and slices of homemade pie, all priced cheaply enough to suggest the recipes had remained unchanged for decades. It struck you that this diner, like everything else you'd seen since crossing the county line, seemed entirely uninterested in becoming something new.
A waitress appeared beside the table with two glasses of water balanced expertly on a round metal tray tucked against her shoulder. She looked to be in her late fifties, her greying hair pinned into a loose bun beneath a paper hat embroidered with the diner's name, and she smiled with the effortless familiarity of someone who had spent most of her life recognising faces before names.
"You folks must be the Parks," she said brightly, setting the glasses down without needing to ask whether you wanted lemon. "We've all been expecting you."
Your father looked up in surprise. "You have?"
"Oh, honey." She laughed softly, her voice oozing with honey. "Nothing much happens around here. New neighbours are practically headline news."
You lowered your eyes to the condensation gathering on your water glass, tracing a fingertip through the droplets before they slipped onto the tabletop. Somehow, hearing it confirmed felt infinitely worse than merely suspecting it.
The waitress scribbled something onto her notepad before looking between the two of you again.
"Your daddy's taking over at the engineering firm, isn't he?"
"That's right," your father replied politely.
"Well, we're happy to have you both. Lord knows this town could always use a few fresh faces."
Your father offered the strained smile he'd perfected over the last year. "Thank you."
She turned to you then, her expression softening almost instinctively.
"And you'll be starting at Saint Augustine's on Monday?"
You blinked. "I guess."
"You'll like it there."
The certainty with which she said it made something inside you churn.
"What if I don't?"
She paused for the briefest moment before smiling again, as though she believed every difficult thing could be solved with enough kindness.
"Oh," she said gently, "I'm sure you will."
When she finally wandered off toward another table, your father reached automatically for the sugar dispenser despite drinking his coffee black.
"You didn't have to answer like that."
"I answered."
"You know what I mean."
"No," you replied, lifting your glass. "I really don't."
He sighed quietly, rubbing a hand across his jaw before staring out the window instead of arguing further. It had become another habit of his lately, abandoning conversations the moment they threatened to become honest. You sometimes wondered whether it was because he genuinely wanted to avoid conflict or because he no longer trusted himself to say the right thing.
Outside, Main Street basked beneath the last warmth of the evening sun. A teenage boy wheeled his bicycle past the diner's window, one hand balancing a paper bag hooked over the handlebars while an older woman called after him from across the street, reminding him not to forget choir practice tomorrow evening. He lifted a hand in acknowledgement without even turning around, clearly having heard the reminder a hundred times before.
Choir practice.
You almost smiled to yourself; of course, there was choir practice.
Of course, there were church picnics and Sunday bake sales and Christmas pageants where everyone knew every line before the first rehearsal. You could already picture the bulletin boards covered in handwritten notices, casserole dishes appearing mysteriously whenever someone fell ill.
The waitress returned with a steaming mug of coffee for your father and a basket of warm dinner rolls that she insisted had "just come out of the oven."
"They're on the house," she said with a wink. "Welcome to Maple Creek."
Your father thanked her.
You stared at the basket for a long moment before pulling one apart absentmindedly, watching gasps of steam escape into the air. The bread was still warm enough to burn your fingertips, tasting like someone's grandmother had been making them exactly the same way for fifty years, refusing to write the recipe down because she'd never needed to, measuring ingredients by instinct rather than teaspoons, and somehow producing the same perfect result every single time. You truly hated how good it was.
Your father noticed the expression that crossed your face before you had the chance to hide it, the smallest flicker of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth as he reached for one himself. "See?" he said quietly, tearing his own roll in half. "The pie probably isn't lying either."
You looked up just long enough to roll your eyes.
"Don't get ahead of yourself."
"I'm just saying," he replied with a shrug that felt almost familiar, "the place has potential."
"The bread has potential."
"I'll take that as progress."
"It isn't."
He smiled anyway.
It was brief—gone almost as soon as it appeared—but for the first time since you'd crossed the state line, your father looked a little more like the man you remembered. Before the lawyers, before the cardboard boxes stacked shoulder-high in your old living room, before every conversation between your parents had become another carefully measured negotiation about who got what and when. There had been a time when he laughed easily, when Sunday mornings meant burnt pancakes and classic rock playing too loudly through the house while your mother complained that neither of you knew the meaning of an inside voice. Sometimes it frightened you how difficult it was becoming to remember those versions of them.
The waitress returned, balancing two heavy plates against her forearm, a skill that could only come from years of doing the same job every single day. She placed your father's meatloaf before him first, thick slices drowned in peppered gravy beside a generous mound of mashed potatoes. She then set your cheeseburger and fries in front of you with a smile.
"Everything looks alright?"
"It looks fine," your father answered politely.
"You just let me know if you need anything. Ketchup's already on the table, and don't be shy about asking for more fries. Earl always makes too many."
She drifted away before either of you could respond, stopping at another booth to refill an elderly couple's coffee cups without needing to ask. The old man thanked her by name. She asked after his wife. Two booths over, someone else called her over just to tell her that his grandson had finally gotten into college, and she clasped both hands over her heart as though the news belonged to her own family.
You watched the exchange for longer than you meant to.
You had the uneasy feeling that, by tomorrow morning, half the town would know exactly where you'd eaten dinner on your first night. By the end of the week, they'd know which house you lived in, what car your father drove, and probably the fact that you'd barely spoken through the entire meal. In a place this small, stories didn't spread because people were cruel. They spread because there simply wasn't much else to talk about.
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You learned later that the woman from earlier was Mrs Sim, the pastor’s wife. She arrived with a still-warm peach cobbler, which your father accepted with a gratitude that seemed genuine, the lines around his eyes softening as she spoke to him about the community, the quiet, the good schools. You lingered in the doorway of your new bedroom, arms crossed, watching the performance of small-town benevolence. Mrs Sim’s eyes eventually found yours. “You must be y/n,” she beamed. “My son, Jake, is about your age. I’ll send him over later to help with the heavier boxes. It’s so nice to have young people in the house next door again.”
Jake.
The name meant nothing to you; it was simply another piece of information about a place you hadn't asked to know.
A pastor's son.
Someone who probably belonged here in the same way everything else seemed to.
You imagined someone polite, someone with perfect manners and neatly folded clothes, someone who had grown up knowing exactly where he fit in the world because everyone around him had spent his entire life reminding him. The kind of person who would wave at strangers while driving, volunteer on weekends, and probably know every verse of every hymn before he was old enough to understand why he was singing them.
Someone who would look at you and immediately know you didn't belong.
"That's nice," you replied.
Your father gave you a look, but you ignored it.
Mrs Sim only smiled. "You'll meet him soon enough."
Mrs Sim's words lingered in the air even after she had finished speaking, though you weren't entirely sure why. There was nothing particularly significant about them. She had simply mentioned her son in passing, the same way someone might mention a neighbour's dog or a nearby restaurant or which grocery store had the freshest produce. It should have been forgettable, another harmless detail about a town you had no intention of becoming attached to. Yet somehow, the certainty in her voice bothered you. You'll meet him soon enough. Not if you want to. Not if you happen to. Just a quiet assumption that, eventually, your lives would cross because that was how things worked here. Everyone knew everyone. Everyone belonged to someone. Everyone had a place already waiting for them.
You wondered if that was what made small towns feel so comforting to the people who loved them. There was no uncertainty. No endless possibility of becoming someone entirely different from who you were yesterday. In places like Chicago, people disappeared and reinvented themselves all the time. They changed schools, changed neighbourhoods, changed friend groups, changed everything about themselves until sometimes even the people who knew them best couldn't recognise who they had become. Here, it seemed impossible to escape the version of yourself that other people had already decided existed. Your family history, your mistakes, your reputation, your name—all of it followed you down every street and through every doorway.
Maybe that was why everyone here smiled so easily.
They had never needed to wonder who they were.
The conversation continued downstairs, though you stopped listening. Your father asked Mrs. Sim about the school district, and she answered with the same gentle enthusiasm she seemed to offer everything else, explaining which teachers were wonderful, which streets were safest, which shops had been around for generations. She spoke about Maple Creek as though it wasn't simply a town but a living thing, something delicate that required care and loyalty. You watched your father absorb every word, nodding along with an expression of relief that you recognised immediately.
He wanted this to work.
That was the part you hated most.
If he had been miserable, if he had admitted he regretted moving, if he had looked around this unfamiliar house and said that maybe he had made a mistake, then perhaps you would have felt less alone in your resentment. But instead, he seemed lighter here. Not happy exactly, but closer to it than he had been in months. The possibility that this place could become something good for him felt unfair somehow, because while he was finding a reason to believe in a future here, you were still grieving the one you had lost.
You quietly stepped back into your room before either of them noticed, closing the door without making a sound.
The peach cobbler sat untouched on the kitchen counter.
You could smell it even from upstairs.
Another thing this town seemed determined to make impossible to dislike.
You hated that. You hated that the houses were beautiful, that the neighbours were kind, that the diner food was good, that your father looked slightly less broken every time someone welcomed him. You had spent the entire drive here building a version of Maple Creek in your mind—a place where you could justify being angry, where every smiling face could be dismissed as fake and every gesture of kindness could be interpreted as pity.
But what were you supposed to do when people were genuinely nice? Anger was easier when you had something to fight against.
You sat down on the edge of your bed, staring at the unopened boxes surrounding you, and pulled your knees toward your chest. The room was quiet except for the faint sounds of movement downstairs, the occasional creak of floorboards beneath your father's footsteps, and the distant hum of traffic passing along the main road.
Somewhere outside, a church bell rang.
You looked toward the window instinctively. You had never understood the comfort people found in places like that.
The idea of faith had always seemed strange to you—not because you thought people were foolish for believing, but because certainty itself felt like something you had never possessed. Some people moved through life convinced there was a plan waiting for them, that every heartbreak had meaning and every loss had a purpose. They believed things happened for a reason.
You had never been able to understand how.
Your parents had loved each other once.
At least, everyone said they had.
There were photographs proving it. Old videos, memories you carried from childhood of them dancing in the kitchen, laughing over burnt dinners, holding hands while walking through crowded streets. There had been a time when their marriage had seemed as permanent as the church standing at the centre of Maple Creek.
And then one day, somehow, it wasn't.
So what exactly was faith supposed to do with things that broke?
What was the point of believing something was sacred if it could still be destroyed?
The question followed you as you unpacked only the things you needed for the night. A toothbrush. Clean clothes. Your phone charger. The essentials required to pretend that tomorrow would be normal, even though nothing about your life felt remotely familiar anymore.
You avoided opening the box marked BEDROOM, avoided touching the photographs, avoided anything that felt too much like admitting you were staying.
Downstairs, your father eventually called goodnight, and you answered automatically.
Then you were alone.
The first night in the new house was quieter than you expected. Not peaceful—peace implied comfort—but quiet in a way that made every small sound noticeable. The pipes shifting behind the walls. The wind moving through the trees outside. The occasional footsteps of your father crossing the hallway below.
And beneath everything else, faint but unmistakable, the church bells. They rang once more before midnight.
You lay in the unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling, listening as the sound travelled through the darkness.
You didn't know anything about Maple Creek.
You didn't know its streets, its people, its traditions, or the boy whose name had been casually introduced to you before you had even met him.
For now, though, all you knew was that you were eighteen years old, three states away from everything you had ever known, living beside a church you didn't believe in, in a town that seemed determined to believe in you before you had even decided whether you wanted to believe in anything at all.
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The next morning, Maple Creek looked almost deliberately beautiful.
You resented it immediately.
The sky was clear, the kind of bright blue that seemed almost too perfect to be real, and sunlight spilled across the streets as though the entire town had been carefully arranged for someone else's happiness. Birds moved between the trees, children walked toward school in groups, and neighbours greeted each other from opposite sides of the street with the casual familiarity of people who had been doing the same thing for years. There was something almost offensive about the way everything appeared untouched by the chaos that had brought you here. The lawns were freshly cut, the gardens were beginning to bloom with the first signs of spring, and every house seemed to sit peacefully beneath the morning light as though heartbreak, divorce, and starting over were things that happened somewhere far away to other people.
It was impossible to hate something that looked like it belonged in a memory.
You stood in the kitchen drinking coffee your father had made before getting ready for work. m He had already unpacked half the kitchen, organised the cupboards, and somehow found the patience to locate the coffee machine among dozens of unopened boxes that still crowded the dining room and hallway. It was such a typical thing for him to do that, despite everything, it almost made you smile. Your father had always dealt with uncertainty by creating order wherever he could. When things became unpredictable, he cleaned. When conversations became too difficult, he focused on practical tasks. When emotions became too overwhelming, he found something that could be measured, arranged, or fixed. He had spent the last year losing control over nearly every aspect of his life, and now that he had a new house with empty shelves and rooms waiting to be filled, he seemed determined to rebuild everything piece by piece.
You watched him move around the kitchen, placing mugs into cupboards and checking his work schedule on his phone, and you realised that this was probably the first time in months that he had looked like he knew what he was doing. It was strange seeing him like this. You had grown used to the version of him who sat silently at the dinner table, who stared at paperwork longer than necessary, who seemed to carry the weight of conversations he never dared to start. The divorce had changed both of your lives, but you had always been more focused on what you lost than you had forgotten he had lost something too.
That did not mean you were ready to forgive him for bringing you here.
It only meant you understood him slightly more than you wanted to.
"You should probably leave soon if you don't want to be late," he said, breaking the silence that had settled over the kitchen as he reached across the counter for his keys. He glanced briefly toward the clock hanging above the stove before looking back at you, his expression carrying the same quiet concern he had been trying to hide since the move. "First impressions are important."
You took another sip of your coffee, letting the warmth distract you from the uncomfortable feeling building in your chest. You glanced toward the clock above the stove, even though you already knew exactly what time it was.
"You already checked my schedule, didn't you?"
Your father paused for half a second, his fingers still wrapped around his keys, and that tiny hesitation gave him away immediately. He had always been terrible at pretending he wasn't overly involved. He tried to act casual, as though he hadn't spent the previous night reading through your school information or memorising your timetable, but you knew him too well. When he was worried, he disguised it as preparation.
"You need to admit that you would forget something important if I didn't."
You looked at him over the rim of your mug, unimpressed.
"I wouldn't."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, the kind that suggested he had been waiting for you to say exactly that.
"You forgot your passport before our flight to Florida."
You looked away.
"That was one time."
Your father leaned back against the kitchen counter, folding his arms across his chest.
"You forgot your wallet at a restaurant last summer."
"I got it back."
"After I drove back twenty minutes to get it."
You opened your mouth to argue, but he continued before you could.
"You left your phone on top of the car."
You immediately looked away.
"That happened once."
Your father's smile widened slightly, and for a moment, the heaviness that had followed both of you since the divorce disappeared. It was such a small thing, barely noticeable, but it reminded you of the person he used to be before everything became complicated. The father who teased you about losing things, who laughed when you became stubborn, who knew exactly when to push and when to leave you alone.
He picked up his briefcase from beside the kitchen table and moved toward the front door, but before he stepped outside, he stopped.
The hesitation was subtle. Most people probably wouldn't have noticed it, but you did.
"Are you nervous?"
The question was simple, almost too simple, and that was what made it difficult to answer. You looked toward the front window instead of at him, watching a neighbour across the street wave to someone passing by. Everyone here seemed so certain of themselves, so comfortable in a world that already knew their names. Meanwhile, you were standing in a kitchen that still smelled like cardboard boxes and unfamiliar paint, preparing to walk into a school where nobody knew you except as the girl who had just arrived.
You could have lied.
You almost did.
"No."
Your father didn't say anything, he didn't need to.
The look he gave you carried the quiet disbelief of someone who had known you your entire life and could tell when you were pretending.
You sighed, setting your coffee mug down on the counter.
"Maybe a little."
It was the closest thing to admitting the reality that you were willing to offer.
His expression softened immediately, and for a second, you prepared yourself for the kind of speech parents always gave in moments like this. Something about how everything would be okay. Something about making friends and giving people a chance and remembering that everyone felt nervous sometimes. You expected reassurance because reassurance was what adults usually offered when they didn't know how else to help.
Instead, he simply nodded.
"That's normal."
You looked back at him, almost surprised by how little he said.
"That's it?"
He shrugged slightly, his fingers tightening around the handle of his briefcase.
"What do you want me to say?"
You looked down.
"I don't know."
The honesty of the answer seemed to surprise both of you.
Your father let out a quiet breath, his gaze drifting briefly around the house. The unopened boxes stacked near the hallway. The unfamiliar walls. The unfamiliar kitchen. For the first time, he looked less like someone who had brought you here with a plan and more like someone who was simply trying to figure everything out alongside you.
"Neither do I," he admitted.
The words settled between you. And strangely, they helped more than any perfect speech could have.
Because your father had spent so long trying to make everything seem manageable that you had almost forgotten he was also struggling. He didn't have some hidden answer for how to rebuild a family after it had fallen apart. He didn't know the secret to making a new town feel like home or how to erase the memories you had left behind. He was just another person standing in unfamiliar surroundings, hoping that somewhere along the way, he had made the right choice.
"I'll see you after school," he said eventually.
You nodded.
"Okay."
He opened the front door, letting in a rush of cool morning air that carried the scent of grass and flowers from the neighbouring garden. He stepped outside, then paused with one hand still resting against the doorframe.
"Y/n?"
You looked up.
"Try not to get suspended on your first day."
You stared at him.
"Seriously?"
A small smile appeared on his face, the first genuine one you had seen that morning.
"I'm just saying."
"I haven't even been there yet."
"I know my daughter." He smiled as you watched him walk down the front steps and toward his car, his briefcase held loosely in one hand while the morning sun stretched across the driveway
You grabbed your bag from beside your stool and checked your phone one last time before leaving. There were still messages from Chicago, but fewer than yesterday. The group chat that had been impossible to ignore during the drive had become quieter overnight, conversations naturally shifting toward things you weren't there to experience. Someone had posted a picture from a coffee shop you used to visit after school. Someone else had mentioned a teacher you had complained about for years. Tiny pieces of your old life continuing without you.
You stared at the screen for longer than you should have.
Then you locked your phone.
There was no point in torturing yourself with reminders of somewhere you couldn't return to.
At least, not yet.
You stepped outside, locking the front door behind you, and immediately became aware of the house beside yours. The pastor's home stood exactly as it had the previous evening, peaceful and untouched beneath the morning sunlight. The garden that had seemed almost excessive yesterday looked different now—not less perfect, but more alive. The roses beneath the windows moved slightly in the breeze, and the ivy climbing along the porch railing cast delicate shadows across the white wooden walls.
You wondered briefly what kind of person grew up in a house like that.
Not because you were interested, you reminded yourself of that.
It was just simply curiosity.
A house like that came with expectations. You knew enough about people to understand that. The pastor's son probably had a reputation before he was old enough to create one himself. People probably knew him as a child before they knew him as a person. They probably expected kindness from him, patience from him, goodness from him. They probably looked at him and saw his father's occupation before they saw anything else.
You wondered if that ever became exhausting.
The thought disappeared quickly.
You adjusted your bag over your shoulder and started walking toward school.
The route was shorter than you expected, which somehow annoyed you. You had imagined getting lost, having an excuse to turn around, having some dramatic reason to delay arriving at a place where you knew nobody. Instead, Maple Creek made everything inconveniently simple. The streets were easy to follow. The sidewalks were clean. The school appeared at the end of the road exactly where the map on your phone said it would be.
Even the town was refusing to give you a reason to hate it.
The school building was larger than you expected, though it carried the same old-fashioned charm as everything else in Maple Creek. Red brick walls covered in climbing greenery, tall windows reflecting the morning sunlight, neatly maintained gardens surrounding the entrance. It looked less like a school and more like a place people took photographs of during graduation.
You stood at the edge of the school grounds for a moment longer than necessary, letting the flow of students move around you as though you were standing still in the middle of a river. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going, which hallway they needed, which friends they were meeting, which teachers they needed to avoid before the first bell. There was a strange confidence in the way people moved through familiar places, the kind that only came from years of repetition. They weren't thinking about where to turn or whether they belonged there. They simply existed within the routine of it.
You missed that.
Not the school itself. Not the crowded hallways or the endless assignments or the people who had somehow made every small inconvenience feel like a personal crisis. But you missed knowing what to expect. You missed walking into a building where you knew which staircase was always empty between classes, which vending machine stole your money, which teachers would let you hand things in late without a lecture. You missed the comfort of being a person who already had a place, even if that place wasn't perfect.
Here, everything was unfamiliar.
And unfamiliar meant vulnerable.
You hated that feeling.
You followed the signs toward the main office, your shoes making quiet sounds against the polished floor as you entered the building. It was exactly what you expected inside. Framed photographs lined the walls, displaying graduating classes from decades before you were born, sports teams holding trophies with proud expressions, theatre productions captured mid-performance, students who had once walked through these same hallways and eventually left to create lives somewhere beyond the town.
It was strange seeing so much history preserved.
Back home, schools changed constantly. Posters were replaced, rooms were renovated, people came and went so quickly that it was easy to forget anyone had existed there before you. Here, the past seemed carefully protected. Maple Creek held onto things. It held onto houses, traditions, names, and memories with the kind of devotion usually reserved for things people were afraid of losing.
The thought followed you into the office, where a woman sitting behind the front desk looked up immediately. She had the same welcoming expression everyone here seemed to possess, the kind that made you suspicious because you couldn't understand why a stranger would look genuinely pleased to see you.
"You must be Y/n."
You stopped.
It was becoming unsettling how often people knew who you were before you had introduced yourself.
"Yeah."
The woman smiled and reached for a folder beside her computer. "I'm Mrs. Li. We spoke briefly with your father yesterday when your enrolment paperwork came through. Everything has been processed, and your schedule is inside.
She handed the folder across the desk.
You accepted it carefully, glancing down at your name printed neatly across the front.
"Thank you."
"You'll find everyone here is very welcoming," Mrs Li added.
There it was again.
The phrase everyone seemed determined to use.
Welcoming.
You wondered if there was a meeting where the entire town agreed on the same vocabulary.
You forced a small smile.
"I'll keep that in mind."
Mrs Li didn't seem offended by your lack of enthusiasm. If anything, her expression softened slightly, as though she understood more than you had said.
"Your first class is English. It's just down the hall and to the left. If you have any trouble finding anything, ask someone. We have a wonderful group of students here."
You nodded.
"Okay."
The hallway had become busier now, students moving between lockers and classrooms as the first bell approached. Conversations blended together around you, creating a constant stream of voices that you tried not to focus on. You kept your eyes on your schedule, pretending you didn't notice the occasional glance in your direction.
You knew what they were thinking.
Who is she?
Where did she come from?
Why is she here?
You had been the new girl before, but never like this.
In Chicago, being new meant being one person among thousands. There were always other transfers, other unfamiliar faces, other people trying to figure out where they belonged. Here, you felt like the entire town had watched your moving truck arrive. You weren't just a student who had transferred schools.
You reached your classroom and paused outside the door, hearing voices from inside. The urge to turn around was immediate and irrational. Not because you were afraid, but because walking through that door meant admitting this was real, that you were actually here and not on some sort of visit. You weren’t just passing through; this was your life now.
Eventually, you pushed the door open.
The classroom was brighter than you expected, sunlight spilling through the wide windows and casting shapes across the desks. Students looked up briefly as you entered before returning to their conversations, their curiosity subtle enough to be polite but obvious enough that you noticed. You had become aware, almost immediately, of how visible you were here.
You made your way toward the empty seat near the window and placed your bag down, grateful for the small distance it gave you from everyone else. For the first few minutes, you simply sat there, watching the classroom. The teacher arranged papers on her desk. Students exchanged conversations that seemed to continue from yesterday, last week, and years ago.
The rest of the morning passed in a way that felt strangely unreal, as though you were watching yourself move through someone else's routine rather than actually participating in your own. Every classroom had its own rhythm that you didn't understand yet; every teacher seemed to know exactly how much time to spend explaining something, exactly when to move on, exactly which students would answer questions before they even raised their hands.
You found yourself observing more than listening, studying the small details that revealed how deeply connected everyone was to this place. The girl in front of you had a sticker on her notebook from a local charity event. The boy beside the window wore a jacket with the school emblem stitched neatly onto the chest. Two students passing your desk exchanged a joke that clearly referenced something that had happened years ago, something you could not possibly understand because you had not been there to witness it.
By the time you checked your schedule again before your next class, you were already expecting another subject you would have to pretend to care about, another room where you would sit quietly and allow people to decide what they thought of you. Instead, your eyes stopped on the words printed beneath the next period.
Chapel.
You stared at it for several seconds, convinced that maybe you had misunderstood.
You looked back at the schedule.
Still there.
A mandatory chapel period.
Not an optional gathering. Not a once-a-week event. Not something students attended only if they wanted to participate. It was built directly into the school day with the same certainty as mathematics, English, or science, another requirement that everyone accepted without question.
You almost found it impressive.
Only a town like Maple Creek could create a school where religion was not simply something people practised, but something embedded so naturally into everyday life that nobody even considered questioning it.
Of course, they had a chapel.
You followed the other students toward the chapel building, trying not to let your expression reveal exactly what you were thinking. Nobody else seemed bothered. That was what caught your attention more than anything. They weren't walking there reluctantly. They weren't whispering complaints about having to attend. They weren't rolling their eyes or joking about finding a way to escape.
They simply went, like it was normal.
The chapel itself was beautiful, which added to your growing irritation. The building was old but carefully maintained, with dark wooden beams stretching across the ceiling and rows of polished benches facing a raised platform at the front. Sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows, breaking into fragments of blue, red, and gold that shifted slowly across the floor as the morning passed.
You took a seat near the back, naturally, the safest place for someone who had no intention of becoming involved.
The teacher at the front began speaking about faith, purpose, and community, and you tried to listen. You genuinely did. You weren't there to mock anyone or disrespect something that clearly mattered to the people around you. But there was a difference between understanding why something was important to others and feeling it yourself.
People always talked about faith like it was something that remained when everything else fell away, but what happened when the things you believed in failed you first? What happened when the people who promised they would always be there were suddenly the reason you had to leave your home? What happened when forever turned out to be something people said only because they wanted to believe it at the time?
Maybe that was why religion had always felt so distant to you. It wasn't because you hated it, and it wasn't because you thought people were foolish for believing in something greater than themselves. You understood the appeal of having something permanent to hold onto when everything around you felt temporary. The problem was that belief required a kind of trust you no longer knew how to give. You had spent too much time watching things people promised would last forever eventually fall apart, watching something that was supposed to be unbreakable become fragile enough to disappear. It was difficult to surrender yourself to the idea of certainty when your own life had become proof that certainty could be taken away without warning.
The clock above the doorway seemed to move more slowly with every passing minute, each second stretching longer than the one before it. You tried to convince yourself that you could sit there until the period ended. It was only one class. Forty minutes of listening, pretending, and doing what everyone else seemed completely comfortable doing.
But the longer you remained in that room, the more aware you became of how different you felt from everyone around you.
The chapel, which seemed to offer comfort to everyone else, began to feel strangely suffocating. You felt as though the room itself was asking something from you—some kind of acceptance, some willingness to belong, some acknowledgement that this was now your world too.
You looked around one more time, almost hoping to find someone else who looked as uncomfortable as you felt.
You didn't.
Every student seemed exactly where they were supposed to be.
Everyone seemed to have a place.
Except you.
The realisation irritated you more than it should have, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you quietly gathered your notebook and slipped your bag over your shoulder. You waited until the teacher turned her attention toward the front of the room before standing, moving carefully between the rows of benches and making your way toward the side exit. Nobody stopped you. Nobody questioned where you were going. For a moment, you wondered if that was because nobody noticed, or because in a place where everyone seemed to know everyone, you were still too new to matter.
Either option was strangely comforting.
The moment the chapel doors closed behind you, you exhaled.
The hallway outside was empty, and the sudden absence of voices felt like stepping out of a crowded room after holding your breath for too long.
You walked without a destination, following instinct rather than any actual plan, letting your feet carry you away from the main buildings where students gathered and teachers watched.
The further you walked, the quieter the school became.
Eventually, the polished pathways and carefully maintained gardens gave way to a less noticeable section of campus behind the sports fields. It was the kind of place people probably passed without ever really seeing, hidden behind a line of tall trees that separated it from the rest of the school grounds. The branches stretched overhead, creating patches of shade across the grass, while the old maintenance building stood quietly against the edge of the property, its brick walls worn by years of changing weather.
It wasn't somewhere students were supposed to be, which immediately made it somewhere you preferred.
There was something comforting about finding a place that hadn't been perfected. Unlike the rest of Maple Creek, which seemed determined to preserve every detail and present itself as something untouched, this corner of the school existed without trying to impress anyone. The grass grew unevenly. The walls carried marks left behind by time. Nobody had placed flowers here or added signs explaining its importance.
It was simply there.
And for the first time that morning, you felt like you could be too.
You leaned back against the wall, pulling the cigarette from your bag with the familiar ease of someone who had done this too many times to feel guilty anymore. You knew exactly what people would say if they saw you. You knew the assumptions that would immediately follow. The new girl from Chicago who couldn't even make it through her first day without breaking a rule. The divorced man's daughter who clearly had an attitude problem. The outsider who had arrived and immediately proved everyone right.
You almost laughed at the thought.
People loved being right about others.
It made them feel like they understood the world.
The lighter flickered in your hand, and for a moment the small flame was the only movement around you. You watched the cigarette catch before lowering your hand, allowing the smoke to disappear into the cool morning air. The irony wasn't lost on you.
You had escaped a chapel full of people searching for meaning only to find yourself hiding behind a building with a cigarette in your hand.
Maybe everyone had their own way of coping, and yours was just less socially acceptable.
For the first time that morning, you felt like you could breathe properly. There was no teacher watching you. No receptionist smiling at you like she already knew your entire story. No students glancing over and wondering where you came from.
Just complete silence.
You closed your eyes briefly, letting yourself enjoy the rare moment where nobody expected anything from you.
Then you heard footsteps.
At first, you assumed they belonged to another student who had discovered the same hiding place. You didn't bother moving. If anything, you were slightly annoyed that even your one quiet corner couldn't remain yours for longer than five minutes.
The footsteps came closer, slow and unhurried.
Not the hurried steps of someone trying to sneak away.
Someone who knew exactly where they were going.
You opened your eyes.
A boy stood a few feet away, one hand resting casually in the pocket of his uniform trousers, his expression difficult to read. He wasn't wearing the usual look people gave you when they caught you doing something wrong. There was no immediate judgement, no smug satisfaction, no excitement at having discovered someone breaking a rule. He didn't have the expression teachers usually wore when they found students somewhere they shouldn't be, that careful mixture of disappointment and authority that suggested they had already decided what kind of person you were before you had the chance to explain yourself.
Instead, he simply looked at you.
He appeared to be around your age, dressed in the same Saint Augustine's uniform as everyone else, though somehow he carried it differently. The other students you had seen that morning wore their uniforms like an extension of the school itself, every shirt neatly tucked, every tie perfectly adjusted, every detail reflecting the careful order that seemed to exist everywhere in Maple Creek. This boy didn't look careless, but there was something less deliberate about him. He looked comfortable, as though the uniform was simply something he wore rather than something he used to prove that he belonged.
His eyes briefly moved toward the cigarette between your fingers before returning to your face, and you waited for the inevitable reaction. You waited for the sigh, the disapproving expression, the comment about rules and responsibility and how this was not the kind of behaviour expected at a school like Saint Augustine's.
Instead, when he finally spoke, his voice was calmer than you expected.
"You know, I'm pretty sure this isn't exactly where you're supposed to be during chapel."
You stared at him for a moment, caught slightly off guard by the fact that his words sounded more like an observation than an accusation. The cigarette remained between your fingers, smoke curling lazily upward before disappearing into the cool air surrounding the trees.
"I'm aware," you replied.
Your tone was sharper than necessary, but you had already spent the entire morning surrounded by people who were trying to make you feel like you were being welcomed while simultaneously reminding you that you didn't belong. Defensiveness had become easier than politeness. It was a habit you had developed without realising, something you reached for before anyone had the opportunity to hurt you.
The boy didn't seem bothered.
If anything, he looked slightly amused.
"Good," he said simply.
You frowned.
That wasn't the response you were expecting.
Most people would have continued. They would have taken your attitude as an invitation to argue, because people often mistook defensiveness for a challenge. They liked proving they were right, especially when they believed they were helping.
You studied him for a moment before asking the question you already knew the answer to.
"Are you going to report me?"
The question came out automatically, almost like a test. You weren't actually interested in whether he would tell someone. You were interested in seeing what kind of person he was. Whether he was the kind who followed rules because they mattered to him or because breaking them gave him a reason to feel superior.
For a moment, he didn't answer.
His gaze moved briefly toward the school building in the distance, where students were still sitting inside the chapel, probably listening attentively to whatever lesson you had decided you couldn't endure.
Then he looked back at you.
"No."
The simplicity of the answer made you hesitate.
"Why?"
He shrugged slightly, his expression remaining thoughtful rather than dismissive.
"Because I don't think getting you in trouble is going to change anything."
You tilted your head slightly. "What does that mean?"
"It means," he said, looking toward the ground for a moment as though choosing his words carefully, "that if someone doesn't want to be somewhere, making them feel worse probably isn't going to make them suddenly want to be there."
You looked away, taking another slow drag before exhaling toward the trees.
"You're surprisingly understanding for someone at a religious school."
There was a slight pause, then he smiled faintly.
"Is that supposed to be an insult?"
You shrugged. "I'm not sure yet."
That earned a quiet laugh from him, and the sound surprised you because it wasn't the kind of laughter you expected from him.
"You thought I was going to give you a lecture."
"I mean, you're standing behind a church school talking to someone who skipped chapel and is smoking," you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you as though the situation itself explained everything.
His eyebrows lifted slightly, not in disbelief, but in genuine thought, as though he was actually considering your words rather than waiting for his turn to respond. It was a strange reaction, and you found yourself watching him more closely because you couldn't figure out what he was trying to do.
"Do people usually do that?" he asked.
The question was so simple that it almost confused you.
You glanced away for a moment, looking toward the empty field beside the building where the morning sunlight stretched across the grass. "Usually."
You didn't need to explain what you meant.
He seemed to understand anyway.
"And does it work?"
The question caught you off guard.
Not because it was difficult, but because you had expected him to ask something else. You expected him to ask why you smoked, why you skipped chapel, why you seemed so determined to reject everything about the place you had just arrived in. You expected him to focus on the action itself, because that was what people usually did.
You looked back at him, studying his expression carefully.
"What?"
"Does it work when people lecture you?"
For a moment, you didn't answer.
The cigarette slowly burned between your fingers, the ash growing longer before falling quietly onto the ground beneath you. You opened your mouth, ready to give him the easy response. The sarcastic one. The answer you usually gave whenever someone asked a question that felt too close to the truth.
Something like depends who's asking.
Or clearly not, considering I'm still here.
But the words didn't come.
"No."
The answer came out quieter than you intended.
The boy didn't look surprised. He didn't look pleased, either, like he had somehow won an argument. He simply nodded slowly, as though your answer confirmed something he had already suspected.
"Then I don't see the point."
There was something unusual about the way he spoke, like he wasn't trying to convince you of anything. He wasn't saying it because he expected you to suddenly agree with him or because he wanted credit for being understanding. He said it like it was an obvious conclusion, like forcing someone to listen to advice they had no intention of accepting was just another way of making yourself feel useful.
You watched him carefully, trying to figure out what kind of person said things like that.
It was difficult because he didn't fit neatly into any of the categories you had already created for everyone in Maple Creek. You had expected people here to be predictable. You had expected the students at Saint Augustine's to be polite in the same rehearsed way the rest of the town was polite, carrying themselves with the quiet confidence of people who had never had to question whether they belonged. You expected judgment hidden beneath kindness, because that was what you had grown used to.
Before you could stop yourself, you spoke.
"You know, I don't think I ever got your name."
For a moment, something almost amused passed across his expression, like he hadn't realised until then that you had been standing there having an entire conversation without knowing who he was.
His eyes softened slightly, and he shifted his weight away from the wall, extending his hand in a gesture that felt strangely normal considering how unusual the circumstances were.
"I'm Jake."
You looked at him for a moment, your fingers still holding the cigarette as you tried to place where you had heard it before. It sounded familiar, but the thought disappeared before you could catch it. There were too many new names, too many new faces, too many pieces of information being thrown at you since arriving in Maple Creek.
You would remember eventually.
"Y/n." You replied.
He repeated your name quietly back to you, almost absentmindedly, like he was making sure he remembered it.
And you hated how much you noticed.
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The walk home felt strangely shorter than it had that morning, and you found yourself resenting that more than you probably should have. The Sim house came into view as you turned onto Maple Street, standing beside yours exactly as it had the day before.
You looked at it only briefly before turning toward your own house.
You didn't have the energy to think about anything else.
The day had already been long enough.
You dropped your bag beside the stairs, kicking your shoes off before walking further inside. The living room looked slightly different from when you had left that morning, although you couldn't immediately identify what had changed. Your father had clearly spent the day trying to make the space feel more lived in. A few boxes had disappeared, the curtains had been opened, and the empty shelves that had made the room feel like a stranger's house were slowly beginning to fill with pieces of your old life.
It was strange watching him rebuild everything so quickly.
Your father had always been good at practical things.
He knew how to assemble furniture without reading instructions. He knew how to fix things that broke. But making it a home was something else entirely, it required something you couldn't unpack from a cardboard box. It required time, memories.
You found him in the kitchen, standing at the counter with his sleeves rolled up while sorting through paperwork beside a half-empty mug of coffee. He looked up when he heard you enter.
"You're home."
You leaned against the doorway.
"Unfortunately."
A small smile tugged at his mouth before disappearing almost immediately.
It was one of the things you noticed about your father. He rarely laughed properly anymore. Since the divorce, happiness seemed to appear in brief moments before he remembered there were still things to worry about.
"How was school?"
You knew what he wanted. He wanted some kind of reassurance that this hadn't been a mistake. That moving three states away hadn't made everything worse. That his decision to leave Chicago, to take the job, to start over, had actually been the right one.
You could have given him the answer he wanted.
You could have complained about everything and proven yourself right.
Instead, you placed your bag down beside the counter and shrugged.
"Fine."
The word was deliberately vague, and you knew it the moment it left your mouth.
Your father knew it too.
He looked up from the papers he had been sorting, his expression changing only slightly, but you noticed the shift anyway. He didn't look angry or disappointed. He didn't even look surprised. If anything, he looked like someone who had expected that answer before he had even asked the question.
"Fine?" he repeated, leaning back against the counter.
You opened the refrigerator door, more to give yourself something to do than because you actually wanted anything inside it. The shelves were organised with the same careful precision that seemed to define everything your father had done since arriving. Groceries were arranged neatly, containers were stacked, and everything had already found a place despite the fact that you still hadn't decided where half your belongings belonged.
"Yeah."
You could feel him watching you.
"You know, most people would probably use more than one word to describe their first day at a new school."
You didn’t reply, and he didn't ask again.
Instead, he simply returned to the papers on the counter, allowing the conversation to move on without forcing you to explain something you weren't ready to explain.
After a few moments, he glanced down at the papers before speaking again.
"The Sims stopped by earlier."
You glanced back at him, immediately recognising the name. The woman from next door had already made more of an impression on your first day than most people had managed to in years, mostly because she seemed almost impossibly comfortable in a way you couldn't understand. She had arrived with a warm peach cobbler, spoken to your father as though they were old friends rather than strangers who had only just met.
"The neighbours?" you asked, even though you already knew the answer.
Your father nodded, placing the papers aside and leaning back against the counter. "Yeah. They invited us over on Sunday."
There was something about the way he said it that immediately made you cautious. Not because you disliked the Sims specifically, but because you had started to understand that in Maple Creek, every friendly gesture seemed to come with some deeper connection to the town itself.
You looked at him carefully.
"For what?"
Your father hesitated only briefly, but it was enough for you to notice. He had always been terrible at hiding things from you, especially when he knew the answer would probably annoy you. There was a certain expression he got when he was trying to approach a subject carefully, like he was mentally preparing himself for the reaction before the conversation had even started.
"Church."
You stared at him, waiting for him to laugh or explain that he was joking, but his expression remained completely serious. Of course, he was serious. This was Maple Creek, after all. You should have expected that the first invitation from the neighbours would involve the very building that seemed to watch over the entire town from its place above the rooftops.
Your father watched your expression carefully, already knowing exactly what you were
"I don't know why we have to go," you said, trying to keep your voice neutral, although your father clearly heard the resistance underneath it.
He set his mug down slowly, and for the first time since you walked through the door, you saw the patience he had been holding onto begin to weaken. You knew your father well enough to understand that the church was not the real issue. The issue was everything that had come before it — the constant rejection of every attempt he made to make this place feel less unfamiliar, the way you had spent days insisting that Maple Creek was a mistake before you had even given it a chance.
"They're being kind," he said.
"I know."
"Then why does it bother you so much?"
You looked away because you didn't have a simple answer. It wasn't that you thought Mrs Sim was a bad person. She wasn't. It wasn't that you thought your father was wrong for wanting to meet people. He wasn't. The frustrating part was that everything about Maple Creek was making it harder for you to stay angry.
Your father watched you for a moment before letting out a quiet breath, the kind that carried more exhaustion than frustration. "You know, I understand that you're upset."
You stayed silent.
"I understand that you didn't want this. I understand that you miss Chicago and your friends and the life you had before everything changed. I understand that you feel like you were dragged here because of choices you didn't make."
"But you have to understand something too."
You looked back at him.
"I didn't choose this either."
The words made you pause.
Because you had spent so much time thinking about what you had lost that you had forgotten your father had lost something too. He had lost the same home, the same routines, the same version of your family that you missed. The difference was that while you had been angry, he had been trying to make sure there was still something left to save.
"I am trying," he continued, looking around the kitchen that still didn't quite feel like yours. "I'm trying to make this work. I'm trying to make this place feel like somewhere we live instead of somewhere we ended up."
The honesty of it made you uncomfortable because you didn't know what to do with it. Anger was easier. Anger gave you something to hold onto. But your father's frustration wasn't coming from a desire to control you. It was coming from the fact that he was tired of feeling like he was the only person willing to believe things could get better.
"I'm not asking you to love Maple Creek," he said after a moment. "I'm not asking you to suddenly become someone you're not. I'm just asking you to stop deciding that everything here is against you before you even know what it is."
The kitchen fell quiet again, filled only by the distant sound of the town outside and the faint ringing of the church bell in the distance. You hated that the timing almost felt intentional, as though Maple Creek itself was reminding you that it was still there, waiting patiently for you to stop fighting it.
But after a long moment, you finally sighed and looked back at your father.
"One Sunday."
The surprise that crossed his face was immediate, and you regretted agreeing almost as quickly as you saw it.
"Don't make it a big deal," you warned.
A small smile appeared on his face, the first one you had seen since the conversation started.
"I won't."
You narrowed your eyes slightly because you both knew that wasn't entirely true.
"You will."
He laughed quietly, shaking his head as he picked up his mug again.
"Maybe a little."
You grabbed your bag and headed toward the stairs before he could say anything else, still uncertain about whether agreeing had been a mistake. You still weren't looking forward to Sunday. You still didn't understand why this town seemed so determined to pull you into its routines, its traditions, its carefully preserved little world where everyone seemed to know exactly where they belonged.
But as you entered your bedroom later that evening and looked out through the window toward the church steeple standing above the rooftops, you found yourself wondering what exactly waited for you there.
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The Sunday you were dreading seemed to come faster than you wished.
The pews creaked under the weight of the congregation as you sat rigid beside your father, the stiff collar of your dress scratching at your neck. The sermon droned on, the pastor's voice booming from the pulpit, but your attention drifted until the side door opened. A boy about your age slipped in late, Bible tucked under one arm, and took the empty seat two rows ahead. The moment his profile turned, your stomach dropped. It was him—the same guy who had caught you behind the school last week, cigarette between your fingers, smoke curling from your lips.
Jake.
For a moment, you wondered if he had noticed you, but he seemed completely absorbed in the service, carefully opening the worn Bible beneath his arm before offering a quiet apology to the elderly woman beside him for arriving late. She smiled as though she had forgiven him before he'd even spoken, patting his arm affectionately before turning her attention back toward the pulpit.
Every movement he made carried the unconscious ease of someone who had spent years within these walls. He knew exactly when to stand, when to sit, when to join the hymns without needing to glance at the page numbers announced from the front. Even the people around him seemed to move naturally around his presence, greeting him with small smiles whenever the congregation shifted or the peace was exchanged, as though he wasn't simply another student from school but somebody they had watched grow up.
You couldn't imagine what that felt like.
The service continued, the pastor's voice echoing beneath the high timber ceiling while coloured light from the stained-glass windows drifted slowly across the polished wooden floor. You tried—genuinely tried—to pay attention, but your concentration wandered almost immediately yet again, your gaze drawn back toward Jake every few minutes despite yourself. It wasn't curiosity anymore, at least not entirely. It was something closer to disbelief. The boy who had found you smoking behind the maintenance building somehow looked exactly the same here, yet completely different at the same time.
Eventually the pastor closed his Bible, offering a final blessing before the congregation answered in practiced unison. Almost immediately the atmosphere changed. The solemn quiet dissolved into conversation as people rose from their seats, hymn books slid back into their holders, and families gathered in the aisles with the familiar ease of people who had repeated the same ritual every Sunday for decades. Children darted between rows of pews while older couples lingered to catch up.
Your father stood beside you, smoothing invisible creases from his shirt before offering you a hopeful glance.
"Come on," he murmured. "We should say hello."
You resisted the urge to sigh.
Instead, you followed him reluctantly through the growing crowd, offering polite nods whenever another unfamiliar face introduced themselves. Everyone smiled. Everyone seemed genuinely pleased that you were there.
It was exhausting.
Across the room, you caught sight of Mrs Sim weaving effortlessly through the congregation with the same warmth she'd shown the day she'd arrived at your house carrying a peach cobbler. The moment she noticed the two of you, her face lit up, and she crossed the room with surprising speed before your father had any chance of escaping.
"I'm so glad you came," she said brightly, clasping your father's hands between hers before turning that same smile toward you. "And you must be surviving your first week at school."
"Barely," you replied.
Mrs Sim laughed, apparently choosing to interpret your answer as a joke.
"I'm sure it'll get easier."
You weren't convinced.
"Oh," she said suddenly, looking over her shoulder. "Jake!"
You followed her gaze instinctively.
Jake had been speaking with an older man near the front of the church, but at the sound of his mother's voice, he excused himself immediately and made his way over, offering the man a polite smile before crossing the aisle. Up close, he looked exactly as he had behind the school, except for the blazer he'd pulled on over his shirt and the Bible still tucked beneath one arm.
"Jake," Mrs Sim said warmly as he reached the group, resting a gentle hand against his arm. "I'd like you to meet our new neighbours."
He turned obediently toward your father first, offering a polite smile before extending his hand. "Hi, sir. I'm Jake."
"Nice to meet you, Jake," your father replied, returning the handshake. "I'm Daniel, and this is my daughter." Only then did Jake's attention shift towards you.
Recognition crossed his face almost immediately, so brief that anyone else would have mistaken it for an ordinary pause, but you caught it anyway. His eyes widened the slightest fraction before settling, the corners of his mouth threatening a smile he seemed to think better of almost as quickly as it appeared.
He hadn't expected you to be here.
You hadn't expected him either.
"Hi," he said after the briefest hesitation, extending his hand towards you exactly as though the two of you had never spoken before.
You looked at his outstretched hand for a second before taking it.
"Y/n."
"Jake."
The corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly, "It's... nice to meet you."
You caught the tiny pause before meet, and for a moment you wondered if anyone else had noticed it. Judging by the bright smile spreading across Mrs Sim's face, they hadn't.
Mrs Sim's smile widened with obvious satisfaction as she looked between the two of you, entirely convinced she had just witnessed the beginning of a perfectly ordinary introduction. "Isn't that lovely?" she said, clasping her hands together for a moment before turning her attention back to your father. "I've been telling Jake all week that he should properly come over and welcome you both, but between school and helping his father prepare for Sunday, we simply haven't had a moment."
Jake withdrew his hand slowly, offering his mother a small, almost sheepish smile that suggested this was hardly the first time she'd volunteered his time on his behalf. "Sorry about that," he said, his attention returning to you for only a moment before politely addressing your father again. "I should've introduced myself sooner."
"It's been a busy week for everyone," your father replied easily. "We're still finding boxes we forgot to unpack."
"I can imagine."
The conversation settled into an easy rhythm almost immediately, though you found yourself contributing very little. It wasn't intentional; there simply wasn't much to say. Your father and Mrs Sim seemed strangely well suited to one another's company, discussing the town with the comfortable enthusiasm of two people standing on opposite sides of the same experience—one eager to tell stories, the other grateful to hear them. Your father listened with genuine interest, asking questions whenever she paused, and you realised with some surprise that he was smiling more than you'd seen him smile since leaving Chicago.
"You survived your first week."
Jake's voice came quietly from beside you. You turned your head just enough to find him standing beside you, close enough to speak without raising his voice but careful not to crowd your space. He wasn't looking directly at you. Instead, his attention rested somewhere across the sanctuary where a little girl in polished black shoes chased her younger brother between the pews before their mother caught both of them with an exasperated laugh. The corners of Jake's mouth lifted ever so slightly at the sight, his expression carrying the quiet amusement of someone who had probably watched the same scene play out countless Sundays before.
"Barely," you admitted, your answer escaping with a dry honesty that surprised even you.
A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it, dissolving almost as quickly as it appeared. For a brief second, the carefully composed image everyone seemed to have of Jake dissolved, revealing someone your age rather than the pastor's son everyone else appeared to see.
"I figured," he said, the smile lingering faintly as he glanced down for a moment before looking back toward the sanctuary.
You studied him for a second, curiosity getting the better of you.
"You figured?"
His attention finally shifted towards you, and there it was again—that impossibly gentle expression that somehow never felt rehearsed. "Most people," he said with the faintest trace of amusement colouring his voice, "don't decide to skip chapel on their first day."
You couldn't help the quiet smile that tugged at the corner of your mouth, the memory arriving almost uninvited. You could still picture the look on his face when he'd stepped around the maintenance building and found you leaning against the brick wall with a cigarette balanced lazily between your fingers. You had been so certain you knew exactly how that conversation would unfold. You had expected disappointment, a lecture rehearsed from years of Sunday sermons, or at the very least the smug satisfaction of someone catching another person doing something they shouldn't.
"No," you replied, folding your arms loosely across your chest. "I figured I'd make an impression."
Jake's head dipped as another quiet laugh escaped him, this one accompanied by the smallest shake of his head. "You definitely managed that."
"Oh?" you asked, unable to resist. "I was under the impression you were trying very hard not to think about it."
"I was."
"But?"
"But..." He hesitated, searching for the right words with the same care he seemed to give everything he said. "You're not exactly easy to forget."
The admission seemed to surprise him almost as much as it surprised you. The words hung between you for a moment before a faint flush climbed slowly across his cheeks, and you watched the realisation dawn on him that he'd spoken aloud instead of keeping the thought to himself.
"I didn't mean—"
"I know what you meant."
His shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, grateful that you hadn't chosen to make things more embarrassing than they already were. A sheepish smile tugged briefly at the corners of his mouth before he ducked his head, his fingers absentmindedly tightening around the worn spine of the Bible tucked beneath his arm. It was strangely endearing, watching someone who seemed so composed unravel over a sentence as innocent as that.
For a moment, neither of you spoke, then Mrs Sim's voice drifted across the sanctuary before either of you had the chance to say anything else.
"Jake, sweetheart," she called, waving him over with an affectionate smile. "Would you mind helping your father carry the coffee urn into the hall?"
Jake glanced over his shoulder toward his mother, then back at you, and for a moment he looked almost reluctant to leave.
"I should probably..." he began, his voice trailing off as he nodded toward where his mother was waiting.
You glanced in the same direction before looking back at him.
"Go," you said, unable to hide the amusement in your voice. "Before she sends someone else over here to get you."
He adjusted the Bible beneath his arm, his fingers brushing over the worn leather cover as though he needed something to do with his hands.
"It was..." He paused, searching for the right words, and the hesitation was so unlike the confident, composed version of him everyone else seemed to know that it almost made you smile. "It was nice to officially meet you."
You looked at him for a moment, letting the irony sit between you.
"We're still pretending that's what happened?"
A small smile appeared on his face, one that he tried and failed to hide.
"...It was nice to officially meet you too."
Something about your answer seemed to genuinely please him. His smile widened, then he disappeared into the crowd, moving easily between familiar faces and Sunday conversations, stopping every few steps to greet someone who knew him by name. You watched him for a moment longer than you intended.
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The weeks after that passed slowly enough that you almost didn't notice when Maple Creek began feeling less like a place you had been sent to and more like somewhere you actually existed.
You still missed Chicago in ways you didn't always admit. You missed the noise of the streets outside your old apartment, the constant movement of people who didn't know your name and didn't care enough to ask. In Maple Creek, everyone knew everything, or at least they acted like they did. The neighbours waved whenever you walked past. Teachers remembered your name. People asked how you were adjusting with genuine concern, and you never quite knew what to do with their kindness.
It wasn't that the town had suddenly become home. It hadn't. There were still mornings when you woke up convinced that if you looked out of your bedroom window, the familiar skyline of Chicago would somehow have returned overnight, replacing the church steeple that stood stubbornly above the rooftops. There were afternoons when you found yourself reaching instinctively for your phone to text friends who were no longer part of your daily life, only to remember that conversations became difficult when they were separated by three states and an entirely different routine. Life back home continued without you, just as yours continued without them, and there was something quietly devastating about how quickly people adapted to absence.
School settled into something resembling routine before you realised it had happened. The novelty of being the new girl faded as other distractions claimed everyone's attention, and the curious glances that had followed you through the corridors during your first week gradually disappeared. Teachers stopped introducing you to every class. People no longer whispered your name after you walked past.
To your surprise, you found yourself sharing more classes with Jake than you had expected.
English, where the seating plan placed him one desk beside you after Mrs Henderson announced she wanted "fresh perspectives" before rearranging the entire room. History, where he somehow managed to answer questions without sounding like he was showing off, speaking only when the teacher called on him and never a moment longer. Even Chemistry, where your assigned lab partners changed every fortnight until, through what you suspected was extraordinarily bad luck, you ended up standing opposite him at the same scratched black laboratory bench.
"You look disappointed," he observed one afternoon while measuring chemicals into a graduated cylinder with infuriating precision.
"I was hoping for someone who'd let me do absolutely nothing."
The corner of his mouth lifted, though he kept his attention on the clear liquid slowly rising against the measurement lines.
Your eyebrows rose.
"You did?"
"No."
You let your head fall back with exaggerated disappointment.
"There goes my entire plan for the afternoon."
Jake finally glanced up, the faint smile still lingering on his face.
"You had a plan?"
"I usually don't," you admitted as you leaned against the bench, absentmindedly spinning an empty beaker between your hands. "That's probably the problem."
"I noticed."
You looked at him suspiciously.
"Was that supposed to be an insult?"
"No."
"It sounded like one."
"It wasn't."
"You didn't even deny noticing."
"I didn't think I had to."
For a second, you simply stared at him before a reluctant laugh escaped you. Jake smiled in return, before returning his attention to the experiment.
It was becoming increasingly difficult to remember why talking to him had once felt awkward.
The strange thing about Jake was that conversations with him never felt like conversations you had to win. He never treated your sarcasm like a challenge or an invitation to argue. Most people responded to your remarks by trying to outmatch them, determined to prove they were cleverer or funnier or somehow immune to the walls you built around yourself. Jake simply accepted them for what they were, answering with the same gentle humour every time until, before you realised it, you found yourself talking without thinking quite so carefully about every word.
You hated how easy that was becoming.
One morning you arrived at English to find the teacher running late, and Jake had absentmindedly saved the empty seat beside him without either of you acknowledging it. You would steal half his fries at lunch because, according to you, "sharing was a Christian virtue," and he'd sigh with theatrical disappointment before sliding the carton a little closer anyway. Another afternoon you discovered your pen had run out halfway through a history test, and before you could even ask, another one appeared silently on your desk. He never made a point of it. By the end of the lesson, he'd simply asked for it back with an absent-minded, "I only own two."
Neither of you ever spoke about it.
There simply came a point where being around one another stopped requiring an invitation.
By the time October settled over Maple Creek, the trees lining Main Street had begun surrendering their leaves one by one, covering the sidewalks in deep shades of amber and burnt gold that crunched beneath your shoes on the walk home. The afternoons grew cooler, sunlight fading earlier than it had only weeks before, and your routine settled into something that almost resembled normality. School. Home. Homework you pretended to hate. Dinner with your father, who looked a little less exhausted every evening.
One Friday evening, you arrived home to find the house smelling faintly of rosemary, garlic and something roasting in the oven. Music drifted quietly from the old radio your father had finally unpacked, filling the kitchen with the familiar sound of Fleetwood Mac while every available surface had somehow become covered with bowls, chopping boards and ingredients.
"What happened?" you asked, eyeing the organised chaos spread across every available surface.
Your father looked over his shoulder, the wooden spoon still resting in his hand, his brow creasing with mild confusion.
"What do you mean?"
"You cooked."
A quiet laugh escaped him as he returned his attention to the saucepan.
"I do know how."
"You ordered takeaway four nights this week."
"I was busy."
"And now?"
He hesitated for only a second before a small, almost satisfied smile settled across his face.
"I invited the Sims over for dinner."
The words landed with enough force that you straightened instinctively.
"You... invited them?"
"I did."
You stared at him for a long moment, trying to decide whether he was joking. Judging by the calm expression on his face as he sprinkled herbs into the saucepan, he wasn't.
"The pastor's family?"
"Our neighbours," he corrected gently.
You let out a slow sigh, dropping into one of the kitchen chairs as you rubbed a hand across your forehead.
"You really expect me to survive an entire evening of polite conversation?"
Your father smiled to himself as he stirred the sauce once more.
"I think you'll manage."
You narrowed your eyes at him.
"I think you're overestimating me."
His smile only grew. "Dinner's at six tomorrow."
You groaned quietly, letting your head fall back against the chair.
"I wasn't asking."
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The following evening arrived with surprising speed, carrying with it the kind of nervous anticipation you refused to acknowledge. By half past five, the house had been transformed into something almost unrecognisable. The dining table, which had spent the better part of a month buried beneath unopened mail and half-unpacked boxes, now sat neatly arranged with your father's best plates and polished cutlery that hadn't seen daylight since Chicago.
Your father had changed shirts twice.
You knew because you'd watched him do it.
The first one had apparently been "too wrinkled." The second, according to him, made him look like he was trying too hard. Eventually he'd settled on a navy button-down you'd seen him wear exactly twice before, smoothing imaginary creases from the sleeves every few minutes as he checked the oven for what had to be the sixth time.
"You know they're only coming for dinner," you observed from where you leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching him fuss over the table with growing amusement.
Without looking up, he adjusted one of the forks by what couldn't have been more than half a centimetre.
"I know."
The doorbell rang precisely at six.
Your father disappeared into the hallway before you had a chance to move, and moments later the sound of warm greetings drifted through the house, accompanied by the unmistakable laughter of Mrs Sim. You remained exactly where you were for another moment, taking a steadying breath before reluctantly following.
The Sims stood just inside the front entrance, autumn coats folded neatly over their arms after escaping the cool evening air. Mrs Sim was the first to notice you, her face brightening instantly as she crossed the hallway with the same effortless warmth she seemed to carry everywhere, wrapping you in a brief hug before you had any real opportunity to avoid it.
"Oh, sweetheart," she said, stepping back to admire you with an approving smile. "It's lovely to see you again."
You returned an awkward smile, still adjusting to people who expressed affection so freely.
"You too."
Pastor Sim stood nearby, extending a firm hand toward your father while thanking him again for the invitation. He carried himself with the same quiet authority you'd heard in his sermons, though stripped of the pulpit and formal robes, he seemed considerably less intimidating than he had on Sunday morning. He laughed easily, spoke gently, and thanked your father three separate times before stepping inside.
Jake lingered near the back of the group, waiting until everyone else had entered before quietly closing the front door behind them. Unlike church, where he'd worn pressed clothes and carried a Bible tucked neatly beneath one arm, tonight he looked comfortably ordinary. Holding a charcoal knit jumper over his arm, he wore a pale collared shirt whose sleeves had been rolled casually to his forearms, and his hair, usually kept neatly in place throughout the school day, had begun to curl slightly around his forehead in the cool evening air.
His eyes found yours almost immediately.
A small smile appeared before either of you spoke.
"Hi."
"Hi."
The greeting was simple, almost laughably so after weeks of sharing classrooms and conversations, but somehow it felt different here. There were no teachers nearby pretending not to overhear you, no church congregation moving around you, no hurried walk between classes limiting the conversation to a few passing words. This was your house. He was standing in your hallway.
"So..." you said, leaning casually against the hallway wall as the adults disappeared into the dining room. Your eyes moved over him with deliberate curiosity, taking in the fact that the boy who spent his days looking perfectly composed at school was now standing in your house looking slightly out of place. "This is how you spend your Saturday nights?"
Jake glanced towards the dining room before looking back at you, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. He seemed caught between defending himself and admitting you had a point.
"Apparently."
Before you could say something back, Mrs Sim called for both of you from the dining room, and Jake gestured for you to go ahead.
You looked at him suspiciously as you walked past.
"Just manners?"
He smiled.
"Just manners."
Dinner was easier than you expected.
You had prepared yourself for an evening of uncomfortable silence and forced conversation, the kind where every question felt like an interrogation and every answer had to be carefully chosen. Instead, the night moved naturally. Your father and Pastor Sim carried most of the conversation, discussing the town, work, and everything you had missed during your first few weeks in Maple Creek. Mrs Sim filled in the quieter moments with stories about the neighbourhood, laughing whenever your father admitted something embarrassing about adjusting to a smaller town.
You mostly listened. Jake sat across from you, occasionally catching your eye when the adults became too invested in their conversation. Each time, there was a quiet understanding between you both—a shared amusement at the fact that neither of you had expected the evening to be as normal as it was.
By the time the dinner had ended, the plates were cleared away, the last traces of conversation drifting from the kitchen as your father and the Sims continued talking.
You had just started relaxing into the evening when your father returned from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel as he glanced between you and Jake.
"You know what?" he said, wiping his hands on a towel. "You should show Jake your vinyl collection."
You looked up immediately.
"My what?"
Your father ignored the disbelief in your voice, leaning casually against the doorway.
"You spent all that time organising them last week."
You narrowed your eyes at him, already knowing exactly what he was doing.
Jake glanced towards you, a small smile forming.
"I'd like to see them." He responded.
"Fine.", you sighed, standing from your chair.
Your father smiled in victory.
"But if you judge my music taste," you added, pointing at Jake, "I'm making you leave."
A quiet laugh escaped him as he followed you towards the stairs.
You led the worn wooden stairs creak under Jake's weight as you guided him up to your room. You could feel the heat of his gaze on the back of your neck, a palpable thing that had nothing to do with the heat of the evening. "My dad has a few old gospel records," he said, his voice softer than it had been downstairs. "But they're predictable. The same messages."
You pushed your bedroom door open, "Predictable is boring," you stated, your tone leaving no room for argument as you gestured for him to enter. He stepped over the threshold like he was crossing into another world, his eyes wide as they took in the turntable on your desk.
You watched his throat work as he swallowed.
You pulled a record from its sleeve, toying with the black disk in your hands. "This one," you said, not asking, as you placed it on the platter and lowered the needle. A slow, grinding bassline filled the room, something primal that seemed to push against the walls. Jake flinched, just slightly. "Listen," you instructed, standing close enough that your arm brushed his. You didn't move away. "Hear the difference?."
He stared at the spinning record, but his attention was fractured, pulled to where your skin met the crisp cotton of his polo shirt. "It's intense," he managed, his voice tight. You turned to face him fully, closing the small distance. You saw the conflict in his eyes, the lifetime of doctrine warring with a raw, waking curiosity.
"You don't have to analyse it, Jake," you murmured, your hand coming up to not quite touch his cheek. You let it hover. "You just have to experience it." His breath caught. His eyes fluttered shut for a second, and when they opened, the look in them was one of surrender. You finally let your fingertips graze his jawline. He leaned into it, ever so slightly.
Your other hand found his, prying his fingers open from the fist he hadn't realized he'd made. You guided his palm, placing it flat against the album cover on your desk. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?" you asked, the music swelling around you both. He didn't speak. He only nodded, a slow, deliberate dip of his chin, his eyes locked on yours.
The song ended with a final, resonant thrum, and the sudden silence felt louder than the music. Jake’s hand remained on the album cover, his knuckles pale. You watched him, the rise and fall of his chest beneath his starched shirt a little too quick. You didn’t move your fingers from his jaw. The air in the room grew thick, charged with the things he’d been taught to confess and repent.
You finally broke the contact, turning back to the turntable. You lifted the tonearm, the click of the switch cutting off the faint surface noise. “There’s more,” you said, your voice a low murmur, not looking at him as you flipped through the crate, the cardboard sleeves stacked against each other. You could feel him watching you, his eyes following your every move.
You selected another record, this one with a stark, abstract cover in deep reds and blacks. “This one builds slower,” you explained, your back still to him as you slid the vinyl out. “It takes its time. It makes you wait for it.” You placed it on the platter, setting the needle down with care, and a single, clean piano note echoed through the speakers, followed by another, spaced apart by a breath of silence. Jake let out a slow exhale behind you. You heard the soft rustle of his clothes as he shifted his weight.
You turned then, leaning back against the edge of your desk, crossing your ankles. You studied him openly—the way his hair fell a little too perfectly over his forehead, the rigid set of his shoulders that was beginning to soften. His eyes were fixed on the record as it spun, but you knew he wasn’t really seeing it. He was listening, truly listening, to the music.
“Do you understand now?” you asked, your voice barely above the level of the unfolding melody. His gaze flickered to yours, and in the low light from your desk lamp, you saw the first crack in his composure, a fine, hairline fracture. He gave another small, silent nod. You held his look for a long moment, then let your eyes drift back to the spinning black disk, letting the music fill the space where words would have been a trespass.
His fingers slowly curled, lifting from the album cover. He brought his hand back to his side, but it didn’t hang with its usual relaxed posture. It was a fist again, though looser this time, as if holding onto the ghost of the sensation. The piano melody wove around a slow, deliberate drumbeat. He took a half-step forward, then stopped, as if an invisible line on your floor marked a boundary he wasn’t sure he was allowed to cross.
You didn’t invite him closer. You simply watched, your expression neutral, giving him nothing but the space to choose. His eyes traveled from the turntable to your face, then down to your lips, before snapping back up, a faint flush coloring his neck. The music built, layer upon layer, a sonic cathedral of something entirely secular. It was beautiful in a way that felt dangerous to him, you could tell.
“Where did you find this?” he finally asked, his voice rough. It was the first question he’d dared to ask since entering your room. It wasn’t about the music, not really.
“A little shop downtown,” you answered, your tone casual. “The owner knows what I like.” You uncrossed your ankles and stood up straight, taking a single, slow step toward him. He didn’t retreat. The distance between you was now just a matter of a few inches. You could see the rapid pulse at the base of his throat.
“It doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever heard,” he admitted, the confession seeming to cost him something. His gaze dropped to your collar, to the hollow of your throat, before he forced it back to your eyes. He was trying so hard to be polite, to maintain eye contact, even as every instinct was pulling him elsewhere.
You reached out again, this time not towards his face, but towards the stiff collar of his polo shirt. You didn’t grab it. You merely hooked a single finger under the fabric, just beside his neck, and gave the slightest tug. His breath hitched audibly, a sharp sound swallowed by the swelling music. His entire body went still, a deer caught in headlights.
A slow, wry smile touched his lips, a flicker of his usual self breaking through the tension. “Checking the thread count?” he asked, his voice a rough whisper that carried a surprising hint of humor. It was a defense mechanism, a quick-witted retreat into something safe and mundane, but it faltered as your finger remained, the back of your knuckle resting against the pounding pulse in his throat.
You released the collar, your finger brushing the warm skin of his collarbone as you withdrew. “Just seeing if it’s as ruined as your demeanor,” you replied, matching his tone but letting your gaze drop meaningfully to his lips. The color in his cheeks deepened, but he held your look. The music built around you, a complex tapestry of sound that felt like it was weaving the two of you together in the dim light.
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “My mom insists on a specific laundry routine. Says a crisp appearance reflects a… an ordered mind.” The words were a confession and an offering, a glimpse into the world of rules that shaped him. He was letting you in, piece by piece, even as his body trembled on the precipice.
Your hands came up to frame his face, your thumbs stroking over his cheekbones. He leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. You kissed him, your mouth demanding against his, and after a moment of stillness, Jake responded with a desperate, hungry fervor that shattered his careful composure. His hands came up, hovering awkwardly at your sides before finally settling on your waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt. A low groan vibrated from his chest into yours. You walked him backward until his legs hit the edge of your bed, and he sat down with a soft thump, breaking the kiss only because he had to.
You stood between his knees, looking down at him. His lips were swollen, his breath coming in short pants. You reached for the hem of his polo shirt again. This time, you didn’t tease. You pulled it up and over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. His chest was pale and smooth, his skin heating under your gaze. Your fingers went to the button of his chinos. He watched, mesmerized, as you undid it, then the zipper. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his pants and his briefs. “Lift,” you commanded softly.
He obeyed instantly, raising his hips so you could strip the last barriers from him. He was fully, beautifully exposed, sitting on the edge of your bed. You let your eyes travel over him, a slow, appreciative look that made him shiver. Then you sank to your knees on the floor before him. His eyes widened, a soft “oh” escaping him. You didn’t make him wait. You took him into your mouth, your tongue sweeping a broad, wet stroke along his length. His whole body jerked, a choked cry tearing from his throat. His hands flew to your hair, not pushing or pulling, just tangling in the strands as if he needed to hold onto something solid.
You set a slow, deep rhythm, your mouth a warm, slick haven. His hips began to move in tiny, helpless thrusts, a rhythm as old as time but entirely new to him in this context. His breaths were ragged prayers, gasps of “please” and “God” that had nothing to do with the divinity he’d been raised to worship and everything to do to the sinful paradise you were building with your lips and tongue. You could feel the tension coiling tightly in him, his thighs trembling against your shoulders. Just as he was teetering on the edge, you pulled back, leaving him gasping and bereft. You looked up at him, your chin glistening. “My turn,” you whispered, and you rose to guide him back onto the bed.
He hesitated for only a second, his face flushed with shame and arousal. “I… I shouldn’t,” he whispered, voice trembling. “This is wrong… I was taught to resist this kind of temptation.” Yet his body betrayed him. His cock twitched visibly, already leaking at the tip, and he didn’t resist when you pushed him onto his back. He lay there obediently, arms at his sides, fingers clutching the sheets like he was praying for strength. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, wide and pleading. “Tell me what to do,” he said softly. “I’ll do it. I’ll be good for you.”
You guided him onto his back, and he went without resistance, settling against the sheets with his arms loose at his sides. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths. His cock lay hard against his stomach, flushed dark and twitching with every pulse of his heartbeat. You climbed over him, straddling his hips, and his eyes followed your every movement like he was watching something forbidden yet irresistible.
"I shouldn't," he whispered again, the words catching in his throat. "It's a sin. I've prayed against this... against wanting it." His voice cracked on the last word, but his hips lifted slightly, seeking contact even as he spoke against it. His hands stayed where they were, fingers digging into the bedding, waiting for your command.
You leaned down until your lips brushed his ear. "Then pray while I use you," you told him. A soft, broken sound escaped him, half a whimper and half a moan. You reached between your bodies, wrapped your fingers around his cock, and lined him up. His whole frame tensed as the head pressed against your entrance.
"Please," he breathed. "Tell me I'm allowed. Tell me to take it."
"Push up," you ordered.
He obeyed at once. His hips rose in one smooth thrust, sliding into you with a single, desperate motion. The moment he was buried to the hilt, a strangled prayer tore from his lips—half-formed words of repentance mixed with raw need. You stayed still above him, letting him feel every inch of your heat gripping him, while his thighs trembled beneath you.
"Move," you said.
He started with shallow, careful thrusts, trying to keep some measure of control, but it quickly unraveled. His hips snapped upward harder, chasing the slick friction, each stroke punctuated by soft, guilty gasps of "God" and "forgive me." His hands finally left the sheets to grip your hips, not to guide you but to hold on as if you were the only thing anchoring him. Every time he bottomed out, his eyes squeezed shut like he was both praying for strength and begging for more.
You leaned forward, pressing your chest to his, and whispered against his mouth, "You're being so good for me. So obedient."
A shudder ran through him. "I want to be good," he panted. "I want to please you. Even if it's wrong. Even if I have to confess later." His thrusts grew faster, more urgent, the wet sound of your bodies meeting filling the room. Pre-cum leaked steadily from him inside you, mixing with your own slickness. His abs flexed with every movement, the muscles in his arms standing out as he held you.
You sat up again, rolling your hips in a slow circle that made him cry out. "Don't come yet," you warned.
He nodded frantically, biting his lower lip hard enough to leave marks. "I won't. I won't until you say. I'll hold it. I'll be good." His cock throbbed inside you, right on the edge, but he forced his hips to slow, following your command even as his entire body shook with the effort. Sweat beaded on his forehead and chest. His eyes stayed locked on yours, wide, glassy, and completely surrendered.
You stayed seated on him, savoring the way his cock pulsed inside you with every desperate heartbeat. His grip on your hips tightened, but he kept his thrusts shallow and controlled exactly as you ordered. Sweat glistened across his pale chest, and his lips moved in silent prayer even while his body betrayed every word of it.
"Good boy," you murmured, rolling your hips in a slow grind that dragged a broken moan from his throat. "Keep praying. Let me hear it."
His voice cracked as he obeyed. "Forgive me... Lord, forgive me for this... for wanting it so much..." Each word dissolved into a gasp when you clenched around him. His thighs quivered beneath you, and his cock twitched hard, threatening to spill, but he fought it back with visible effort.
You leaned down and kissed him hard, swallowing the next plea. When you pulled back, a thin strand of saliva connected your mouths. "Now fuck me properly," you told him. "Hard. Don't stop until I tell you."
The permission hit him like a command from above. His hips snapped up in one powerful thrust that drove the air from his lungs. He buried himself to the hilt again and again, the wet slap of skin filling the room. His fingers dug into your flesh hard enough to leave marks as he used every ounce of strength to obey. Each stroke punched a ragged sound from him—half curse, half prayer.
"Yes... yes, use me," he panted. "I'm yours... I'm so sorry, God, but I'm yours right now." His eyes stayed locked on yours, glassy with guilt and lust. Pre-cum leaked steadily from him, mixing with your slickness and making every thrust louder, filthier.
You reached between your bodies and rubbed your clit in tight circles while he pounded into you. The sight of him—flushed, sweating, desperate—pushed you closer. "Don't come," you warned again. "Not until I do."
He nodded frantically, jaw clenched, veins standing out in his neck. His rhythm never faltered even as his whole body shook with the effort of holding back. "I won't... I promise... I'll be good... I'll wait..." His cock swelled inside you, so close to the edge it hurt to watch, but he kept driving upward exactly as you wanted.
You rode him faster, chasing your own release while he suffered beautifully beneath you. His prayers had dissolved into wordless, broken sounds. Every thrust hit deep, the head of his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you until your thighs started to tremble.
"Now," you gasped. "Come with me."
The permission shattered what little control he had left. His hips jerked upward in one final, brutal thrust as he came hard, flooding you with hot pulses. A loud, guilty cry tore from his throat—your name mixed with another broken apology to God. His cock throbbed violently inside you, emptying everything he had while his body arched off the bed. You clenched around him and came right after, your walls pulsing and milking every drop from him.
He kept thrusting weakly through both orgasms, unable to stop even after he was spent. When the last aftershocks faded, he collapsed back against the sheets, chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut in shame and relief. His softening cock still twitched inside you, sensitive and overstimulated.
You stayed on top of him, letting him feel the mess he'd made. After a long moment he opened his eyes, looking up at you with raw, wrecked devotion.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For... for letting me. Even though I shouldn't have."
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You hadn't expected Jake to become so desperate for you. Then again, you couldn't argue against it since the boy had never touched anything until that night in your bedroom. That night had been your experiment, a little game to see if the golden boy preacher’s son would crack, and he had shattered. Now, three weeks later, the crack had become a canyon, and he was falling through it daily, reaching for you.
He appeared at your usual smoke spot, his crisp button-down looking absurd against the scarred wall. His hands were shoved deep in his khaki pockets, his shoulders tense. "The archives in the library basement," he said, his voice low and urgent, skipping any greeting. "The theology section. No one goes there on Wednesday afternoons." His eyes, usually so clear and certain, were clouded with a need that looked like physical pain. You took a long drag of your cigarette, blowing the smoke out slowly, watching him flinch. Not from the smoke, but from the delay.
It became a pattern. A folded note tucked into your sociology textbook with a time and a location scrawled in his neat handwriting: *Boiler room, 3 PM.* A text message that just read *Empty classroom, second floor, east wing. Now.* He never asked if you wanted to. He simply presented the opportunity, a sinner offering his own temptation, his voice always carrying that same ragged edge. You’d find him there, pacing or standing perfectly still, his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might break. The moment he saw you, the calm would evaporate, replaced by a frantic energy as he fumbled with his belt, or yours, his prayers forgotten, replaced by whispered pleas against your skin.
You met him in the designated broom closet. It was cramped, smelling of lemon cleaner and dust. He had you pressed against the shelves before the door clicked shut, his mouth hot and demanding on yours, his hands pulling at your clothes with a clumsy haste. "I can't stop thinking about it," he gasped against your neck, his hips already moving against you. "About you. That's all I think about." His confession was torn from him, as he learned your body with a fervor he'd once reserved for scripture, each touch a new verse in a gospel of his own damnation.
Afterward, he would help you dress with trembling hands, his fingers brushing your skin as if memorizing it. He’d smooth his own hair, try to rearrange his face into something resembling the composed Jake everyone else saw. But the look in his eyes gave him away—a hollowed-out, hungry thing. "Tomorrow," he'd say, not as a question, but as a statement of fact, a necessary appointment for his survival. "The photo development lab. During the yearbook committee meeting."
You saw him at a campus ministry barbecue two days later. He was flipping burgers, laughing politely, the perfect picture of clean-cut devotion. His eyes scanned the crowd, found you leaning against a tree at the edge of the lawn. He held your gaze for a fraction of a second too long, and the plastic spatula in his hand snapped clean in two. He looked down at the broken pieces, then back at you, a slow flush creeping up his neck. He turned back to the grill, abandoning the ruined burger, and walked away from the crowd without a word to anyone.
The broken spatula was the first public crack. He didn't come to the smoke spot for two days, and you assumed maybe the guilt had finally won, that the prayer circles and his father’s disappointed eyes had rebuilt the wall. You were almost disappointed. Then, on the third day, as you were leaving a late class, a hand closed around your wrist from the shadow of a doorway. It was Jake, but he looked ravaged. Dark circles smudged under his eyes, his hair was uncharacteristically messy, and his collar was undone.
"Walk with me," he said, his voice hoarse. It wasn't a request. He didn't let go of your wrist as he steered you away from the main paths, toward the old greenhouse at the edge of the botanical gardens. It was locked for the night, but he produced a key from his pocket. Inside, the air was thick and humid, and he finally released you, turning to face you under the ghostly light filtering through the glass ceiling. "I tried," he breathed out, the words sounding ripped from his chest. "I prayed. I read. I went to confession." A harsh, humorless laugh escaped him. "It just made it worse. All I could think about was the smell of your skin in that closet."
He reached for you then, but his touch was different. It wasn't the frantic groping of before. His hands framed your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks with a terrifying tenderness. "You ruined me," he whispered, his forehead leaning against yours. "Do you understand that? Completely. And I don't want to be fixed." His mouth found yours, and this kiss was a slow, deep claim, devoid of its earlier panic. It was a surrender. He guided you down onto a bed of soft peat moss behind a tray of orchids, his movements deliberate.
He took his time. He peeled your clothes away with a reverence that was more unsettling than his prior desperation. He mapped every inch of you with his lips and tongue, whispering things that sounded like prayers but weren't. "This is my communion," he murmured against your stomach, his breath hot. "This is my only truth." When he finally entered you, it was with a slow, devastating roll of his hips that made you cry out, the sound swallowed by the dense air. He moved with a focused intensity, his eyes locked on yours, watching every flicker of pleasure on your face as if studying for a final exam.
After lying tangled together on the borrowed jacket he’d spread beneath you, he didn't scramble to leave. He traced idle patterns on your arm, his head on your chest. "My father is giving the sermon at the downtown mission on Friday night," he said, his voice quiet in the humid dark. "The office in the back will be empty. The door locks." He stated matter-of-factly. The dependency had crystallized into something calm and absolute.
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Your father stood at the stove, absently stirring a saucepan while an old Fleetwood Mac song played softly from the radio, the familiar melody blending with the quiet clink of cutlery as you wandered in to grab your jacket from the back of a chair.
"You've been going out a lot lately."
His voice was casual, almost conversational, though you could feel him watching for your reaction.
You shrugged one shoulder as you zipped up your jacket.
"So?"
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he looked back at the saucepan, stirring it slowly.
"I don't know..." he said after a moment, choosing his words carefully. "You just seem happier."
Your hand paused around your keys, turning to look at him properly, a faint crease appearing between your brows, "Really?"
He nodded once, meeting your eyes for only a second before his attention drifted back to dinner, "I think so."
You let out a quiet breath, leaning your hip against the counter as though considering the possibility for the first time.
"...I didn't notice."
"I don't think you were supposed to."
The silence that followed settled easily between you, neither awkward nor heavy. The saucepan continued to bubble softly on the stove while somewhere outside, a car rolled slowly down Maple Street.
You pushed yourself away from the counter, slinging your jacket over your shoulders.
"You're not going to ask where I'm going?"
Your father smiled to himself, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.
"I thought about it." He admitted.
"And?"
He looked back at you then, amusement warming his expression.
"I figured you'd tell me it was none of my business."
A slow grin spread across your face, "See you later."
"Don't stay out too late," he called after you, though there wasn't much authority behind it anymore.
You glanced back over your shoulder, a teasing smile still lingering on your face.
"No promises."
The downtown mission was cold and smelled of old wood and candle wax. He was waiting for you in the dark, a silhouette against the faint light from the stained-glass window depicting the crucifixion. He didn't speak, he simply took your hand and led you to the low, padded kneeler at the front of the small room. He guided you to kneel, then knelt beside you, not before the altar, but facing you. His hands trembled as he reached for the hem of your skirt, pushing the fabric up your thighs.
His repentance began with his mouth between your legs, there on the kneeler, his whispered prayers lost against your skin. Each flick of his tongue was a plea for forgiveness, each deep, worshiping stroke a confession of his weakness. He drank from you like communion, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady as he sought his own form of absolution in your taste. When your back arched and a stifled moan escaped your lips, he only pressed closer, his own need evident in the desperate sounds vibrating against you.
After, as you trembled, he rose to his feet. He unzipped his dress pants with a soft hiss that was obscenely loud in the quiet. He took your hand and wrapped your fingers around him, his own hand covering yours, showing you the rhythm. "Do it," he breathed, his eyes clenched shut, his head tilted back toward the vaulted ceiling. "Let me feel you… take your penance from me." Your hand moved on him, slow at first, then faster at his urging, his hips jerking into your fist. His other hand came up to cover your mouth, muffling the sound of his own ragged, broken gasps as he spilled over your fingers, his release hot and sudden in the dim, holy space.
He sank back onto his heels, breathing heavily, his forehead resting against your shoulder. The silence returned, thick and heavy. He pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket, the kind he always carried, and carefully wiped your hand clean. Then he wiped himself, folded the soiled cloth, and tucked it back into his pocket without a word. He stood, straightened his clothes, and ran a hand through his hair. He looked at you, still kneeling on the padded bench, your skirt rumpled, and in his eyes was a profound, unsettling peace. The crisis had passed. The sin was complete. He offered you a hand up, his touch now steady.
Sunday night found you in the back pew of the very same church, the evening service sparsely attended. Jake was at the pulpit, his voice clear and strong, speaking about grace and the burden of temptation. He looked every inch the devoted son, his suit crisp, his expression serene. His eyes scanned the congregation and landed on you. There was no flicker of recognition, no secret smile. His gaze passed over you as if you were a stranger. The sermon ended. The final hymn was sung. People filed out, offering him quiet greetings which he returned with gentle nods.
You waited until the last person had left, until the sexton had dimmed the lights and exited, leaving only the eternal flame flickering near the altar. The heavy door clicked shut. Jake remained at the front, his back to you, staring up at the cross. You stood and walked down the center aisle, the sound of your footsteps swallowed by the cavernous space. He didn't turn. You stopped a few feet behind him. For a long moment, there was only the faint hum of the building's electricity.
"Tell me you're sorry," you said, your voice soft but echoing slightly in the empty church.
He finally turned. In the dim light, his face was unreadable. He took a step toward you, then another, closing the distance. He didn't touch you. He simply looked down at you, his expression a mask of perfect, placid devotion. "I am washed clean," he stated, his voice low and even. Then his hand came up, not to your face, but to the top button of his own shirt. He undid it. Then the next. He took your hand and placed it flat against his bare chest, over the frantic, hammering beat of his heart. His skin was fever-hot. His eyes never left yours. The lie was a physical thing between you, trembling under your palm.
"I haven't been able to sleep," he rasped, his voice sounding ruined. "Every time I closed my eyes, I felt you. Every time I spoke of purity, I could taste you on my tongue."
He didn't kiss you softly. He claimed your mouth with a bruising intensity, his tongue demanding entrance as if he were trying to consume you. There was a desperate edge to him now; the seal had been broken, and the floodgates were wide open. He wasn't just a man resisting temptation anymore—he was a man who had tasted the forbidden fruit and found he couldn't survive without it.
His hands were frantic, sliding up your thighs with a familiarity that made your heart race. He knew exactly where you were most sensitive, exactly how to touch you to make you arch your back and moan his name into the silence of the church.
"You've ruined me," he groaned against your skin, his lips trailing fire down your neck to the swell of your breast. "I go to the altar and all I can think about is the way you scream when I'm deep inside you. I'm a liar. A hypocrite. And I don't care."
He reached down, his fingers trembling slightly as he freed himself from his trousers. He was already rock-hard, pulsing with a need that eclipsed any sense of divine duty. He gripped your hips, pulling you to the very edge of the table so he could align himself with you.
He looked you in the eyes, his expression a mix of agony and ecstasy. "Tell me you want this," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous vibrate. "Tell me you want me to forget everything but the way you feel."
As you whispered your consent, he drove into you in one fluid, powerful motion, filling you completely. He let out a guttural sound—half-sob, half-growl—as he buried himself in you, his forehead crashing against yours. The rhythm was savage, a relentless pounding that shook the heavy table, the sound of your colliding bodies echoing through the hallowed halls.
For Jake, this wasn't just sex; it was a desecration, and every thrust felt like a deeper plunge into a beautiful, shimmering hell. He clung to you as if you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth, his movements becoming faster, more desperate, as he chased the blinding peak that would leave him shattered and ruined once again.
The sound of the mahogany table groaning under the weight of their colliding bodies filled the room, a rhythmic, visceral thud that drowned out the distant chiming of the church bells. Jake was no longer the composed man of God; he was a storm of sweat and desperation, his breath coming in jagged, ragged gasps that sounded like prayers to a different kind of deity.
He gripped your hips so hard his fingers left crescent marks on your skin, anchoring you as he drove into you with a relentless, punishing force. Every thrust was deeper than the last, hitting a spot that made your vision blur and your toes curl. You could feel the sheer size of him filling you, stretching you, the friction building a heat that threatened to consume you both.
"I can't... I can't stop," he groaned, his voice a guttural wreck. He shifted his angle, lifting one of your legs and hooking it over his shoulder to plunge even deeper. The sensation was overwhelming, a piercing, electric pleasure that radiated through your entire body.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down, your nails digging into his shoulders through the thin fabric of his shirt. You whispered his name—not as a plea, but as a command—and the sound of it seemed to break the last shred of his restraint.
Jake’s movements became frantic, a blur of motion and heat. He was chasing a release that felt like it would tear him apart. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, his voice a low, shaking moan of "Oh God, oh God..."—though now, it wasn't a prayer. It was a surrender.
The tension reached a breaking point. You felt the first wave of your orgasm crash over you, tightening your walls around him in a series of rhythmic, pulsing contractions. The feeling of you gripping him was the final trigger. Jake let out a loud, unrestrained cry—a sound of pure, unadulterated release—as he thrust one last time, buried as deep as he could possibly go.
He shuddered violently, his entire body locking up as he spilled himself inside you in hot, heavy bursts. He collapsed against you, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. For several long minutes, the only sound in the vestry was the sound of two people trying to remember how to breathe.
As he slowly pulled away, the cold air hit your skin, but the heat between you remained. Jake didn't move immediately. He stayed there, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes clouded with a mixture of absolute bliss and a crushing, lingering guilt.
He looked down at the wreckage of their clothes, then back at you, a dark, hungry smile playing on his lips. He leaned in, kissing you softly.
"I'm condemned," he whispered, "And I think I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure we both burn for this."
୨୧ from ♡ 𝑘𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑎𓏼⑅ ♥︎ ୧
this is the longest fic i have ever wrote... so it is kind of proofread... i rlly hope you guys like this because i put so much effort into this and im scared u guys wont!! also im not trying to offend anybody with this fic, its purely for entertainment and entirely fictional!!!
+ this layout is inspired by katsuiki
ᦸ 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌𝗍’𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗇!𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾🧁 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗇𝗍!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 22.3k ⠀˃̵ᴗ˂̵⠀ first times NSFW corruption kink religous allusionsㅤ reblogs&kisses
You hated the town long before you learned its name.
Your father insisted that hatred was a strong word, one that people reached for too quickly whenever life refused to accommodate them. Still, he had never understood that some places possessed the uncanny ability to reject you before you had even crossed their borders. Hatred, in your opinion, implied familiarity; this feeling was stranger than that. It was instinctive, immediate, almost animalistic, settling somewhere beneath your ribs the moment the highway dissolved into narrow country roads lined with skeletal oak trees and weathered fences whose peeling white paint looked as though it had been touched by every season except change. The farther the city disappeared in the rear-view mirror, the more oppressive the silence became, until even the hum of the old Ford sounded intrusive against the vast stretches of open fields and endless blue sky.
Chicago had always been loud enough to drown out your thoughts.
This place seemed determined to make you listen to every single one of them.
The moving truck rolled slowly down Maple Street, its engine grumbling as though it, too, objected to the destination, and you rested your forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window while watching the neighbourhood reveal itself slowly. Every lawn had been trimmed within an inch of perfection. Every mailbox stood upright instead of leaning drunkenly toward the road. American flags fluttered from polished porches despite there being no holiday worth celebrating, and flowerbeds burst with arrangements of roses whose petals looked too immaculate to have survived wind or rain. Even the children riding bicycles seemed strangely choreographed, calling cheerful greetings to neighbours who knew each of their names, their laughter carrying through the warm spring air before disappearing beneath the distant toll of church bells.
Your father finally slowed the truck in front of a modest two-storey house with pale blue shutters and a wraparound porch. He turned off the engine without saying anything, gripping the steering wheel for several seconds while cigarette smoke drifted lazily from the one balanced between his fingers. The divorce had split everything neatly down the middle—house, furniture, bank accounts, holidays—but no one asked where eighteen-year-old daughters wanted to go. Your mother stayed in Chicago with the apartment she'd fought tooth and nail to keep. Your father accepted a new job three states away because "there was nothing left" back home.
"You can take whichever room you want," he said eventually, still looking through the windshield instead of at you.
It was such an ordinary sentence that it almost made you laugh.
Not Are you okay?
Not I'm sorry your life fell apart because ours did.
Typical.
You climbed out before he could say anything else, letting the truck door slam harder than necessary, and inhaled air that smelled overwhelmingly of freshly cut grass and damp earth instead of gasoline, hot concrete, and rain-soaked asphalt. The breeze carried the scent of lilacs from somewhere nearby, sweet enough to become cloying after only a few breaths, and the oppressive neatness of the neighbourhood wrapped itself around you with the suffocating gentleness of a freshly washed bedsheet.
It didn't feel real.
It felt staged, like someone had built an entire town from the collective memories of people who believed America had once been simpler than it actually was.
Your father lit another cigarette almost immediately after finishing the first.
"Apparently," he muttered, exhaling smoke toward the afternoon sky, "the pastor lives next door."
You followed his gaze without much interest.
The neighbouring house was much older than yours, its white clapboard walls softened by decades of climbing ivy that curled around the porch railings in thick emerald vines. Rose bushes bloomed beneath every window, their crimson blossoms almost unnaturally vibrant against the white paint. While rows of lavender swayed gently beside a stone pathway leading toward the front steps.
A woman emerged from the garden carrying a wicker basket balanced against her hip, and even from across the lawn there was something effortlessly graceful about the way she moved, brushing loose strands of dark hair behind her ear before looking toward the moving truck with an expression that immediately softened into a welcoming smile.
She waved.
Your father waved back with awkward enthusiasm.
You offered the smallest possible nod.
The woman didn't seem offended by your lack of warmth. If anything, her smile only widened before she disappeared inside the house, leaving the front door open behind her as though expecting someone else to follow.
"You could try being polite," your father remarked.
"I nodded."
"You looked like you were attending a funeral."
"I kind of am."
The words escaped before you could stop them.
Your father didn't answer; he simply looked away, crushing the cigarette beneath his shoe with more force than necessary before opening the truck and beginning to unload boxes in silence.
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Your bedroom overlooked the street.
It wasn't particularly large, but the slanted ceiling and wide window gave it the illusion of space, and if you ignored the floral wallpaper left behind by whoever had lived there before, it might even have been pleasant. You left every box untouched, stepping instead toward the window where the neighbourhood stretched beneath the late afternoon sun in quiet perfection. From here, the church dominated everything.
It stood only a short walk away, its white steeple rising confidently above the rooftops until it became the highest point in town, casting a long shadow that crept slowly across the surrounding streets as the sun drifted westward. The stained-glass windows caught the light in fractured colours, spilling ribbons of sapphire, crimson, and gold across the stone walls, and every hour the bell announced itself with unwavering certainty, as though reminding the entire town exactly where its heart resided.
You had never been particularly religious.
Your mother claimed belief was something people found when they were desperate enough. Your father claimed nothing at all.
Still, there was something undeniably magnetic about the building—not welcoming, exactly, but impossible to ignore. It possessed the quiet confidence of institutions that had existed long before the people inside them and fully expected to remain standing long after everyone currently alive had become names carved into marble.
The longer you stood there, the more impossible it became to convince yourself that the church was simply another building.
Every street curved toward it, every sidewalk appeared to lead back to its weathered stone steps, and even the houses seemed arranged in quiet deference, as though generations of families had built their lives around its presence without ever questioning why. It reminded you less of a place of worship than of a watchtower, standing silently above the town with the patient certainty that everyone, eventually, regardless of where they wandered, would find themselves returning to its doors.
With a quiet sigh, you stepped away from the window and looked around your bedroom for the first time. Brown cardboard boxes towered against one wall with your mother's handwriting still scrawled across the tape in black marker—BOOKS, WINTER CLOTHES, BEDROOM—small pieces of a life that no longer existed packed away as though memories could be folded as neatly as sweaters. For a fleeting moment, you considered unpacking, imagining where your records might sit or which shelf your novels would occupy, but the thought felt strangely disloyal, as though arranging your belongings meant accepting that this house was something more permanent than a temporary stop on the way back home.
Because that was what you kept telling yourself.
You weren't staying.
Your father might believe in fresh starts, but you believed in endings, and sooner or later, this one would end too.
You left the boxes where they were.
Downstairs, the muffled scrape of furniture drifting across hardwood floors reminded you that your father had continued working without you. You could picture him perfectly without even looking—the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled to his elbows, another cigarette dangling absentmindedly between his lips despite promising your mother years ago that he'd quit, moving through the house with the determination of someone who believed staying busy was easier than admitting he didn't know what else to do with himself.
He had always been good at pretending. Pretending as if the shouting matches hadn't rattled the windows, that your mother's packed suitcases hadn't sat untouched by the front door for nearly a week before she finally carried them downstairs herself, that signing a stack of divorce papers in a lawyer's office on an unremarkable Tuesday afternoon was no different from signing for a parcel at the post office.
Some people cried when their marriages ended.
Your father had simply bought another pack of cigarettes.
You wandered downstairs without thinking much about where your feet were taking you, trailing your fingers lightly along the polished banister as unfamiliar floorboards creaked beneath your weight. The house carried that peculiar scent all recently vacated homes seemed to share, a mixture of fresh paint and old timber.
Your father was standing in the kitchen with his back to you, staring blankly into an open cupboard that contained nothing except two chipped mugs the landlord had apparently forgotten to remove. For several moments, he didn't move at all. He simply stood there with one hand braced against the counter, cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling while the afternoon light spilled through the sink window and painted long rectangles across the floor.
For a fleeting second, he looked impossibly older than you remembered.
Not because of the grey beginning to thread through his dark hair or the pull of his permanent frown that exemplified a network of deep wrinkles, but because loneliness had a way of ageing people unevenly. It hollowed them out from the inside until they carried themselves like houses after a fire—still standing, somehow, but unmistakably changed.
He noticed you only when the floorboard beneath your foot groaned.
"There's a diner a few blocks over," he said, reaching automatically for his wallet. "I figured we'd get dinner there. Saves unpacking the kitchen tonight."
You leaned against the doorway.
"Sure."
He hesitated.
"You hungry?"
"I guess." You sighed.
Another silence settled between the two of you, stretching just long enough to become uncomfortable before he cleared his throat and slipped the wallet into his back pocket.
"People say the pie's good."
The comment felt almost painfully rehearsed, like something he'd read in a brochure on how fathers were supposed to speak to daughters after destroying their lives.
"That's reassuring."
"I thought so."
You almost smiled.
Almost.
Instead, you looked past him through the kitchen window.
The church steeple was visible even from here.
It rose above the rooftops in the distance, brilliant white beneath the lowering sun, impossible to escape no matter which direction you faced. The cross at its peak caught the fading light so intensely that for a moment it seemed suspended in the sky itself, detached from the building below, watching over the town with quiet indifference.
"Everything around here revolves around that place, doesn't it?" you asked without turning away from the window.
Your father followed your gaze.
"I suppose it does."
"That's depressing."
"It depends who you ask."
You let out a quiet hum.
"I wasn't asking."
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The diner sat on the corner of Main Street, tucked between an old hardware store and a tiny bookshop whose faded sign looked as though it hadn't been replaced in decades. A little brass bell chimed above the door as you stepped inside.
It looked exactly how diners always looked in old American films, with red vinyl booths polished smooth by generations of customers, spinning chrome stools lined neatly along the counter, and waitresses who somehow remembered every regular's order before they'd even sat down. A jukebox stood silently in one corner, its coloured lights flickering despite no one feeding it coins, while framed photographs of local baseball teams and town parades crowded every inch of the walls.
The conversations stopped. Not all at once, but you felt it nonetheless.
Heads lifted almost imperceptibly from steaming coffee mugs and half-finished meals. Eyes lingered a fraction longer than politeness allowed before drifting away again, only to return moments later under the pretence of looking elsewhere.
You were no longer just another girl.
You were the new girl.
The divorced man's daughter.
The strangers from Chicago.
Your father either didn't notice or chose not to. He slid into a booth near the window, picking up a laminated menu, prompting you to sit down too. Your fingers drifted absently over the frayed edge of the laminated menu, though you weren't really reading it. The words blurred together into an endless procession of burgers, meatloaf, club sandwiches and slices of homemade pie, all priced cheaply enough to suggest the recipes had remained unchanged for decades. It struck you that this diner, like everything else you'd seen since crossing the county line, seemed entirely uninterested in becoming something new.
A waitress appeared beside the table with two glasses of water balanced expertly on a round metal tray tucked against her shoulder. She looked to be in her late fifties, her greying hair pinned into a loose bun beneath a paper hat embroidered with the diner's name, and she smiled with the effortless familiarity of someone who had spent most of her life recognising faces before names.
"You folks must be the Parks," she said brightly, setting the glasses down without needing to ask whether you wanted lemon. "We've all been expecting you."
Your father looked up in surprise. "You have?"
"Oh, honey." She laughed softly, her voice oozing with honey. "Nothing much happens around here. New neighbours are practically headline news."
You lowered your eyes to the condensation gathering on your water glass, tracing a fingertip through the droplets before they slipped onto the tabletop. Somehow, hearing it confirmed felt infinitely worse than merely suspecting it.
The waitress scribbled something onto her notepad before looking between the two of you again.
"Your daddy's taking over at the engineering firm, isn't he?"
"That's right," your father replied politely.
"Well, we're happy to have you both. Lord knows this town could always use a few fresh faces."
Your father offered the strained smile he'd perfected over the last year. "Thank you."
She turned to you then, her expression softening almost instinctively.
"And you'll be starting at Saint Augustine's on Monday?"
You blinked. "I guess."
"You'll like it there."
The certainty with which she said it made something inside you churn.
"What if I don't?"
She paused for the briefest moment before smiling again, as though she believed every difficult thing could be solved with enough kindness.
"Oh," she said gently, "I'm sure you will."
When she finally wandered off toward another table, your father reached automatically for the sugar dispenser despite drinking his coffee black.
"You didn't have to answer like that."
"I answered."
"You know what I mean."
"No," you replied, lifting your glass. "I really don't."
He sighed quietly, rubbing a hand across his jaw before staring out the window instead of arguing further. It had become another habit of his lately, abandoning conversations the moment they threatened to become honest. You sometimes wondered whether it was because he genuinely wanted to avoid conflict or because he no longer trusted himself to say the right thing.
Outside, Main Street basked beneath the last warmth of the evening sun. A teenage boy wheeled his bicycle past the diner's window, one hand balancing a paper bag hooked over the handlebars while an older woman called after him from across the street, reminding him not to forget choir practice tomorrow evening. He lifted a hand in acknowledgement without even turning around, clearly having heard the reminder a hundred times before.
Choir practice.
You almost smiled to yourself; of course, there was choir practice.
Of course, there were church picnics and Sunday bake sales and Christmas pageants where everyone knew every line before the first rehearsal. You could already picture the bulletin boards covered in handwritten notices, casserole dishes appearing mysteriously whenever someone fell ill.
The waitress returned with a steaming mug of coffee for your father and a basket of warm dinner rolls that she insisted had "just come out of the oven."
"They're on the house," she said with a wink. "Welcome to Maple Creek."
Your father thanked her.
You stared at the basket for a long moment before pulling one apart absentmindedly, watching gasps of steam escape into the air. The bread was still warm enough to burn your fingertips, tasting like someone's grandmother had been making them exactly the same way for fifty years, refusing to write the recipe down because she'd never needed to, measuring ingredients by instinct rather than teaspoons, and somehow producing the same perfect result every single time. You truly hated how good it was.
Your father noticed the expression that crossed your face before you had the chance to hide it, the smallest flicker of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth as he reached for one himself. "See?" he said quietly, tearing his own roll in half. "The pie probably isn't lying either."
You looked up just long enough to roll your eyes.
"Don't get ahead of yourself."
"I'm just saying," he replied with a shrug that felt almost familiar, "the place has potential."
"The bread has potential."
"I'll take that as progress."
"It isn't."
He smiled anyway.
It was brief—gone almost as soon as it appeared—but for the first time since you'd crossed the state line, your father looked a little more like the man you remembered. Before the lawyers, before the cardboard boxes stacked shoulder-high in your old living room, before every conversation between your parents had become another carefully measured negotiation about who got what and when. There had been a time when he laughed easily, when Sunday mornings meant burnt pancakes and classic rock playing too loudly through the house while your mother complained that neither of you knew the meaning of an inside voice. Sometimes it frightened you how difficult it was becoming to remember those versions of them.
The waitress returned, balancing two heavy plates against her forearm, a skill that could only come from years of doing the same job every single day. She placed your father's meatloaf before him first, thick slices drowned in peppered gravy beside a generous mound of mashed potatoes. She then set your cheeseburger and fries in front of you with a smile.
"Everything looks alright?"
"It looks fine," your father answered politely.
"You just let me know if you need anything. Ketchup's already on the table, and don't be shy about asking for more fries. Earl always makes too many."
She drifted away before either of you could respond, stopping at another booth to refill an elderly couple's coffee cups without needing to ask. The old man thanked her by name. She asked after his wife. Two booths over, someone else called her over just to tell her that his grandson had finally gotten into college, and she clasped both hands over her heart as though the news belonged to her own family.
You watched the exchange for longer than you meant to.
You had the uneasy feeling that, by tomorrow morning, half the town would know exactly where you'd eaten dinner on your first night. By the end of the week, they'd know which house you lived in, what car your father drove, and probably the fact that you'd barely spoken through the entire meal. In a place this small, stories didn't spread because people were cruel. They spread because there simply wasn't much else to talk about.
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You learned later that the woman from earlier was Mrs Sim, the pastor’s wife. She arrived with a still-warm peach cobbler, which your father accepted with a gratitude that seemed genuine, the lines around his eyes softening as she spoke to him about the community, the quiet, the good schools. You lingered in the doorway of your new bedroom, arms crossed, watching the performance of small-town benevolence. Mrs Sim’s eyes eventually found yours. “You must be y/n,” she beamed. “My son, Jake, is about your age. I’ll send him over later to help with the heavier boxes. It’s so nice to have young people in the house next door again.”
Jake.
The name meant nothing to you; it was simply another piece of information about a place you hadn't asked to know.
A pastor's son.
Someone who probably belonged here in the same way everything else seemed to.
You imagined someone polite, someone with perfect manners and neatly folded clothes, someone who had grown up knowing exactly where he fit in the world because everyone around him had spent his entire life reminding him. The kind of person who would wave at strangers while driving, volunteer on weekends, and probably know every verse of every hymn before he was old enough to understand why he was singing them.
Someone who would look at you and immediately know you didn't belong.
"That's nice," you replied.
Your father gave you a look, but you ignored it.
Mrs Sim only smiled. "You'll meet him soon enough."
Mrs Sim's words lingered in the air even after she had finished speaking, though you weren't entirely sure why. There was nothing particularly significant about them. She had simply mentioned her son in passing, the same way someone might mention a neighbour's dog or a nearby restaurant or which grocery store had the freshest produce. It should have been forgettable, another harmless detail about a town you had no intention of becoming attached to. Yet somehow, the certainty in her voice bothered you. You'll meet him soon enough. Not if you want to. Not if you happen to. Just a quiet assumption that, eventually, your lives would cross because that was how things worked here. Everyone knew everyone. Everyone belonged to someone. Everyone had a place already waiting for them.
You wondered if that was what made small towns feel so comforting to the people who loved them. There was no uncertainty. No endless possibility of becoming someone entirely different from who you were yesterday. In places like Chicago, people disappeared and reinvented themselves all the time. They changed schools, changed neighbourhoods, changed friend groups, changed everything about themselves until sometimes even the people who knew them best couldn't recognise who they had become. Here, it seemed impossible to escape the version of yourself that other people had already decided existed. Your family history, your mistakes, your reputation, your name—all of it followed you down every street and through every doorway.
Maybe that was why everyone here smiled so easily.
They had never needed to wonder who they were.
The conversation continued downstairs, though you stopped listening. Your father asked Mrs. Sim about the school district, and she answered with the same gentle enthusiasm she seemed to offer everything else, explaining which teachers were wonderful, which streets were safest, which shops had been around for generations. She spoke about Maple Creek as though it wasn't simply a town but a living thing, something delicate that required care and loyalty. You watched your father absorb every word, nodding along with an expression of relief that you recognised immediately.
He wanted this to work.
That was the part you hated most.
If he had been miserable, if he had admitted he regretted moving, if he had looked around this unfamiliar house and said that maybe he had made a mistake, then perhaps you would have felt less alone in your resentment. But instead, he seemed lighter here. Not happy exactly, but closer to it than he had been in months. The possibility that this place could become something good for him felt unfair somehow, because while he was finding a reason to believe in a future here, you were still grieving the one you had lost.
You quietly stepped back into your room before either of them noticed, closing the door without making a sound.
The peach cobbler sat untouched on the kitchen counter.
You could smell it even from upstairs.
Another thing this town seemed determined to make impossible to dislike.
You hated that. You hated that the houses were beautiful, that the neighbours were kind, that the diner food was good, that your father looked slightly less broken every time someone welcomed him. You had spent the entire drive here building a version of Maple Creek in your mind—a place where you could justify being angry, where every smiling face could be dismissed as fake and every gesture of kindness could be interpreted as pity.
But what were you supposed to do when people were genuinely nice? Anger was easier when you had something to fight against.
You sat down on the edge of your bed, staring at the unopened boxes surrounding you, and pulled your knees toward your chest. The room was quiet except for the faint sounds of movement downstairs, the occasional creak of floorboards beneath your father's footsteps, and the distant hum of traffic passing along the main road.
Somewhere outside, a church bell rang.
You looked toward the window instinctively. You had never understood the comfort people found in places like that.
The idea of faith had always seemed strange to you—not because you thought people were foolish for believing, but because certainty itself felt like something you had never possessed. Some people moved through life convinced there was a plan waiting for them, that every heartbreak had meaning and every loss had a purpose. They believed things happened for a reason.
You had never been able to understand how.
Your parents had loved each other once.
At least, everyone said they had.
There were photographs proving it. Old videos, memories you carried from childhood of them dancing in the kitchen, laughing over burnt dinners, holding hands while walking through crowded streets. There had been a time when their marriage had seemed as permanent as the church standing at the centre of Maple Creek.
And then one day, somehow, it wasn't.
So what exactly was faith supposed to do with things that broke?
What was the point of believing something was sacred if it could still be destroyed?
The question followed you as you unpacked only the things you needed for the night. A toothbrush. Clean clothes. Your phone charger. The essentials required to pretend that tomorrow would be normal, even though nothing about your life felt remotely familiar anymore.
You avoided opening the box marked BEDROOM, avoided touching the photographs, avoided anything that felt too much like admitting you were staying.
Downstairs, your father eventually called goodnight, and you answered automatically.
Then you were alone.
The first night in the new house was quieter than you expected. Not peaceful—peace implied comfort—but quiet in a way that made every small sound noticeable. The pipes shifting behind the walls. The wind moving through the trees outside. The occasional footsteps of your father crossing the hallway below.
And beneath everything else, faint but unmistakable, the church bells. They rang once more before midnight.
You lay in the unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling, listening as the sound travelled through the darkness.
You didn't know anything about Maple Creek.
You didn't know its streets, its people, its traditions, or the boy whose name had been casually introduced to you before you had even met him.
For now, though, all you knew was that you were eighteen years old, three states away from everything you had ever known, living beside a church you didn't believe in, in a town that seemed determined to believe in you before you had even decided whether you wanted to believe in anything at all.
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The next morning, Maple Creek looked almost deliberately beautiful.
You resented it immediately.
The sky was clear, the kind of bright blue that seemed almost too perfect to be real, and sunlight spilled across the streets as though the entire town had been carefully arranged for someone else's happiness. Birds moved between the trees, children walked toward school in groups, and neighbours greeted each other from opposite sides of the street with the casual familiarity of people who had been doing the same thing for years. There was something almost offensive about the way everything appeared untouched by the chaos that had brought you here. The lawns were freshly cut, the gardens were beginning to bloom with the first signs of spring, and every house seemed to sit peacefully beneath the morning light as though heartbreak, divorce, and starting over were things that happened somewhere far away to other people.
It was impossible to hate something that looked like it belonged in a memory.
You stood in the kitchen drinking coffee your father had made before getting ready for work. m He had already unpacked half the kitchen, organised the cupboards, and somehow found the patience to locate the coffee machine among dozens of unopened boxes that still crowded the dining room and hallway. It was such a typical thing for him to do that, despite everything, it almost made you smile. Your father had always dealt with uncertainty by creating order wherever he could. When things became unpredictable, he cleaned. When conversations became too difficult, he focused on practical tasks. When emotions became too overwhelming, he found something that could be measured, arranged, or fixed. He had spent the last year losing control over nearly every aspect of his life, and now that he had a new house with empty shelves and rooms waiting to be filled, he seemed determined to rebuild everything piece by piece.
You watched him move around the kitchen, placing mugs into cupboards and checking his work schedule on his phone, and you realised that this was probably the first time in months that he had looked like he knew what he was doing. It was strange seeing him like this. You had grown used to the version of him who sat silently at the dinner table, who stared at paperwork longer than necessary, who seemed to carry the weight of conversations he never dared to start. The divorce had changed both of your lives, but you had always been more focused on what you lost than you had forgotten he had lost something too.
That did not mean you were ready to forgive him for bringing you here.
It only meant you understood him slightly more than you wanted to.
"You should probably leave soon if you don't want to be late," he said, breaking the silence that had settled over the kitchen as he reached across the counter for his keys. He glanced briefly toward the clock hanging above the stove before looking back at you, his expression carrying the same quiet concern he had been trying to hide since the move. "First impressions are important."
You took another sip of your coffee, letting the warmth distract you from the uncomfortable feeling building in your chest. You glanced toward the clock above the stove, even though you already knew exactly what time it was.
"You already checked my schedule, didn't you?"
Your father paused for half a second, his fingers still wrapped around his keys, and that tiny hesitation gave him away immediately. He had always been terrible at pretending he wasn't overly involved. He tried to act casual, as though he hadn't spent the previous night reading through your school information or memorising your timetable, but you knew him too well. When he was worried, he disguised it as preparation.
"You need to admit that you would forget something important if I didn't."
You looked at him over the rim of your mug, unimpressed.
"I wouldn't."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, the kind that suggested he had been waiting for you to say exactly that.
"You forgot your passport before our flight to Florida."
You looked away.
"That was one time."
Your father leaned back against the kitchen counter, folding his arms across his chest.
"You forgot your wallet at a restaurant last summer."
"I got it back."
"After I drove back twenty minutes to get it."
You opened your mouth to argue, but he continued before you could.
"You left your phone on top of the car."
You immediately looked away.
"That happened once."
Your father's smile widened slightly, and for a moment, the heaviness that had followed both of you since the divorce disappeared. It was such a small thing, barely noticeable, but it reminded you of the person he used to be before everything became complicated. The father who teased you about losing things, who laughed when you became stubborn, who knew exactly when to push and when to leave you alone.
He picked up his briefcase from beside the kitchen table and moved toward the front door, but before he stepped outside, he stopped.
The hesitation was subtle. Most people probably wouldn't have noticed it, but you did.
"Are you nervous?"
The question was simple, almost too simple, and that was what made it difficult to answer. You looked toward the front window instead of at him, watching a neighbour across the street wave to someone passing by. Everyone here seemed so certain of themselves, so comfortable in a world that already knew their names. Meanwhile, you were standing in a kitchen that still smelled like cardboard boxes and unfamiliar paint, preparing to walk into a school where nobody knew you except as the girl who had just arrived.
You could have lied.
You almost did.
"No."
Your father didn't say anything, he didn't need to.
The look he gave you carried the quiet disbelief of someone who had known you your entire life and could tell when you were pretending.
You sighed, setting your coffee mug down on the counter.
"Maybe a little."
It was the closest thing to admitting the reality that you were willing to offer.
His expression softened immediately, and for a second, you prepared yourself for the kind of speech parents always gave in moments like this. Something about how everything would be okay. Something about making friends and giving people a chance and remembering that everyone felt nervous sometimes. You expected reassurance because reassurance was what adults usually offered when they didn't know how else to help.
Instead, he simply nodded.
"That's normal."
You looked back at him, almost surprised by how little he said.
"That's it?"
He shrugged slightly, his fingers tightening around the handle of his briefcase.
"What do you want me to say?"
You looked down.
"I don't know."
The honesty of the answer seemed to surprise both of you.
Your father let out a quiet breath, his gaze drifting briefly around the house. The unopened boxes stacked near the hallway. The unfamiliar walls. The unfamiliar kitchen. For the first time, he looked less like someone who had brought you here with a plan and more like someone who was simply trying to figure everything out alongside you.
"Neither do I," he admitted.
The words settled between you. And strangely, they helped more than any perfect speech could have.
Because your father had spent so long trying to make everything seem manageable that you had almost forgotten he was also struggling. He didn't have some hidden answer for how to rebuild a family after it had fallen apart. He didn't know the secret to making a new town feel like home or how to erase the memories you had left behind. He was just another person standing in unfamiliar surroundings, hoping that somewhere along the way, he had made the right choice.
"I'll see you after school," he said eventually.
You nodded.
"Okay."
He opened the front door, letting in a rush of cool morning air that carried the scent of grass and flowers from the neighbouring garden. He stepped outside, then paused with one hand still resting against the doorframe.
"Y/n?"
You looked up.
"Try not to get suspended on your first day."
You stared at him.
"Seriously?"
A small smile appeared on his face, the first genuine one you had seen that morning.
"I'm just saying."
"I haven't even been there yet."
"I know my daughter." He smiled as you watched him walk down the front steps and toward his car, his briefcase held loosely in one hand while the morning sun stretched across the driveway
You grabbed your bag from beside your stool and checked your phone one last time before leaving. There were still messages from Chicago, but fewer than yesterday. The group chat that had been impossible to ignore during the drive had become quieter overnight, conversations naturally shifting toward things you weren't there to experience. Someone had posted a picture from a coffee shop you used to visit after school. Someone else had mentioned a teacher you had complained about for years. Tiny pieces of your old life continuing without you.
You stared at the screen for longer than you should have.
Then you locked your phone.
There was no point in torturing yourself with reminders of somewhere you couldn't return to.
At least, not yet.
You stepped outside, locking the front door behind you, and immediately became aware of the house beside yours. The pastor's home stood exactly as it had the previous evening, peaceful and untouched beneath the morning sunlight. The garden that had seemed almost excessive yesterday looked different now—not less perfect, but more alive. The roses beneath the windows moved slightly in the breeze, and the ivy climbing along the porch railing cast delicate shadows across the white wooden walls.
You wondered briefly what kind of person grew up in a house like that.
Not because you were interested, you reminded yourself of that.
It was just simply curiosity.
A house like that came with expectations. You knew enough about people to understand that. The pastor's son probably had a reputation before he was old enough to create one himself. People probably knew him as a child before they knew him as a person. They probably expected kindness from him, patience from him, goodness from him. They probably looked at him and saw his father's occupation before they saw anything else.
You wondered if that ever became exhausting.
The thought disappeared quickly.
You adjusted your bag over your shoulder and started walking toward school.
The route was shorter than you expected, which somehow annoyed you. You had imagined getting lost, having an excuse to turn around, having some dramatic reason to delay arriving at a place where you knew nobody. Instead, Maple Creek made everything inconveniently simple. The streets were easy to follow. The sidewalks were clean. The school appeared at the end of the road exactly where the map on your phone said it would be.
Even the town was refusing to give you a reason to hate it.
The school building was larger than you expected, though it carried the same old-fashioned charm as everything else in Maple Creek. Red brick walls covered in climbing greenery, tall windows reflecting the morning sunlight, neatly maintained gardens surrounding the entrance. It looked less like a school and more like a place people took photographs of during graduation.
You stood at the edge of the school grounds for a moment longer than necessary, letting the flow of students move around you as though you were standing still in the middle of a river. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going, which hallway they needed, which friends they were meeting, which teachers they needed to avoid before the first bell. There was a strange confidence in the way people moved through familiar places, the kind that only came from years of repetition. They weren't thinking about where to turn or whether they belonged there. They simply existed within the routine of it.
You missed that.
Not the school itself. Not the crowded hallways or the endless assignments or the people who had somehow made every small inconvenience feel like a personal crisis. But you missed knowing what to expect. You missed walking into a building where you knew which staircase was always empty between classes, which vending machine stole your money, which teachers would let you hand things in late without a lecture. You missed the comfort of being a person who already had a place, even if that place wasn't perfect.
Here, everything was unfamiliar.
And unfamiliar meant vulnerable.
You hated that feeling.
You followed the signs toward the main office, your shoes making quiet sounds against the polished floor as you entered the building. It was exactly what you expected inside. Framed photographs lined the walls, displaying graduating classes from decades before you were born, sports teams holding trophies with proud expressions, theatre productions captured mid-performance, students who had once walked through these same hallways and eventually left to create lives somewhere beyond the town.
It was strange seeing so much history preserved.
Back home, schools changed constantly. Posters were replaced, rooms were renovated, people came and went so quickly that it was easy to forget anyone had existed there before you. Here, the past seemed carefully protected. Maple Creek held onto things. It held onto houses, traditions, names, and memories with the kind of devotion usually reserved for things people were afraid of losing.
The thought followed you into the office, where a woman sitting behind the front desk looked up immediately. She had the same welcoming expression everyone here seemed to possess, the kind that made you suspicious because you couldn't understand why a stranger would look genuinely pleased to see you.
"You must be Y/n."
You stopped.
It was becoming unsettling how often people knew who you were before you had introduced yourself.
"Yeah."
The woman smiled and reached for a folder beside her computer. "I'm Mrs. Li. We spoke briefly with your father yesterday when your enrolment paperwork came through. Everything has been processed, and your schedule is inside.
She handed the folder across the desk.
You accepted it carefully, glancing down at your name printed neatly across the front.
"Thank you."
"You'll find everyone here is very welcoming," Mrs Li added.
There it was again.
The phrase everyone seemed determined to use.
Welcoming.
You wondered if there was a meeting where the entire town agreed on the same vocabulary.
You forced a small smile.
"I'll keep that in mind."
Mrs Li didn't seem offended by your lack of enthusiasm. If anything, her expression softened slightly, as though she understood more than you had said.
"Your first class is English. It's just down the hall and to the left. If you have any trouble finding anything, ask someone. We have a wonderful group of students here."
You nodded.
"Okay."
The hallway had become busier now, students moving between lockers and classrooms as the first bell approached. Conversations blended together around you, creating a constant stream of voices that you tried not to focus on. You kept your eyes on your schedule, pretending you didn't notice the occasional glance in your direction.
You knew what they were thinking.
Who is she?
Where did she come from?
Why is she here?
You had been the new girl before, but never like this.
In Chicago, being new meant being one person among thousands. There were always other transfers, other unfamiliar faces, other people trying to figure out where they belonged. Here, you felt like the entire town had watched your moving truck arrive. You weren't just a student who had transferred schools.
You reached your classroom and paused outside the door, hearing voices from inside. The urge to turn around was immediate and irrational. Not because you were afraid, but because walking through that door meant admitting this was real, that you were actually here and not on some sort of visit. You weren’t just passing through; this was your life now.
Eventually, you pushed the door open.
The classroom was brighter than you expected, sunlight spilling through the wide windows and casting shapes across the desks. Students looked up briefly as you entered before returning to their conversations, their curiosity subtle enough to be polite but obvious enough that you noticed. You had become aware, almost immediately, of how visible you were here.
You made your way toward the empty seat near the window and placed your bag down, grateful for the small distance it gave you from everyone else. For the first few minutes, you simply sat there, watching the classroom. The teacher arranged papers on her desk. Students exchanged conversations that seemed to continue from yesterday, last week, and years ago.
The rest of the morning passed in a way that felt strangely unreal, as though you were watching yourself move through someone else's routine rather than actually participating in your own. Every classroom had its own rhythm that you didn't understand yet; every teacher seemed to know exactly how much time to spend explaining something, exactly when to move on, exactly which students would answer questions before they even raised their hands.
You found yourself observing more than listening, studying the small details that revealed how deeply connected everyone was to this place. The girl in front of you had a sticker on her notebook from a local charity event. The boy beside the window wore a jacket with the school emblem stitched neatly onto the chest. Two students passing your desk exchanged a joke that clearly referenced something that had happened years ago, something you could not possibly understand because you had not been there to witness it.
By the time you checked your schedule again before your next class, you were already expecting another subject you would have to pretend to care about, another room where you would sit quietly and allow people to decide what they thought of you. Instead, your eyes stopped on the words printed beneath the next period.
Chapel.
You stared at it for several seconds, convinced that maybe you had misunderstood.
You looked back at the schedule.
Still there.
A mandatory chapel period.
Not an optional gathering. Not a once-a-week event. Not something students attended only if they wanted to participate. It was built directly into the school day with the same certainty as mathematics, English, or science, another requirement that everyone accepted without question.
You almost found it impressive.
Only a town like Maple Creek could create a school where religion was not simply something people practised, but something embedded so naturally into everyday life that nobody even considered questioning it.
Of course, they had a chapel.
You followed the other students toward the chapel building, trying not to let your expression reveal exactly what you were thinking. Nobody else seemed bothered. That was what caught your attention more than anything. They weren't walking there reluctantly. They weren't whispering complaints about having to attend. They weren't rolling their eyes or joking about finding a way to escape.
They simply went, like it was normal.
The chapel itself was beautiful, which added to your growing irritation. The building was old but carefully maintained, with dark wooden beams stretching across the ceiling and rows of polished benches facing a raised platform at the front. Sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows, breaking into fragments of blue, red, and gold that shifted slowly across the floor as the morning passed.
You took a seat near the back, naturally, the safest place for someone who had no intention of becoming involved.
The teacher at the front began speaking about faith, purpose, and community, and you tried to listen. You genuinely did. You weren't there to mock anyone or disrespect something that clearly mattered to the people around you. But there was a difference between understanding why something was important to others and feeling it yourself.
People always talked about faith like it was something that remained when everything else fell away, but what happened when the things you believed in failed you first? What happened when the people who promised they would always be there were suddenly the reason you had to leave your home? What happened when forever turned out to be something people said only because they wanted to believe it at the time?
Maybe that was why religion had always felt so distant to you. It wasn't because you hated it, and it wasn't because you thought people were foolish for believing in something greater than themselves. You understood the appeal of having something permanent to hold onto when everything around you felt temporary. The problem was that belief required a kind of trust you no longer knew how to give. You had spent too much time watching things people promised would last forever eventually fall apart, watching something that was supposed to be unbreakable become fragile enough to disappear. It was difficult to surrender yourself to the idea of certainty when your own life had become proof that certainty could be taken away without warning.
The clock above the doorway seemed to move more slowly with every passing minute, each second stretching longer than the one before it. You tried to convince yourself that you could sit there until the period ended. It was only one class. Forty minutes of listening, pretending, and doing what everyone else seemed completely comfortable doing.
But the longer you remained in that room, the more aware you became of how different you felt from everyone around you.
The chapel, which seemed to offer comfort to everyone else, began to feel strangely suffocating. You felt as though the room itself was asking something from you—some kind of acceptance, some willingness to belong, some acknowledgement that this was now your world too.
You looked around one more time, almost hoping to find someone else who looked as uncomfortable as you felt.
You didn't.
Every student seemed exactly where they were supposed to be.
Everyone seemed to have a place.
Except you.
The realisation irritated you more than it should have, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you quietly gathered your notebook and slipped your bag over your shoulder. You waited until the teacher turned her attention toward the front of the room before standing, moving carefully between the rows of benches and making your way toward the side exit. Nobody stopped you. Nobody questioned where you were going. For a moment, you wondered if that was because nobody noticed, or because in a place where everyone seemed to know everyone, you were still too new to matter.
Either option was strangely comforting.
The moment the chapel doors closed behind you, you exhaled.
The hallway outside was empty, and the sudden absence of voices felt like stepping out of a crowded room after holding your breath for too long.
You walked without a destination, following instinct rather than any actual plan, letting your feet carry you away from the main buildings where students gathered and teachers watched.
The further you walked, the quieter the school became.
Eventually, the polished pathways and carefully maintained gardens gave way to a less noticeable section of campus behind the sports fields. It was the kind of place people probably passed without ever really seeing, hidden behind a line of tall trees that separated it from the rest of the school grounds. The branches stretched overhead, creating patches of shade across the grass, while the old maintenance building stood quietly against the edge of the property, its brick walls worn by years of changing weather.
It wasn't somewhere students were supposed to be, which immediately made it somewhere you preferred.
There was something comforting about finding a place that hadn't been perfected. Unlike the rest of Maple Creek, which seemed determined to preserve every detail and present itself as something untouched, this corner of the school existed without trying to impress anyone. The grass grew unevenly. The walls carried marks left behind by time. Nobody had placed flowers here or added signs explaining its importance.
It was simply there.
And for the first time that morning, you felt like you could be too.
You leaned back against the wall, pulling the cigarette from your bag with the familiar ease of someone who had done this too many times to feel guilty anymore. You knew exactly what people would say if they saw you. You knew the assumptions that would immediately follow. The new girl from Chicago who couldn't even make it through her first day without breaking a rule. The divorced man's daughter who clearly had an attitude problem. The outsider who had arrived and immediately proved everyone right.
You almost laughed at the thought.
People loved being right about others.
It made them feel like they understood the world.
The lighter flickered in your hand, and for a moment the small flame was the only movement around you. You watched the cigarette catch before lowering your hand, allowing the smoke to disappear into the cool morning air. The irony wasn't lost on you.
You had escaped a chapel full of people searching for meaning only to find yourself hiding behind a building with a cigarette in your hand.
Maybe everyone had their own way of coping, and yours was just less socially acceptable.
For the first time that morning, you felt like you could breathe properly. There was no teacher watching you. No receptionist smiling at you like she already knew your entire story. No students glancing over and wondering where you came from.
Just complete silence.
You closed your eyes briefly, letting yourself enjoy the rare moment where nobody expected anything from you.
Then you heard footsteps.
At first, you assumed they belonged to another student who had discovered the same hiding place. You didn't bother moving. If anything, you were slightly annoyed that even your one quiet corner couldn't remain yours for longer than five minutes.
The footsteps came closer, slow and unhurried.
Not the hurried steps of someone trying to sneak away.
Someone who knew exactly where they were going.
You opened your eyes.
A boy stood a few feet away, one hand resting casually in the pocket of his uniform trousers, his expression difficult to read. He wasn't wearing the usual look people gave you when they caught you doing something wrong. There was no immediate judgement, no smug satisfaction, no excitement at having discovered someone breaking a rule. He didn't have the expression teachers usually wore when they found students somewhere they shouldn't be, that careful mixture of disappointment and authority that suggested they had already decided what kind of person you were before you had the chance to explain yourself.
Instead, he simply looked at you.
He appeared to be around your age, dressed in the same Saint Augustine's uniform as everyone else, though somehow he carried it differently. The other students you had seen that morning wore their uniforms like an extension of the school itself, every shirt neatly tucked, every tie perfectly adjusted, every detail reflecting the careful order that seemed to exist everywhere in Maple Creek. This boy didn't look careless, but there was something less deliberate about him. He looked comfortable, as though the uniform was simply something he wore rather than something he used to prove that he belonged.
His eyes briefly moved toward the cigarette between your fingers before returning to your face, and you waited for the inevitable reaction. You waited for the sigh, the disapproving expression, the comment about rules and responsibility and how this was not the kind of behaviour expected at a school like Saint Augustine's.
Instead, when he finally spoke, his voice was calmer than you expected.
"You know, I'm pretty sure this isn't exactly where you're supposed to be during chapel."
You stared at him for a moment, caught slightly off guard by the fact that his words sounded more like an observation than an accusation. The cigarette remained between your fingers, smoke curling lazily upward before disappearing into the cool air surrounding the trees.
"I'm aware," you replied.
Your tone was sharper than necessary, but you had already spent the entire morning surrounded by people who were trying to make you feel like you were being welcomed while simultaneously reminding you that you didn't belong. Defensiveness had become easier than politeness. It was a habit you had developed without realising, something you reached for before anyone had the opportunity to hurt you.
The boy didn't seem bothered.
If anything, he looked slightly amused.
"Good," he said simply.
You frowned.
That wasn't the response you were expecting.
Most people would have continued. They would have taken your attitude as an invitation to argue, because people often mistook defensiveness for a challenge. They liked proving they were right, especially when they believed they were helping.
You studied him for a moment before asking the question you already knew the answer to.
"Are you going to report me?"
The question came out automatically, almost like a test. You weren't actually interested in whether he would tell someone. You were interested in seeing what kind of person he was. Whether he was the kind who followed rules because they mattered to him or because breaking them gave him a reason to feel superior.
For a moment, he didn't answer.
His gaze moved briefly toward the school building in the distance, where students were still sitting inside the chapel, probably listening attentively to whatever lesson you had decided you couldn't endure.
Then he looked back at you.
"No."
The simplicity of the answer made you hesitate.
"Why?"
He shrugged slightly, his expression remaining thoughtful rather than dismissive.
"Because I don't think getting you in trouble is going to change anything."
You tilted your head slightly. "What does that mean?"
"It means," he said, looking toward the ground for a moment as though choosing his words carefully, "that if someone doesn't want to be somewhere, making them feel worse probably isn't going to make them suddenly want to be there."
You looked away, taking another slow drag before exhaling toward the trees.
"You're surprisingly understanding for someone at a religious school."
There was a slight pause, then he smiled faintly.
"Is that supposed to be an insult?"
You shrugged. "I'm not sure yet."
That earned a quiet laugh from him, and the sound surprised you because it wasn't the kind of laughter you expected from him.
"You thought I was going to give you a lecture."
"I mean, you're standing behind a church school talking to someone who skipped chapel and is smoking," you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you as though the situation itself explained everything.
His eyebrows lifted slightly, not in disbelief, but in genuine thought, as though he was actually considering your words rather than waiting for his turn to respond. It was a strange reaction, and you found yourself watching him more closely because you couldn't figure out what he was trying to do.
"Do people usually do that?" he asked.
The question was so simple that it almost confused you.
You glanced away for a moment, looking toward the empty field beside the building where the morning sunlight stretched across the grass. "Usually."
You didn't need to explain what you meant.
He seemed to understand anyway.
"And does it work?"
The question caught you off guard.
Not because it was difficult, but because you had expected him to ask something else. You expected him to ask why you smoked, why you skipped chapel, why you seemed so determined to reject everything about the place you had just arrived in. You expected him to focus on the action itself, because that was what people usually did.
You looked back at him, studying his expression carefully.
"What?"
"Does it work when people lecture you?"
For a moment, you didn't answer.
The cigarette slowly burned between your fingers, the ash growing longer before falling quietly onto the ground beneath you. You opened your mouth, ready to give him the easy response. The sarcastic one. The answer you usually gave whenever someone asked a question that felt too close to the truth.
Something like depends who's asking.
Or clearly not, considering I'm still here.
But the words didn't come.
"No."
The answer came out quieter than you intended.
The boy didn't look surprised. He didn't look pleased, either, like he had somehow won an argument. He simply nodded slowly, as though your answer confirmed something he had already suspected.
"Then I don't see the point."
There was something unusual about the way he spoke, like he wasn't trying to convince you of anything. He wasn't saying it because he expected you to suddenly agree with him or because he wanted credit for being understanding. He said it like it was an obvious conclusion, like forcing someone to listen to advice they had no intention of accepting was just another way of making yourself feel useful.
You watched him carefully, trying to figure out what kind of person said things like that.
It was difficult because he didn't fit neatly into any of the categories you had already created for everyone in Maple Creek. You had expected people here to be predictable. You had expected the students at Saint Augustine's to be polite in the same rehearsed way the rest of the town was polite, carrying themselves with the quiet confidence of people who had never had to question whether they belonged. You expected judgment hidden beneath kindness, because that was what you had grown used to.
Before you could stop yourself, you spoke.
"You know, I don't think I ever got your name."
For a moment, something almost amused passed across his expression, like he hadn't realised until then that you had been standing there having an entire conversation without knowing who he was.
His eyes softened slightly, and he shifted his weight away from the wall, extending his hand in a gesture that felt strangely normal considering how unusual the circumstances were.
"I'm Jake."
You looked at him for a moment, your fingers still holding the cigarette as you tried to place where you had heard it before. It sounded familiar, but the thought disappeared before you could catch it. There were too many new names, too many new faces, too many pieces of information being thrown at you since arriving in Maple Creek.
You would remember eventually.
"Y/n." You replied.
He repeated your name quietly back to you, almost absentmindedly, like he was making sure he remembered it.
And you hated how much you noticed.
◌ֹ 💭 ִ ՞
The walk home felt strangely shorter than it had that morning, and you found yourself resenting that more than you probably should have. The Sim house came into view as you turned onto Maple Street, standing beside yours exactly as it had the day before.
You looked at it only briefly before turning toward your own house.
You didn't have the energy to think about anything else.
The day had already been long enough.
You dropped your bag beside the stairs, kicking your shoes off before walking further inside. The living room looked slightly different from when you had left that morning, although you couldn't immediately identify what had changed. Your father had clearly spent the day trying to make the space feel more lived in. A few boxes had disappeared, the curtains had been opened, and the empty shelves that had made the room feel like a stranger's house were slowly beginning to fill with pieces of your old life.
It was strange watching him rebuild everything so quickly.
Your father had always been good at practical things.
He knew how to assemble furniture without reading instructions. He knew how to fix things that broke. But making it a home was something else entirely, it required something you couldn't unpack from a cardboard box. It required time, memories.
You found him in the kitchen, standing at the counter with his sleeves rolled up while sorting through paperwork beside a half-empty mug of coffee. He looked up when he heard you enter.
"You're home."
You leaned against the doorway.
"Unfortunately."
A small smile tugged at his mouth before disappearing almost immediately.
It was one of the things you noticed about your father. He rarely laughed properly anymore. Since the divorce, happiness seemed to appear in brief moments before he remembered there were still things to worry about.
"How was school?"
You knew what he wanted. He wanted some kind of reassurance that this hadn't been a mistake. That moving three states away hadn't made everything worse. That his decision to leave Chicago, to take the job, to start over, had actually been the right one.
You could have given him the answer he wanted.
You could have complained about everything and proven yourself right.
Instead, you placed your bag down beside the counter and shrugged.
"Fine."
The word was deliberately vague, and you knew it the moment it left your mouth.
Your father knew it too.
He looked up from the papers he had been sorting, his expression changing only slightly, but you noticed the shift anyway. He didn't look angry or disappointed. He didn't even look surprised. If anything, he looked like someone who had expected that answer before he had even asked the question.
"Fine?" he repeated, leaning back against the counter.
You opened the refrigerator door, more to give yourself something to do than because you actually wanted anything inside it. The shelves were organised with the same careful precision that seemed to define everything your father had done since arriving. Groceries were arranged neatly, containers were stacked, and everything had already found a place despite the fact that you still hadn't decided where half your belongings belonged.
"Yeah."
You could feel him watching you.
"You know, most people would probably use more than one word to describe their first day at a new school."
You didn’t reply, and he didn't ask again.
Instead, he simply returned to the papers on the counter, allowing the conversation to move on without forcing you to explain something you weren't ready to explain.
After a few moments, he glanced down at the papers before speaking again.
"The Sims stopped by earlier."
You glanced back at him, immediately recognising the name. The woman from next door had already made more of an impression on your first day than most people had managed to in years, mostly because she seemed almost impossibly comfortable in a way you couldn't understand. She had arrived with a warm peach cobbler, spoken to your father as though they were old friends rather than strangers who had only just met.
"The neighbours?" you asked, even though you already knew the answer.
Your father nodded, placing the papers aside and leaning back against the counter. "Yeah. They invited us over on Sunday."
There was something about the way he said it that immediately made you cautious. Not because you disliked the Sims specifically, but because you had started to understand that in Maple Creek, every friendly gesture seemed to come with some deeper connection to the town itself.
You looked at him carefully.
"For what?"
Your father hesitated only briefly, but it was enough for you to notice. He had always been terrible at hiding things from you, especially when he knew the answer would probably annoy you. There was a certain expression he got when he was trying to approach a subject carefully, like he was mentally preparing himself for the reaction before the conversation had even started.
"Church."
You stared at him, waiting for him to laugh or explain that he was joking, but his expression remained completely serious. Of course, he was serious. This was Maple Creek, after all. You should have expected that the first invitation from the neighbours would involve the very building that seemed to watch over the entire town from its place above the rooftops.
Your father watched your expression carefully, already knowing exactly what you were
"I don't know why we have to go," you said, trying to keep your voice neutral, although your father clearly heard the resistance underneath it.
He set his mug down slowly, and for the first time since you walked through the door, you saw the patience he had been holding onto begin to weaken. You knew your father well enough to understand that the church was not the real issue. The issue was everything that had come before it — the constant rejection of every attempt he made to make this place feel less unfamiliar, the way you had spent days insisting that Maple Creek was a mistake before you had even given it a chance.
"They're being kind," he said.
"I know."
"Then why does it bother you so much?"
You looked away because you didn't have a simple answer. It wasn't that you thought Mrs Sim was a bad person. She wasn't. It wasn't that you thought your father was wrong for wanting to meet people. He wasn't. The frustrating part was that everything about Maple Creek was making it harder for you to stay angry.
Your father watched you for a moment before letting out a quiet breath, the kind that carried more exhaustion than frustration. "You know, I understand that you're upset."
You stayed silent.
"I understand that you didn't want this. I understand that you miss Chicago and your friends and the life you had before everything changed. I understand that you feel like you were dragged here because of choices you didn't make."
"But you have to understand something too."
You looked back at him.
"I didn't choose this either."
The words made you pause.
Because you had spent so much time thinking about what you had lost that you had forgotten your father had lost something too. He had lost the same home, the same routines, the same version of your family that you missed. The difference was that while you had been angry, he had been trying to make sure there was still something left to save.
"I am trying," he continued, looking around the kitchen that still didn't quite feel like yours. "I'm trying to make this work. I'm trying to make this place feel like somewhere we live instead of somewhere we ended up."
The honesty of it made you uncomfortable because you didn't know what to do with it. Anger was easier. Anger gave you something to hold onto. But your father's frustration wasn't coming from a desire to control you. It was coming from the fact that he was tired of feeling like he was the only person willing to believe things could get better.
"I'm not asking you to love Maple Creek," he said after a moment. "I'm not asking you to suddenly become someone you're not. I'm just asking you to stop deciding that everything here is against you before you even know what it is."
The kitchen fell quiet again, filled only by the distant sound of the town outside and the faint ringing of the church bell in the distance. You hated that the timing almost felt intentional, as though Maple Creek itself was reminding you that it was still there, waiting patiently for you to stop fighting it.
But after a long moment, you finally sighed and looked back at your father.
"One Sunday."
The surprise that crossed his face was immediate, and you regretted agreeing almost as quickly as you saw it.
"Don't make it a big deal," you warned.
A small smile appeared on his face, the first one you had seen since the conversation started.
"I won't."
You narrowed your eyes slightly because you both knew that wasn't entirely true.
"You will."
He laughed quietly, shaking his head as he picked up his mug again.
"Maybe a little."
You grabbed your bag and headed toward the stairs before he could say anything else, still uncertain about whether agreeing had been a mistake. You still weren't looking forward to Sunday. You still didn't understand why this town seemed so determined to pull you into its routines, its traditions, its carefully preserved little world where everyone seemed to know exactly where they belonged.
But as you entered your bedroom later that evening and looked out through the window toward the church steeple standing above the rooftops, you found yourself wondering what exactly waited for you there.
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The Sunday you were dreading seemed to come faster than you wished.
The pews creaked under the weight of the congregation as you sat rigid beside your father, the stiff collar of your dress scratching at your neck. The sermon droned on, the pastor's voice booming from the pulpit, but your attention drifted until the side door opened. A boy about your age slipped in late, Bible tucked under one arm, and took the empty seat two rows ahead. The moment his profile turned, your stomach dropped. It was him—the same guy who had caught you behind the school last week, cigarette between your fingers, smoke curling from your lips.
Jake.
For a moment, you wondered if he had noticed you, but he seemed completely absorbed in the service, carefully opening the worn Bible beneath his arm before offering a quiet apology to the elderly woman beside him for arriving late. She smiled as though she had forgiven him before he'd even spoken, patting his arm affectionately before turning her attention back toward the pulpit.
Every movement he made carried the unconscious ease of someone who had spent years within these walls. He knew exactly when to stand, when to sit, when to join the hymns without needing to glance at the page numbers announced from the front. Even the people around him seemed to move naturally around his presence, greeting him with small smiles whenever the congregation shifted or the peace was exchanged, as though he wasn't simply another student from school but somebody they had watched grow up.
You couldn't imagine what that felt like.
The service continued, the pastor's voice echoing beneath the high timber ceiling while coloured light from the stained-glass windows drifted slowly across the polished wooden floor. You tried—genuinely tried—to pay attention, but your concentration wandered almost immediately yet again, your gaze drawn back toward Jake every few minutes despite yourself. It wasn't curiosity anymore, at least not entirely. It was something closer to disbelief. The boy who had found you smoking behind the maintenance building somehow looked exactly the same here, yet completely different at the same time.
Eventually the pastor closed his Bible, offering a final blessing before the congregation answered in practiced unison. Almost immediately the atmosphere changed. The solemn quiet dissolved into conversation as people rose from their seats, hymn books slid back into their holders, and families gathered in the aisles with the familiar ease of people who had repeated the same ritual every Sunday for decades. Children darted between rows of pews while older couples lingered to catch up.
Your father stood beside you, smoothing invisible creases from his shirt before offering you a hopeful glance.
"Come on," he murmured. "We should say hello."
You resisted the urge to sigh.
Instead, you followed him reluctantly through the growing crowd, offering polite nods whenever another unfamiliar face introduced themselves. Everyone smiled. Everyone seemed genuinely pleased that you were there.
It was exhausting.
Across the room, you caught sight of Mrs Sim weaving effortlessly through the congregation with the same warmth she'd shown the day she'd arrived at your house carrying a peach cobbler. The moment she noticed the two of you, her face lit up, and she crossed the room with surprising speed before your father had any chance of escaping.
"I'm so glad you came," she said brightly, clasping your father's hands between hers before turning that same smile toward you. "And you must be surviving your first week at school."
"Barely," you replied.
Mrs Sim laughed, apparently choosing to interpret your answer as a joke.
"I'm sure it'll get easier."
You weren't convinced.
"Oh," she said suddenly, looking over her shoulder. "Jake!"
You followed her gaze instinctively.
Jake had been speaking with an older man near the front of the church, but at the sound of his mother's voice, he excused himself immediately and made his way over, offering the man a polite smile before crossing the aisle. Up close, he looked exactly as he had behind the school, except for the blazer he'd pulled on over his shirt and the Bible still tucked beneath one arm.
"Jake," Mrs Sim said warmly as he reached the group, resting a gentle hand against his arm. "I'd like you to meet our new neighbours."
He turned obediently toward your father first, offering a polite smile before extending his hand. "Hi, sir. I'm Jake."
"Nice to meet you, Jake," your father replied, returning the handshake. "I'm Daniel, and this is my daughter." Only then did Jake's attention shift towards you.
Recognition crossed his face almost immediately, so brief that anyone else would have mistaken it for an ordinary pause, but you caught it anyway. His eyes widened the slightest fraction before settling, the corners of his mouth threatening a smile he seemed to think better of almost as quickly as it appeared.
He hadn't expected you to be here.
You hadn't expected him either.
"Hi," he said after the briefest hesitation, extending his hand towards you exactly as though the two of you had never spoken before.
You looked at his outstretched hand for a second before taking it.
"Y/n."
"Jake."
The corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly, "It's... nice to meet you."
You caught the tiny pause before meet, and for a moment you wondered if anyone else had noticed it. Judging by the bright smile spreading across Mrs Sim's face, they hadn't.
Mrs Sim's smile widened with obvious satisfaction as she looked between the two of you, entirely convinced she had just witnessed the beginning of a perfectly ordinary introduction. "Isn't that lovely?" she said, clasping her hands together for a moment before turning her attention back to your father. "I've been telling Jake all week that he should properly come over and welcome you both, but between school and helping his father prepare for Sunday, we simply haven't had a moment."
Jake withdrew his hand slowly, offering his mother a small, almost sheepish smile that suggested this was hardly the first time she'd volunteered his time on his behalf. "Sorry about that," he said, his attention returning to you for only a moment before politely addressing your father again. "I should've introduced myself sooner."
"It's been a busy week for everyone," your father replied easily. "We're still finding boxes we forgot to unpack."
"I can imagine."
The conversation settled into an easy rhythm almost immediately, though you found yourself contributing very little. It wasn't intentional; there simply wasn't much to say. Your father and Mrs Sim seemed strangely well suited to one another's company, discussing the town with the comfortable enthusiasm of two people standing on opposite sides of the same experience—one eager to tell stories, the other grateful to hear them. Your father listened with genuine interest, asking questions whenever she paused, and you realised with some surprise that he was smiling more than you'd seen him smile since leaving Chicago.
"You survived your first week."
Jake's voice came quietly from beside you. You turned your head just enough to find him standing beside you, close enough to speak without raising his voice but careful not to crowd your space. He wasn't looking directly at you. Instead, his attention rested somewhere across the sanctuary where a little girl in polished black shoes chased her younger brother between the pews before their mother caught both of them with an exasperated laugh. The corners of Jake's mouth lifted ever so slightly at the sight, his expression carrying the quiet amusement of someone who had probably watched the same scene play out countless Sundays before.
"Barely," you admitted, your answer escaping with a dry honesty that surprised even you.
A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it, dissolving almost as quickly as it appeared. For a brief second, the carefully composed image everyone seemed to have of Jake dissolved, revealing someone your age rather than the pastor's son everyone else appeared to see.
"I figured," he said, the smile lingering faintly as he glanced down for a moment before looking back toward the sanctuary.
You studied him for a second, curiosity getting the better of you.
"You figured?"
His attention finally shifted towards you, and there it was again—that impossibly gentle expression that somehow never felt rehearsed. "Most people," he said with the faintest trace of amusement colouring his voice, "don't decide to skip chapel on their first day."
You couldn't help the quiet smile that tugged at the corner of your mouth, the memory arriving almost uninvited. You could still picture the look on his face when he'd stepped around the maintenance building and found you leaning against the brick wall with a cigarette balanced lazily between your fingers. You had been so certain you knew exactly how that conversation would unfold. You had expected disappointment, a lecture rehearsed from years of Sunday sermons, or at the very least the smug satisfaction of someone catching another person doing something they shouldn't.
"No," you replied, folding your arms loosely across your chest. "I figured I'd make an impression."
Jake's head dipped as another quiet laugh escaped him, this one accompanied by the smallest shake of his head. "You definitely managed that."
"Oh?" you asked, unable to resist. "I was under the impression you were trying very hard not to think about it."
"I was."
"But?"
"But..." He hesitated, searching for the right words with the same care he seemed to give everything he said. "You're not exactly easy to forget."
The admission seemed to surprise him almost as much as it surprised you. The words hung between you for a moment before a faint flush climbed slowly across his cheeks, and you watched the realisation dawn on him that he'd spoken aloud instead of keeping the thought to himself.
"I didn't mean—"
"I know what you meant."
His shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, grateful that you hadn't chosen to make things more embarrassing than they already were. A sheepish smile tugged briefly at the corners of his mouth before he ducked his head, his fingers absentmindedly tightening around the worn spine of the Bible tucked beneath his arm. It was strangely endearing, watching someone who seemed so composed unravel over a sentence as innocent as that.
For a moment, neither of you spoke, then Mrs Sim's voice drifted across the sanctuary before either of you had the chance to say anything else.
"Jake, sweetheart," she called, waving him over with an affectionate smile. "Would you mind helping your father carry the coffee urn into the hall?"
Jake glanced over his shoulder toward his mother, then back at you, and for a moment he looked almost reluctant to leave.
"I should probably..." he began, his voice trailing off as he nodded toward where his mother was waiting.
You glanced in the same direction before looking back at him.
"Go," you said, unable to hide the amusement in your voice. "Before she sends someone else over here to get you."
He adjusted the Bible beneath his arm, his fingers brushing over the worn leather cover as though he needed something to do with his hands.
"It was..." He paused, searching for the right words, and the hesitation was so unlike the confident, composed version of him everyone else seemed to know that it almost made you smile. "It was nice to officially meet you."
You looked at him for a moment, letting the irony sit between you.
"We're still pretending that's what happened?"
A small smile appeared on his face, one that he tried and failed to hide.
"...It was nice to officially meet you too."
Something about your answer seemed to genuinely please him. His smile widened, then he disappeared into the crowd, moving easily between familiar faces and Sunday conversations, stopping every few steps to greet someone who knew him by name. You watched him for a moment longer than you intended.
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The weeks after that passed slowly enough that you almost didn't notice when Maple Creek began feeling less like a place you had been sent to and more like somewhere you actually existed.
You still missed Chicago in ways you didn't always admit. You missed the noise of the streets outside your old apartment, the constant movement of people who didn't know your name and didn't care enough to ask. In Maple Creek, everyone knew everything, or at least they acted like they did. The neighbours waved whenever you walked past. Teachers remembered your name. People asked how you were adjusting with genuine concern, and you never quite knew what to do with their kindness.
It wasn't that the town had suddenly become home. It hadn't. There were still mornings when you woke up convinced that if you looked out of your bedroom window, the familiar skyline of Chicago would somehow have returned overnight, replacing the church steeple that stood stubbornly above the rooftops. There were afternoons when you found yourself reaching instinctively for your phone to text friends who were no longer part of your daily life, only to remember that conversations became difficult when they were separated by three states and an entirely different routine. Life back home continued without you, just as yours continued without them, and there was something quietly devastating about how quickly people adapted to absence.
School settled into something resembling routine before you realised it had happened. The novelty of being the new girl faded as other distractions claimed everyone's attention, and the curious glances that had followed you through the corridors during your first week gradually disappeared. Teachers stopped introducing you to every class. People no longer whispered your name after you walked past.
To your surprise, you found yourself sharing more classes with Jake than you had expected.
English, where the seating plan placed him one desk beside you after Mrs Henderson announced she wanted "fresh perspectives" before rearranging the entire room. History, where he somehow managed to answer questions without sounding like he was showing off, speaking only when the teacher called on him and never a moment longer. Even Chemistry, where your assigned lab partners changed every fortnight until, through what you suspected was extraordinarily bad luck, you ended up standing opposite him at the same scratched black laboratory bench.
"You look disappointed," he observed one afternoon while measuring chemicals into a graduated cylinder with infuriating precision.
"I was hoping for someone who'd let me do absolutely nothing."
The corner of his mouth lifted, though he kept his attention on the clear liquid slowly rising against the measurement lines.
Your eyebrows rose.
"You did?"
"No."
You let your head fall back with exaggerated disappointment.
"There goes my entire plan for the afternoon."
Jake finally glanced up, the faint smile still lingering on his face.
"You had a plan?"
"I usually don't," you admitted as you leaned against the bench, absentmindedly spinning an empty beaker between your hands. "That's probably the problem."
"I noticed."
You looked at him suspiciously.
"Was that supposed to be an insult?"
"No."
"It sounded like one."
"It wasn't."
"You didn't even deny noticing."
"I didn't think I had to."
For a second, you simply stared at him before a reluctant laugh escaped you. Jake smiled in return, before returning his attention to the experiment.
It was becoming increasingly difficult to remember why talking to him had once felt awkward.
The strange thing about Jake was that conversations with him never felt like conversations you had to win. He never treated your sarcasm like a challenge or an invitation to argue. Most people responded to your remarks by trying to outmatch them, determined to prove they were cleverer or funnier or somehow immune to the walls you built around yourself. Jake simply accepted them for what they were, answering with the same gentle humour every time until, before you realised it, you found yourself talking without thinking quite so carefully about every word.
You hated how easy that was becoming.
One morning you arrived at English to find the teacher running late, and Jake had absentmindedly saved the empty seat beside him without either of you acknowledging it. You would steal half his fries at lunch because, according to you, "sharing was a Christian virtue," and he'd sigh with theatrical disappointment before sliding the carton a little closer anyway. Another afternoon you discovered your pen had run out halfway through a history test, and before you could even ask, another one appeared silently on your desk. He never made a point of it. By the end of the lesson, he'd simply asked for it back with an absent-minded, "I only own two."
Neither of you ever spoke about it.
There simply came a point where being around one another stopped requiring an invitation.
By the time October settled over Maple Creek, the trees lining Main Street had begun surrendering their leaves one by one, covering the sidewalks in deep shades of amber and burnt gold that crunched beneath your shoes on the walk home. The afternoons grew cooler, sunlight fading earlier than it had only weeks before, and your routine settled into something that almost resembled normality. School. Home. Homework you pretended to hate. Dinner with your father, who looked a little less exhausted every evening.
One Friday evening, you arrived home to find the house smelling faintly of rosemary, garlic and something roasting in the oven. Music drifted quietly from the old radio your father had finally unpacked, filling the kitchen with the familiar sound of Fleetwood Mac while every available surface had somehow become covered with bowls, chopping boards and ingredients.
"What happened?" you asked, eyeing the organised chaos spread across every available surface.
Your father looked over his shoulder, the wooden spoon still resting in his hand, his brow creasing with mild confusion.
"What do you mean?"
"You cooked."
A quiet laugh escaped him as he returned his attention to the saucepan.
"I do know how."
"You ordered takeaway four nights this week."
"I was busy."
"And now?"
He hesitated for only a second before a small, almost satisfied smile settled across his face.
"I invited the Sims over for dinner."
The words landed with enough force that you straightened instinctively.
"You... invited them?"
"I did."
You stared at him for a long moment, trying to decide whether he was joking. Judging by the calm expression on his face as he sprinkled herbs into the saucepan, he wasn't.
"The pastor's family?"
"Our neighbours," he corrected gently.
You let out a slow sigh, dropping into one of the kitchen chairs as you rubbed a hand across your forehead.
"You really expect me to survive an entire evening of polite conversation?"
Your father smiled to himself as he stirred the sauce once more.
"I think you'll manage."
You narrowed your eyes at him.
"I think you're overestimating me."
His smile only grew. "Dinner's at six tomorrow."
You groaned quietly, letting your head fall back against the chair.
"I wasn't asking."
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The following evening arrived with surprising speed, carrying with it the kind of nervous anticipation you refused to acknowledge. By half past five, the house had been transformed into something almost unrecognisable. The dining table, which had spent the better part of a month buried beneath unopened mail and half-unpacked boxes, now sat neatly arranged with your father's best plates and polished cutlery that hadn't seen daylight since Chicago.
Your father had changed shirts twice.
You knew because you'd watched him do it.
The first one had apparently been "too wrinkled." The second, according to him, made him look like he was trying too hard. Eventually he'd settled on a navy button-down you'd seen him wear exactly twice before, smoothing imaginary creases from the sleeves every few minutes as he checked the oven for what had to be the sixth time.
"You know they're only coming for dinner," you observed from where you leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching him fuss over the table with growing amusement.
Without looking up, he adjusted one of the forks by what couldn't have been more than half a centimetre.
"I know."
The doorbell rang precisely at six.
Your father disappeared into the hallway before you had a chance to move, and moments later the sound of warm greetings drifted through the house, accompanied by the unmistakable laughter of Mrs Sim. You remained exactly where you were for another moment, taking a steadying breath before reluctantly following.
The Sims stood just inside the front entrance, autumn coats folded neatly over their arms after escaping the cool evening air. Mrs Sim was the first to notice you, her face brightening instantly as she crossed the hallway with the same effortless warmth she seemed to carry everywhere, wrapping you in a brief hug before you had any real opportunity to avoid it.
"Oh, sweetheart," she said, stepping back to admire you with an approving smile. "It's lovely to see you again."
You returned an awkward smile, still adjusting to people who expressed affection so freely.
"You too."
Pastor Sim stood nearby, extending a firm hand toward your father while thanking him again for the invitation. He carried himself with the same quiet authority you'd heard in his sermons, though stripped of the pulpit and formal robes, he seemed considerably less intimidating than he had on Sunday morning. He laughed easily, spoke gently, and thanked your father three separate times before stepping inside.
Jake lingered near the back of the group, waiting until everyone else had entered before quietly closing the front door behind them. Unlike church, where he'd worn pressed clothes and carried a Bible tucked neatly beneath one arm, tonight he looked comfortably ordinary. Holding a charcoal knit jumper over his arm, he wore a pale collared shirt whose sleeves had been rolled casually to his forearms, and his hair, usually kept neatly in place throughout the school day, had begun to curl slightly around his forehead in the cool evening air.
His eyes found yours almost immediately.
A small smile appeared before either of you spoke.
"Hi."
"Hi."
The greeting was simple, almost laughably so after weeks of sharing classrooms and conversations, but somehow it felt different here. There were no teachers nearby pretending not to overhear you, no church congregation moving around you, no hurried walk between classes limiting the conversation to a few passing words. This was your house. He was standing in your hallway.
"So..." you said, leaning casually against the hallway wall as the adults disappeared into the dining room. Your eyes moved over him with deliberate curiosity, taking in the fact that the boy who spent his days looking perfectly composed at school was now standing in your house looking slightly out of place. "This is how you spend your Saturday nights?"
Jake glanced towards the dining room before looking back at you, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. He seemed caught between defending himself and admitting you had a point.
"Apparently."
Before you could say something back, Mrs Sim called for both of you from the dining room, and Jake gestured for you to go ahead.
You looked at him suspiciously as you walked past.
"Just manners?"
He smiled.
"Just manners."
Dinner was easier than you expected.
You had prepared yourself for an evening of uncomfortable silence and forced conversation, the kind where every question felt like an interrogation and every answer had to be carefully chosen. Instead, the night moved naturally. Your father and Pastor Sim carried most of the conversation, discussing the town, work, and everything you had missed during your first few weeks in Maple Creek. Mrs Sim filled in the quieter moments with stories about the neighbourhood, laughing whenever your father admitted something embarrassing about adjusting to a smaller town.
You mostly listened. Jake sat across from you, occasionally catching your eye when the adults became too invested in their conversation. Each time, there was a quiet understanding between you both—a shared amusement at the fact that neither of you had expected the evening to be as normal as it was.
By the time the dinner had ended, the plates were cleared away, the last traces of conversation drifting from the kitchen as your father and the Sims continued talking.
You had just started relaxing into the evening when your father returned from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel as he glanced between you and Jake.
"You know what?" he said, wiping his hands on a towel. "You should show Jake your vinyl collection."
You looked up immediately.
"My what?"
Your father ignored the disbelief in your voice, leaning casually against the doorway.
"You spent all that time organising them last week."
You narrowed your eyes at him, already knowing exactly what he was doing.
Jake glanced towards you, a small smile forming.
"I'd like to see them." He responded.
"Fine.", you sighed, standing from your chair.
Your father smiled in victory.
"But if you judge my music taste," you added, pointing at Jake, "I'm making you leave."
A quiet laugh escaped him as he followed you towards the stairs.
You led the worn wooden stairs creak under Jake's weight as you guided him up to your room. You could feel the heat of his gaze on the back of your neck, a palpable thing that had nothing to do with the heat of the evening. "My dad has a few old gospel records," he said, his voice softer than it had been downstairs. "But they're predictable. The same messages."
You pushed your bedroom door open, "Predictable is boring," you stated, your tone leaving no room for argument as you gestured for him to enter. He stepped over the threshold like he was crossing into another world, his eyes wide as they took in the turntable on your desk.
You watched his throat work as he swallowed.
You pulled a record from its sleeve, toying with the black disk in your hands. "This one," you said, not asking, as you placed it on the platter and lowered the needle. A slow, grinding bassline filled the room, something primal that seemed to push against the walls. Jake flinched, just slightly. "Listen," you instructed, standing close enough that your arm brushed his. You didn't move away. "Hear the difference?."
He stared at the spinning record, but his attention was fractured, pulled to where your skin met the crisp cotton of his polo shirt. "It's intense," he managed, his voice tight. You turned to face him fully, closing the small distance. You saw the conflict in his eyes, the lifetime of doctrine warring with a raw, waking curiosity.
"You don't have to analyse it, Jake," you murmured, your hand coming up to not quite touch his cheek. You let it hover. "You just have to experience it." His breath caught. His eyes fluttered shut for a second, and when they opened, the look in them was one of surrender. You finally let your fingertips graze his jawline. He leaned into it, ever so slightly.
Your other hand found his, prying his fingers open from the fist he hadn't realized he'd made. You guided his palm, placing it flat against the album cover on your desk. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?" you asked, the music swelling around you both. He didn't speak. He only nodded, a slow, deliberate dip of his chin, his eyes locked on yours.
The song ended with a final, resonant thrum, and the sudden silence felt louder than the music. Jake’s hand remained on the album cover, his knuckles pale. You watched him, the rise and fall of his chest beneath his starched shirt a little too quick. You didn’t move your fingers from his jaw. The air in the room grew thick, charged with the things he’d been taught to confess and repent.
You finally broke the contact, turning back to the turntable. You lifted the tonearm, the click of the switch cutting off the faint surface noise. “There’s more,” you said, your voice a low murmur, not looking at him as you flipped through the crate, the cardboard sleeves stacked against each other. You could feel him watching you, his eyes following your every move.
You selected another record, this one with a stark, abstract cover in deep reds and blacks. “This one builds slower,” you explained, your back still to him as you slid the vinyl out. “It takes its time. It makes you wait for it.” You placed it on the platter, setting the needle down with care, and a single, clean piano note echoed through the speakers, followed by another, spaced apart by a breath of silence. Jake let out a slow exhale behind you. You heard the soft rustle of his clothes as he shifted his weight.
You turned then, leaning back against the edge of your desk, crossing your ankles. You studied him openly—the way his hair fell a little too perfectly over his forehead, the rigid set of his shoulders that was beginning to soften. His eyes were fixed on the record as it spun, but you knew he wasn’t really seeing it. He was listening, truly listening, to the music.
“Do you understand now?” you asked, your voice barely above the level of the unfolding melody. His gaze flickered to yours, and in the low light from your desk lamp, you saw the first crack in his composure, a fine, hairline fracture. He gave another small, silent nod. You held his look for a long moment, then let your eyes drift back to the spinning black disk, letting the music fill the space where words would have been a trespass.
His fingers slowly curled, lifting from the album cover. He brought his hand back to his side, but it didn’t hang with its usual relaxed posture. It was a fist again, though looser this time, as if holding onto the ghost of the sensation. The piano melody wove around a slow, deliberate drumbeat. He took a half-step forward, then stopped, as if an invisible line on your floor marked a boundary he wasn’t sure he was allowed to cross.
You didn’t invite him closer. You simply watched, your expression neutral, giving him nothing but the space to choose. His eyes traveled from the turntable to your face, then down to your lips, before snapping back up, a faint flush coloring his neck. The music built, layer upon layer, a sonic cathedral of something entirely secular. It was beautiful in a way that felt dangerous to him, you could tell.
“Where did you find this?” he finally asked, his voice rough. It was the first question he’d dared to ask since entering your room. It wasn’t about the music, not really.
“A little shop downtown,” you answered, your tone casual. “The owner knows what I like.” You uncrossed your ankles and stood up straight, taking a single, slow step toward him. He didn’t retreat. The distance between you was now just a matter of a few inches. You could see the rapid pulse at the base of his throat.
“It doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever heard,” he admitted, the confession seeming to cost him something. His gaze dropped to your collar, to the hollow of your throat, before he forced it back to your eyes. He was trying so hard to be polite, to maintain eye contact, even as every instinct was pulling him elsewhere.
You reached out again, this time not towards his face, but towards the stiff collar of his polo shirt. You didn’t grab it. You merely hooked a single finger under the fabric, just beside his neck, and gave the slightest tug. His breath hitched audibly, a sharp sound swallowed by the swelling music. His entire body went still, a deer caught in headlights.
A slow, wry smile touched his lips, a flicker of his usual self breaking through the tension. “Checking the thread count?” he asked, his voice a rough whisper that carried a surprising hint of humor. It was a defense mechanism, a quick-witted retreat into something safe and mundane, but it faltered as your finger remained, the back of your knuckle resting against the pounding pulse in his throat.
You released the collar, your finger brushing the warm skin of his collarbone as you withdrew. “Just seeing if it’s as ruined as your demeanor,” you replied, matching his tone but letting your gaze drop meaningfully to his lips. The color in his cheeks deepened, but he held your look. The music built around you, a complex tapestry of sound that felt like it was weaving the two of you together in the dim light.
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “My mom insists on a specific laundry routine. Says a crisp appearance reflects a… an ordered mind.” The words were a confession and an offering, a glimpse into the world of rules that shaped him. He was letting you in, piece by piece, even as his body trembled on the precipice.
Your hands came up to frame his face, your thumbs stroking over his cheekbones. He leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. You kissed him, your mouth demanding against his, and after a moment of stillness, Jake responded with a desperate, hungry fervor that shattered his careful composure. His hands came up, hovering awkwardly at your sides before finally settling on your waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt. A low groan vibrated from his chest into yours. You walked him backward until his legs hit the edge of your bed, and he sat down with a soft thump, breaking the kiss only because he had to.
You stood between his knees, looking down at him. His lips were swollen, his breath coming in short pants. You reached for the hem of his polo shirt again. This time, you didn’t tease. You pulled it up and over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. His chest was pale and smooth, his skin heating under your gaze. Your fingers went to the button of his chinos. He watched, mesmerized, as you undid it, then the zipper. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his pants and his briefs. “Lift,” you commanded softly.
He obeyed instantly, raising his hips so you could strip the last barriers from him. He was fully, beautifully exposed, sitting on the edge of your bed. You let your eyes travel over him, a slow, appreciative look that made him shiver. Then you sank to your knees on the floor before him. His eyes widened, a soft “oh” escaping him. You didn’t make him wait. You took him into your mouth, your tongue sweeping a broad, wet stroke along his length. His whole body jerked, a choked cry tearing from his throat. His hands flew to your hair, not pushing or pulling, just tangling in the strands as if he needed to hold onto something solid.
You set a slow, deep rhythm, your mouth a warm, slick haven. His hips began to move in tiny, helpless thrusts, a rhythm as old as time but entirely new to him in this context. His breaths were ragged prayers, gasps of “please” and “God” that had nothing to do with the divinity he’d been raised to worship and everything to do to the sinful paradise you were building with your lips and tongue. You could feel the tension coiling tightly in him, his thighs trembling against your shoulders. Just as he was teetering on the edge, you pulled back, leaving him gasping and bereft. You looked up at him, your chin glistening. “My turn,” you whispered, and you rose to guide him back onto the bed.
He hesitated for only a second, his face flushed with shame and arousal. “I… I shouldn’t,” he whispered, voice trembling. “This is wrong… I was taught to resist this kind of temptation.” Yet his body betrayed him. His cock twitched visibly, already leaking at the tip, and he didn’t resist when you pushed him onto his back. He lay there obediently, arms at his sides, fingers clutching the sheets like he was praying for strength. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, wide and pleading. “Tell me what to do,” he said softly. “I’ll do it. I’ll be good for you.”
You guided him onto his back, and he went without resistance, settling against the sheets with his arms loose at his sides. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths. His cock lay hard against his stomach, flushed dark and twitching with every pulse of his heartbeat. You climbed over him, straddling his hips, and his eyes followed your every movement like he was watching something forbidden yet irresistible.
"I shouldn't," he whispered again, the words catching in his throat. "It's a sin. I've prayed against this... against wanting it." His voice cracked on the last word, but his hips lifted slightly, seeking contact even as he spoke against it. His hands stayed where they were, fingers digging into the bedding, waiting for your command.
You leaned down until your lips brushed his ear. "Then pray while I use you," you told him. A soft, broken sound escaped him, half a whimper and half a moan. You reached between your bodies, wrapped your fingers around his cock, and lined him up. His whole frame tensed as the head pressed against your entrance.
"Please," he breathed. "Tell me I'm allowed. Tell me to take it."
"Push up," you ordered.
He obeyed at once. His hips rose in one smooth thrust, sliding into you with a single, desperate motion. The moment he was buried to the hilt, a strangled prayer tore from his lips—half-formed words of repentance mixed with raw need. You stayed still above him, letting him feel every inch of your heat gripping him, while his thighs trembled beneath you.
"Move," you said.
He started with shallow, careful thrusts, trying to keep some measure of control, but it quickly unraveled. His hips snapped upward harder, chasing the slick friction, each stroke punctuated by soft, guilty gasps of "God" and "forgive me." His hands finally left the sheets to grip your hips, not to guide you but to hold on as if you were the only thing anchoring him. Every time he bottomed out, his eyes squeezed shut like he was both praying for strength and begging for more.
You leaned forward, pressing your chest to his, and whispered against his mouth, "You're being so good for me. So obedient."
A shudder ran through him. "I want to be good," he panted. "I want to please you. Even if it's wrong. Even if I have to confess later." His thrusts grew faster, more urgent, the wet sound of your bodies meeting filling the room. Pre-cum leaked steadily from him inside you, mixing with your own slickness. His abs flexed with every movement, the muscles in his arms standing out as he held you.
You sat up again, rolling your hips in a slow circle that made him cry out. "Don't come yet," you warned.
He nodded frantically, biting his lower lip hard enough to leave marks. "I won't. I won't until you say. I'll hold it. I'll be good." His cock throbbed inside you, right on the edge, but he forced his hips to slow, following your command even as his entire body shook with the effort. Sweat beaded on his forehead and chest. His eyes stayed locked on yours, wide, glassy, and completely surrendered.
You stayed seated on him, savoring the way his cock pulsed inside you with every desperate heartbeat. His grip on your hips tightened, but he kept his thrusts shallow and controlled exactly as you ordered. Sweat glistened across his pale chest, and his lips moved in silent prayer even while his body betrayed every word of it.
"Good boy," you murmured, rolling your hips in a slow grind that dragged a broken moan from his throat. "Keep praying. Let me hear it."
His voice cracked as he obeyed. "Forgive me... Lord, forgive me for this... for wanting it so much..." Each word dissolved into a gasp when you clenched around him. His thighs quivered beneath you, and his cock twitched hard, threatening to spill, but he fought it back with visible effort.
You leaned down and kissed him hard, swallowing the next plea. When you pulled back, a thin strand of saliva connected your mouths. "Now fuck me properly," you told him. "Hard. Don't stop until I tell you."
The permission hit him like a command from above. His hips snapped up in one powerful thrust that drove the air from his lungs. He buried himself to the hilt again and again, the wet slap of skin filling the room. His fingers dug into your flesh hard enough to leave marks as he used every ounce of strength to obey. Each stroke punched a ragged sound from him—half curse, half prayer.
"Yes... yes, use me," he panted. "I'm yours... I'm so sorry, God, but I'm yours right now." His eyes stayed locked on yours, glassy with guilt and lust. Pre-cum leaked steadily from him, mixing with your slickness and making every thrust louder, filthier.
You reached between your bodies and rubbed your clit in tight circles while he pounded into you. The sight of him—flushed, sweating, desperate—pushed you closer. "Don't come," you warned again. "Not until I do."
He nodded frantically, jaw clenched, veins standing out in his neck. His rhythm never faltered even as his whole body shook with the effort of holding back. "I won't... I promise... I'll be good... I'll wait..." His cock swelled inside you, so close to the edge it hurt to watch, but he kept driving upward exactly as you wanted.
You rode him faster, chasing your own release while he suffered beautifully beneath you. His prayers had dissolved into wordless, broken sounds. Every thrust hit deep, the head of his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you until your thighs started to tremble.
"Now," you gasped. "Come with me."
The permission shattered what little control he had left. His hips jerked upward in one final, brutal thrust as he came hard, flooding you with hot pulses. A loud, guilty cry tore from his throat—your name mixed with another broken apology to God. His cock throbbed violently inside you, emptying everything he had while his body arched off the bed. You clenched around him and came right after, your walls pulsing and milking every drop from him.
He kept thrusting weakly through both orgasms, unable to stop even after he was spent. When the last aftershocks faded, he collapsed back against the sheets, chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut in shame and relief. His softening cock still twitched inside you, sensitive and overstimulated.
You stayed on top of him, letting him feel the mess he'd made. After a long moment he opened his eyes, looking up at you with raw, wrecked devotion.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For... for letting me. Even though I shouldn't have."
◌ֹ 💭 ִ ՞
You hadn't expected Jake to become so desperate for you. Then again, you couldn't argue against it since the boy had never touched anything until that night in your bedroom. That night had been your experiment, a little game to see if the golden boy preacher’s son would crack, and he had shattered. Now, three weeks later, the crack had become a canyon, and he was falling through it daily, reaching for you.
He appeared at your usual smoke spot, his crisp button-down looking absurd against the scarred wall. His hands were shoved deep in his khaki pockets, his shoulders tense. "The archives in the library basement," he said, his voice low and urgent, skipping any greeting. "The theology section. No one goes there on Wednesday afternoons." His eyes, usually so clear and certain, were clouded with a need that looked like physical pain. You took a long drag of your cigarette, blowing the smoke out slowly, watching him flinch. Not from the smoke, but from the delay.
It became a pattern. A folded note tucked into your sociology textbook with a time and a location scrawled in his neat handwriting: *Boiler room, 3 PM.* A text message that just read *Empty classroom, second floor, east wing. Now.* He never asked if you wanted to. He simply presented the opportunity, a sinner offering his own temptation, his voice always carrying that same ragged edge. You’d find him there, pacing or standing perfectly still, his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might break. The moment he saw you, the calm would evaporate, replaced by a frantic energy as he fumbled with his belt, or yours, his prayers forgotten, replaced by whispered pleas against your skin.
You met him in the designated broom closet. It was cramped, smelling of lemon cleaner and dust. He had you pressed against the shelves before the door clicked shut, his mouth hot and demanding on yours, his hands pulling at your clothes with a clumsy haste. "I can't stop thinking about it," he gasped against your neck, his hips already moving against you. "About you. That's all I think about." His confession was torn from him, as he learned your body with a fervor he'd once reserved for scripture, each touch a new verse in a gospel of his own damnation.
Afterward, he would help you dress with trembling hands, his fingers brushing your skin as if memorizing it. He’d smooth his own hair, try to rearrange his face into something resembling the composed Jake everyone else saw. But the look in his eyes gave him away—a hollowed-out, hungry thing. "Tomorrow," he'd say, not as a question, but as a statement of fact, a necessary appointment for his survival. "The photo development lab. During the yearbook committee meeting."
You saw him at a campus ministry barbecue two days later. He was flipping burgers, laughing politely, the perfect picture of clean-cut devotion. His eyes scanned the crowd, found you leaning against a tree at the edge of the lawn. He held your gaze for a fraction of a second too long, and the plastic spatula in his hand snapped clean in two. He looked down at the broken pieces, then back at you, a slow flush creeping up his neck. He turned back to the grill, abandoning the ruined burger, and walked away from the crowd without a word to anyone.
The broken spatula was the first public crack. He didn't come to the smoke spot for two days, and you assumed maybe the guilt had finally won, that the prayer circles and his father’s disappointed eyes had rebuilt the wall. You were almost disappointed. Then, on the third day, as you were leaving a late class, a hand closed around your wrist from the shadow of a doorway. It was Jake, but he looked ravaged. Dark circles smudged under his eyes, his hair was uncharacteristically messy, and his collar was undone.
"Walk with me," he said, his voice hoarse. It wasn't a request. He didn't let go of your wrist as he steered you away from the main paths, toward the old greenhouse at the edge of the botanical gardens. It was locked for the night, but he produced a key from his pocket. Inside, the air was thick and humid, and he finally released you, turning to face you under the ghostly light filtering through the glass ceiling. "I tried," he breathed out, the words sounding ripped from his chest. "I prayed. I read. I went to confession." A harsh, humorless laugh escaped him. "It just made it worse. All I could think about was the smell of your skin in that closet."
He reached for you then, but his touch was different. It wasn't the frantic groping of before. His hands framed your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks with a terrifying tenderness. "You ruined me," he whispered, his forehead leaning against yours. "Do you understand that? Completely. And I don't want to be fixed." His mouth found yours, and this kiss was a slow, deep claim, devoid of its earlier panic. It was a surrender. He guided you down onto a bed of soft peat moss behind a tray of orchids, his movements deliberate.
He took his time. He peeled your clothes away with a reverence that was more unsettling than his prior desperation. He mapped every inch of you with his lips and tongue, whispering things that sounded like prayers but weren't. "This is my communion," he murmured against your stomach, his breath hot. "This is my only truth." When he finally entered you, it was with a slow, devastating roll of his hips that made you cry out, the sound swallowed by the dense air. He moved with a focused intensity, his eyes locked on yours, watching every flicker of pleasure on your face as if studying for a final exam.
After lying tangled together on the borrowed jacket he’d spread beneath you, he didn't scramble to leave. He traced idle patterns on your arm, his head on your chest. "My father is giving the sermon at the downtown mission on Friday night," he said, his voice quiet in the humid dark. "The office in the back will be empty. The door locks." He stated matter-of-factly. The dependency had crystallized into something calm and absolute.
◌ֹ 💭 ִ ՞
Your father stood at the stove, absently stirring a saucepan while an old Fleetwood Mac song played softly from the radio, the familiar melody blending with the quiet clink of cutlery as you wandered in to grab your jacket from the back of a chair.
"You've been going out a lot lately."
His voice was casual, almost conversational, though you could feel him watching for your reaction.
You shrugged one shoulder as you zipped up your jacket.
"So?"
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he looked back at the saucepan, stirring it slowly.
"I don't know..." he said after a moment, choosing his words carefully. "You just seem happier."
Your hand paused around your keys, turning to look at him properly, a faint crease appearing between your brows, "Really?"
He nodded once, meeting your eyes for only a second before his attention drifted back to dinner, "I think so."
You let out a quiet breath, leaning your hip against the counter as though considering the possibility for the first time.
"...I didn't notice."
"I don't think you were supposed to."
The silence that followed settled easily between you, neither awkward nor heavy. The saucepan continued to bubble softly on the stove while somewhere outside, a car rolled slowly down Maple Street.
You pushed yourself away from the counter, slinging your jacket over your shoulders.
"You're not going to ask where I'm going?"
Your father smiled to himself, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.
"I thought about it." He admitted.
"And?"
He looked back at you then, amusement warming his expression.
"I figured you'd tell me it was none of my business."
A slow grin spread across your face, "See you later."
"Don't stay out too late," he called after you, though there wasn't much authority behind it anymore.
You glanced back over your shoulder, a teasing smile still lingering on your face.
"No promises."
The downtown mission was cold and smelled of old wood and candle wax. He was waiting for you in the dark, a silhouette against the faint light from the stained-glass window depicting the crucifixion. He didn't speak, he simply took your hand and led you to the low, padded kneeler at the front of the small room. He guided you to kneel, then knelt beside you, not before the altar, but facing you. His hands trembled as he reached for the hem of your skirt, pushing the fabric up your thighs.
His repentance began with his mouth between your legs, there on the kneeler, his whispered prayers lost against your skin. Each flick of his tongue was a plea for forgiveness, each deep, worshiping stroke a confession of his weakness. He drank from you like communion, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady as he sought his own form of absolution in your taste. When your back arched and a stifled moan escaped your lips, he only pressed closer, his own need evident in the desperate sounds vibrating against you.
After, as you trembled, he rose to his feet. He unzipped his dress pants with a soft hiss that was obscenely loud in the quiet. He took your hand and wrapped your fingers around him, his own hand covering yours, showing you the rhythm. "Do it," he breathed, his eyes clenched shut, his head tilted back toward the vaulted ceiling. "Let me feel you… take your penance from me." Your hand moved on him, slow at first, then faster at his urging, his hips jerking into your fist. His other hand came up to cover your mouth, muffling the sound of his own ragged, broken gasps as he spilled over your fingers, his release hot and sudden in the dim, holy space.
He sank back onto his heels, breathing heavily, his forehead resting against your shoulder. The silence returned, thick and heavy. He pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket, the kind he always carried, and carefully wiped your hand clean. Then he wiped himself, folded the soiled cloth, and tucked it back into his pocket without a word. He stood, straightened his clothes, and ran a hand through his hair. He looked at you, still kneeling on the padded bench, your skirt rumpled, and in his eyes was a profound, unsettling peace. The crisis had passed. The sin was complete. He offered you a hand up, his touch now steady.
Sunday night found you in the back pew of the very same church, the evening service sparsely attended. Jake was at the pulpit, his voice clear and strong, speaking about grace and the burden of temptation. He looked every inch the devoted son, his suit crisp, his expression serene. His eyes scanned the congregation and landed on you. There was no flicker of recognition, no secret smile. His gaze passed over you as if you were a stranger. The sermon ended. The final hymn was sung. People filed out, offering him quiet greetings which he returned with gentle nods.
You waited until the last person had left, until the sexton had dimmed the lights and exited, leaving only the eternal flame flickering near the altar. The heavy door clicked shut. Jake remained at the front, his back to you, staring up at the cross. You stood and walked down the center aisle, the sound of your footsteps swallowed by the cavernous space. He didn't turn. You stopped a few feet behind him. For a long moment, there was only the faint hum of the building's electricity.
"Tell me you're sorry," you said, your voice soft but echoing slightly in the empty church.
He finally turned. In the dim light, his face was unreadable. He took a step toward you, then another, closing the distance. He didn't touch you. He simply looked down at you, his expression a mask of perfect, placid devotion. "I am washed clean," he stated, his voice low and even. Then his hand came up, not to your face, but to the top button of his own shirt. He undid it. Then the next. He took your hand and placed it flat against his bare chest, over the frantic, hammering beat of his heart. His skin was fever-hot. His eyes never left yours. The lie was a physical thing between you, trembling under your palm.
"I haven't been able to sleep," he rasped, his voice sounding ruined. "Every time I closed my eyes, I felt you. Every time I spoke of purity, I could taste you on my tongue."
He didn't kiss you softly. He claimed your mouth with a bruising intensity, his tongue demanding entrance as if he were trying to consume you. There was a desperate edge to him now; the seal had been broken, and the floodgates were wide open. He wasn't just a man resisting temptation anymore—he was a man who had tasted the forbidden fruit and found he couldn't survive without it.
His hands were frantic, sliding up your thighs with a familiarity that made your heart race. He knew exactly where you were most sensitive, exactly how to touch you to make you arch your back and moan his name into the silence of the church.
"You've ruined me," he groaned against your skin, his lips trailing fire down your neck to the swell of your breast. "I go to the altar and all I can think about is the way you scream when I'm deep inside you. I'm a liar. A hypocrite. And I don't care."
He reached down, his fingers trembling slightly as he freed himself from his trousers. He was already rock-hard, pulsing with a need that eclipsed any sense of divine duty. He gripped your hips, pulling you to the very edge of the table so he could align himself with you.
He looked you in the eyes, his expression a mix of agony and ecstasy. "Tell me you want this," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous vibrate. "Tell me you want me to forget everything but the way you feel."
As you whispered your consent, he drove into you in one fluid, powerful motion, filling you completely. He let out a guttural sound—half-sob, half-growl—as he buried himself in you, his forehead crashing against yours. The rhythm was savage, a relentless pounding that shook the heavy table, the sound of your colliding bodies echoing through the hallowed halls.
For Jake, this wasn't just sex; it was a desecration, and every thrust felt like a deeper plunge into a beautiful, shimmering hell. He clung to you as if you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth, his movements becoming faster, more desperate, as he chased the blinding peak that would leave him shattered and ruined once again.
The sound of the mahogany table groaning under the weight of their colliding bodies filled the room, a rhythmic, visceral thud that drowned out the distant chiming of the church bells. Jake was no longer the composed man of God; he was a storm of sweat and desperation, his breath coming in jagged, ragged gasps that sounded like prayers to a different kind of deity.
He gripped your hips so hard his fingers left crescent marks on your skin, anchoring you as he drove into you with a relentless, punishing force. Every thrust was deeper than the last, hitting a spot that made your vision blur and your toes curl. You could feel the sheer size of him filling you, stretching you, the friction building a heat that threatened to consume you both.
"I can't... I can't stop," he groaned, his voice a guttural wreck. He shifted his angle, lifting one of your legs and hooking it over his shoulder to plunge even deeper. The sensation was overwhelming, a piercing, electric pleasure that radiated through your entire body.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down, your nails digging into his shoulders through the thin fabric of his shirt. You whispered his name—not as a plea, but as a command—and the sound of it seemed to break the last shred of his restraint.
Jake’s movements became frantic, a blur of motion and heat. He was chasing a release that felt like it would tear him apart. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, his voice a low, shaking moan of "Oh God, oh God..."—though now, it wasn't a prayer. It was a surrender.
The tension reached a breaking point. You felt the first wave of your orgasm crash over you, tightening your walls around him in a series of rhythmic, pulsing contractions. The feeling of you gripping him was the final trigger. Jake let out a loud, unrestrained cry—a sound of pure, unadulterated release—as he thrust one last time, buried as deep as he could possibly go.
He shuddered violently, his entire body locking up as he spilled himself inside you in hot, heavy bursts. He collapsed against you, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. For several long minutes, the only sound in the vestry was the sound of two people trying to remember how to breathe.
As he slowly pulled away, the cold air hit your skin, but the heat between you remained. Jake didn't move immediately. He stayed there, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes clouded with a mixture of absolute bliss and a crushing, lingering guilt.
He looked down at the wreckage of their clothes, then back at you, a dark, hungry smile playing on his lips. He leaned in, kissing you softly.
"I'm condemned," he whispered, "And I think I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure we both burn for this."
୨୧ from ♡ 𝑘𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑎𓏼⑅ ♥︎ ୧
this is the longest fic i have ever wrote... so it is kind of proofread... i rlly hope you guys like this because i put so much effort into this and im scared u guys wont!! also im not trying to offend anybody with this fic, its purely for entertainment and entirely fictional!!!
+ this layout is inspired by katsuiki
could u write a priest's son!jake x delinquent!reader!!!
anonnie i’m not ignoring your request btw!! it’s been sitting in my inbox for a week and i’ve been working on it everyday!!! but i rlly love this concept so much so i’ve been putting a lot of dedication into it, it’s at roughly 16k rn >< i’ll try to post by sunday latest
ᦸ 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽!𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗇🧁 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 1.2k ⠀˃̵ᴗ˂̵⠀ first times NSFW praise kink oral (m recieivng)ㅤ reblogs&kisses
The summer air was thick and sticky in Sunghoon’s cramped bedroom, the only sound the hum of an old floor fan. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, a look of pure frustration etched on his handsome face. You sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against his dresser, trying to keep your expression neutral.
“It’s just… awkward,” he mumbled, not meeting your eyes. “Every time it gets to that point, I freeze up. I don’t know what to do with it.” A faint blush crept up his neck. You’d been friends since middle school, had shared every secret, but this was new territory. You took a steadying breath, the unspoken truth hanging between you. Of course you’d noticed; it was hard not to when he walked out of the shower with just a towel slung low on his hips. His sheer size was intimidating, even from a purely observational standpoint.
“Okay,” you said, your voice surprisingly steady. “We’re just problem-solving. Like we always do.” You pushed yourself up from the floor and sat beside him on the bed, the worn mattress dipping under your combined weight. The space between you felt charged, the humid air clinging to your skin. “First, we remove the mystery.” You kept your gaze on his face, on the nervous flicker in his dark eyes. “Let me see.”
Sunghoon exhaled sharply, a mixture of relief and fresh anxiety. His fingers fumbled with the button of his jeans, the sound loud in the quiet room. When he finally pushed the denim down his hips, the reality of him was even more staggering than the glimpses you’d stolen. He was thick and long, fully hard already, the tip flushed a deep red. He looked painfully earnest and completely lost. “See?” he whispered, his voice rough. “It’s… a lot.”
“It is,” you agreed softly, not touching him yet. You took his wrist and guided his hand to himself. “Get used to the feel of it.” You coached him through a slow, tentative stroke, your hand over his. His breath hitched, a soft groan escaping him. “That’s it. No rush. Just get used to the sensation, to being in control of it.”
You let go, allowing him to continue on his own, watching the concentration on his face shift from panic to a dazed sort of focus. After a few moments, his rhythm faltered. “It’s not… I can’t just do this by myself forever,” he said, frustration creeping back in. He looked at you, a silent, desperate question in his eyes.
“Then don’t,” you murmured. You shifted closer, your thigh pressing against his. With deliberate slowness, you reached out and replaced his hand with your own. The first full touch of your skin on him made him jerk, a strangled sound catching in his throat. He was impossibly smooth and hard, the vein along the underside pulsing under your thumb. You began to move your hand up and down in a firm, measured pace, your eyes locked on his.
A sheen of sweat coated his forehead. His hands gripped the bedsheet, knuckles white. “What… what about with someone else?” he managed to ask, his gaze dropping to where your hand worked him.
“That’s next,” you said, your own pulse thrumming. You leaned in, your breath ghosting over the wet head of his cock. “You have to learn where it’s most sensitive.” You touched your tongue to the slit, tasting the salty pre-come there. Sunghoon cried out, his back arching off the bed. “Here,” you said before taking him into your mouth, as much as you could manage. It was a stretch, your jaw aching instantly, but you hollowed your cheeks and sucked, using your hand on the base he couldn’t fit. His moans became broken, pleading things. You pulled off with a wet pop. “See? Responsive. You just have to listen.”
You crawled up his body, settling over his hips. The damp heat of your own need pressed against the thin barrier of your shorts, meeting the solid, insistent pressure of him. You guided him with your hand, positioning him right where you ached. "This is the part that usually makes people nervous," you said, your voice low. "It’s okay to go slow." You kept your eyes on his as you began to lower yourself, taking just the broad head of him inside. A sharp, full sensation made you pause, breathing through it. He’s not going to fit.
Sunghoon's hands flew to your hips, his grip instinctive but gentle. His eyes were wide, watching where you were joined. "Okay?" he breathed out, the word strained.
"Okay," you confirmed, sinking down another inch. The stretch was intense, a burning fullness that forced a low moan from your throat. You moved in a careful, rocking rhythm, letting your body adjust to the overwhelming size of him. His hips twitched upward, seeking more, but you placed a firm hand on his stomach. "Not yet. Let me lead."
You continued the slow, grinding descent until he was fully seated inside you, a feeling of being utterly filled. I’m full. Completely full. You stayed there, unmoving, letting the sensation settle for both of you. His chest was heaving, every muscle in his abdomen taut. "Now," you whispered, beginning to move in earnest. You rose until only the tip remained, then sank back down, setting a deep, rolling pace. His hands tightened on your hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he matched your rhythm, his own thrusts growing more confident, more demanding.
A low, ragged moan tore from your throat as he hit a spot deep inside that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His confidence was growing with every thrust, his movements losing their initial hesitation and gaining a raw, powerful rhythm. You braced your hands on his sweat-slicked chest, riding him with a desperate intensity now, each descent a deliberate surrender to that overwhelming fullness. The stretch had become a burning pleasure, a constant, throbbing reminder of his size that was tipping you toward the edge. You could feel your own climax coiling tight in your belly, triggered by the relentless, deep friction.
Sunghoon’s breathing was coming in harsh gasps, his eyes glazed and fixed on you. His hands slid from your hips to grip the backs of your thighs, holding you open, controlling the depth of his plunges. "Tell me," he grunted, the words strained. His voice was rough with a newfound authority. "Tell me if it's right."
Before you could form a coherent sentence, your orgasm crashed over you, a violent, clenching wave that ripped a cry from your lips. Your body clamped down around him, milking his length in rhythmic pulses. That sensation tipped him over the edge. With a choked-off shout, he drove up into you one final, searing time and held there, his release flooding you.
You collapsed forward, your forehead resting against his collarbone, both of you slick with sweat and utterly spent, feeling the rapid beat of his heart against your ear. His arms came around you, holding you close in the sticky silence. “So,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet and a bit rough. “Best friends still?”
୨୧ from ♡ 𝑘𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑎𓏼⑅ ♥︎ ୧
inspired by this fic by wonxee and my comment lol big dick hoon agenda is reallllll + this layout is inspired by katsuiki
ᦸ 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽!𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗇🧁 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 1.2k ⠀˃̵ᴗ˂̵⠀ first times NSFW praise kink oral (m recieivng)ㅤ reblogs&kisses
The summer air was thick and sticky in Sunghoon’s cramped bedroom, the only sound the hum of an old floor fan. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, a look of pure frustration etched on his handsome face. You sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against his dresser, trying to keep your expression neutral.
“It’s just… awkward,” he mumbled, not meeting your eyes. “Every time it gets to that point, I freeze up. I don’t know what to do with it.” A faint blush crept up his neck. You’d been friends since middle school, had shared every secret, but this was new territory. You took a steadying breath, the unspoken truth hanging between you. Of course you’d noticed; it was hard not to when he walked out of the shower with just a towel slung low on his hips. His sheer size was intimidating, even from a purely observational standpoint.
“Okay,” you said, your voice surprisingly steady. “We’re just problem-solving. Like we always do.” You pushed yourself up from the floor and sat beside him on the bed, the worn mattress dipping under your combined weight. The space between you felt charged, the humid air clinging to your skin. “First, we remove the mystery.” You kept your gaze on his face, on the nervous flicker in his dark eyes. “Let me see.”
Sunghoon exhaled sharply, a mixture of relief and fresh anxiety. His fingers fumbled with the button of his jeans, the sound loud in the quiet room. When he finally pushed the denim down his hips, the reality of him was even more staggering than the glimpses you’d stolen. He was thick and long, fully hard already, the tip flushed a deep red. He looked painfully earnest and completely lost. “See?” he whispered, his voice rough. “It’s… a lot.”
“It is,” you agreed softly, not touching him yet. You took his wrist and guided his hand to himself. “Get used to the feel of it.” You coached him through a slow, tentative stroke, your hand over his. His breath hitched, a soft groan escaping him. “That’s it. No rush. Just get used to the sensation, to being in control of it.”
You let go, allowing him to continue on his own, watching the concentration on his face shift from panic to a dazed sort of focus. After a few moments, his rhythm faltered. “It’s not… I can’t just do this by myself forever,” he said, frustration creeping back in. He looked at you, a silent, desperate question in his eyes.
“Then don’t,” you murmured. You shifted closer, your thigh pressing against his. With deliberate slowness, you reached out and replaced his hand with your own. The first full touch of your skin on him made him jerk, a strangled sound catching in his throat. He was impossibly smooth and hard, the vein along the underside pulsing under your thumb. You began to move your hand up and down in a firm, measured pace, your eyes locked on his.
A sheen of sweat coated his forehead. His hands gripped the bedsheet, knuckles white. “What… what about with someone else?” he managed to ask, his gaze dropping to where your hand worked him.
“That’s next,” you said, your own pulse thrumming. You leaned in, your breath ghosting over the wet head of his cock. “You have to learn where it’s most sensitive.” You touched your tongue to the slit, tasting the salty pre-come there. Sunghoon cried out, his back arching off the bed. “Here,” you said before taking him into your mouth, as much as you could manage. It was a stretch, your jaw aching instantly, but you hollowed your cheeks and sucked, using your hand on the base he couldn’t fit. His moans became broken, pleading things. You pulled off with a wet pop. “See? Responsive. You just have to listen.”
You crawled up his body, settling over his hips. The damp heat of your own need pressed against the thin barrier of your shorts, meeting the solid, insistent pressure of him. You guided him with your hand, positioning him right where you ached. "This is the part that usually makes people nervous," you said, your voice low. "It’s okay to go slow." You kept your eyes on his as you began to lower yourself, taking just the broad head of him inside. A sharp, full sensation made you pause, breathing through it. He’s not going to fit.
Sunghoon's hands flew to your hips, his grip instinctive but gentle. His eyes were wide, watching where you were joined. "Okay?" he breathed out, the word strained.
"Okay," you confirmed, sinking down another inch. The stretch was intense, a burning fullness that forced a low moan from your throat. You moved in a careful, rocking rhythm, letting your body adjust to the overwhelming size of him. His hips twitched upward, seeking more, but you placed a firm hand on his stomach. "Not yet. Let me lead."
You continued the slow, grinding descent until he was fully seated inside you, a feeling of being utterly filled. I’m full. Completely full. You stayed there, unmoving, letting the sensation settle for both of you. His chest was heaving, every muscle in his abdomen taut. "Now," you whispered, beginning to move in earnest. You rose until only the tip remained, then sank back down, setting a deep, rolling pace. His hands tightened on your hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he matched your rhythm, his own thrusts growing more confident, more demanding.
A low, ragged moan tore from your throat as he hit a spot deep inside that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His confidence was growing with every thrust, his movements losing their initial hesitation and gaining a raw, powerful rhythm. You braced your hands on his sweat-slicked chest, riding him with a desperate intensity now, each descent a deliberate surrender to that overwhelming fullness. The stretch had become a burning pleasure, a constant, throbbing reminder of his size that was tipping you toward the edge. You could feel your own climax coiling tight in your belly, triggered by the relentless, deep friction.
Sunghoon’s breathing was coming in harsh gasps, his eyes glazed and fixed on you. His hands slid from your hips to grip the backs of your thighs, holding you open, controlling the depth of his plunges. "Tell me," he grunted, the words strained. His voice was rough with a newfound authority. "Tell me if it's right."
Before you could form a coherent sentence, your orgasm crashed over you, a violent, clenching wave that ripped a cry from your lips. Your body clamped down around him, milking his length in rhythmic pulses. That sensation tipped him over the edge. With a choked-off shout, he drove up into you one final, searing time and held there, his release flooding you.
You collapsed forward, your forehead resting against his collarbone, both of you slick with sweat and utterly spent, feeling the rapid beat of his heart against your ear. His arms came around you, holding you close in the sticky silence. “So,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet and a bit rough. “Best friends still?”
୨୧ from ♡ 𝑘𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑎𓏼⑅ ♥︎ ୧
inspired by this fic by wonxee and my comment lol big dick hoon agenda is reallllll + this layout is inspired by katsuiki
A sticky beer pong ball bounced off the rim of your cup as Jay sidled up to you at the frat house kitchen island, his expression a mix of curiosity and poorly concealed hope. "So, uh, heard a thing," he started, leaning in conspiratorially over a half-eaten bag of chips. "Word is you and Chloe... you know. Operate as a package deal." He waggled his eyebrows, which was somehow both ridiculous and endearing.
You shared a look with Chloe, who was refilling her cup with suspicious-looking punch. She smirked. "Package deal? Jay, are you applying for a position?" she asked, her tone dry. "Because the last guy who 'applied' spent twenty minutes talking about his crypto portfolio before he passed out in the bathtub." Jay's confident grin faltered for a second. "I have zero crypto," he said, raising his hands in surrender. "And I promise my bathtub-passing-out days are behind me. Mostly."
Twenty minutes later, the three of you were in his surprisingly tidy bedroom, the door locked against the party noise.
You sat on the edge of the bed, Chloe perched beside you, as Jay stood before you both, shedding his shirt. He looked from you to Chloe, his gaze appreciative and warm. "So," he said, his voice low. "How do you want to do this?" It was Chloe who answered first, leaning over to capture your lips in a soft, practised kiss. Her tongue slipped into your mouth, the familiar taste of punch and mint making you sigh. When she pulled back, her eyes were dark. "We start together," she murmured.
Jay watched, his breathing already heavier, before he moved. He knelt on the floor in front of you, his hands sliding up your thighs to push your skirt up around your hips. At the same time, Chloe’s fingers worked at the buttons of your blouse, exposing your chest. Their attentions were a synchronised, overwhelming assault. Jay’s mouth found the centre of your need through your underwear, his tongue a hot, wet pressure, while Chloe took a nipple into her mouth, sucking and grazing it with her teeth. You cried out, your head falling back as pleasure sparked through you from two points at once.
Chloe pulled back, her lips glistening. "My turn," she said to Jay, a wicked smile on her face. She pushed you gently back onto the mattress and straddled your face, lowering herself onto your mouth without hesitation. You licked into her, tasting her sharp, clean arousal as Jay moved up the bed. You felt the bed dip, then the pressure of him entering you from behind, filling you. The room dissolved into a tangle of limbs and shared gasps. Chloe rocked against your mouth, her moans vibrating through you, each one timed with Jay’s deep, steady thrusts.
You lost track of who was touching where. A hand—you weren’t sure whose—slid between your bodies to circle your clit, the touch perfectly in rhythm with the movements rocking you. Jay’s pace increased, his grip on your hips tightening, and you felt Chloe’s thighs begin to tremble around your ears. Her climax hit her silently, a tight, pulsing wave against your tongue, and that sensation tipped you over the edge. Your own release tore through you, clenching around Jay, who groaned and followed, his body shuddering against your back. For a long moment, the only sounds were ragged breathing and the distant bass from the party below.
Chloe moved first. Sliding down the bed, she settled between your legs, her hands spreading you open. She didn’t use her mouth this time. Instead, she looked up at Jay, her expression a clear challenge. “Your turn to watch,” she said softly. Then she lowered her head, and her tongue began a slow, torturous exploration, licking broad, flat strokes that made you arch off the bed. Jay groaned, the sound torn from deep in his chest. He pushed himself up, kneeling beside you, his eyes fixed on where Chloe’s mouth worked on you. His own hand went to his cock, stroking himself slowly as he watched her bring you to the edge and then back down, denying you your finish with a cruel, expert ease.
“Fuck,” Jay breathed, the word strained. He leaned over you, his body casting a shadow. “I need to be in her mouth.” It wasn’t a request, Chloe understood immediately. She pulled away, leaving you throbbing and empty, and turned her head towards him. He guided himself to her lips, and she took him in, her mouth stretching around his girth. The visual was devastating—Chloe on her knees between your legs, Jay kneeling over you, feeding his cock into her hungry mouth. The wet, sucking sounds filled the room. You reached for yourself, desperate for relief, but Jay’s hand shot out and caught your wrist, pinning it to the mattress above your head. “No,” he said, his voice thick. “You wait for us.”
He began to move in Chloe’s mouth, a slow, deep rhythm. Her eyes were closed in concentration, one of her hands coming up to cup his balls. With her other hand, she reached back for you, her fingers finding your soaked entrance and pushing two inside with a ruthless, curling thrust. You cried out, the dual sensation of watching Jay fuck her face and feeling her fingers piston inside you driving you wild. The coil in your belly tightened beyond bearing. Jay’s thrusts into her mouth became faster, less controlled. With a guttural shout, he pulled himself free, his release striping across your stomach and breasts in hot, sudden spurts. The sight of it, the sheer carnality, was the final trigger. Your orgasm ripped through you, clamping down on Chloe’s driving fingers, your back bowing off the bed in a silent scream.
In the aftermath, Chloe crawled up your body, ignoring the mess, and kissed you deeply, letting you taste her and a hint of Jay on her tongue. She then turned her head and licked a stripe through the cooling come on your sternum, her eyes locked on Jay’s as she did it. He watched, utterly captivated, his chest heaving. He lowered himself down, his body sliding through the slickness between you, and captured Chloe’s mouth in a kiss, sharing the taste of all three of you.
The kiss between Jay and Chloe broke slowly, a thread of saliva connecting their lips for a second before it snapped. Jay rested his forehead against hers, both of them breathing heavily. He then turned his head, his mouth finding the sensitive skin beneath your ear. “Still with us?” he murmured, his voice a low vibration against your neck. You could only manage a weak nod, your entire body humming and oversensitive.
Chloe slid off the bed, her movements fluid. She returned from the adjoining bathroom with a warm, damp washcloth. Instead of handing it over, she began cleaning you herself, her touch surprisingly tender as she wiped the evidence of Jay’s release from your skin. Jay watched her, his eyes dark and intent. When she was done, she dropped the cloth on the floor and climbed back onto the mattress, but she didn’t lie down. She straddled Jay’s hips, her back to you, and took his softness into her hand, stroking him slowly back to full, aching hardness. He hissed through his teeth, his hands coming to rest on her waist.
You pushed yourself up, your body aching in the best way. You pressed a kiss to the knobs of Chloe’s spine, then leaned over her shoulder to watch your own hand join hers around Jay’s length. Your fingers intertwined with Chloe’s as you both worked him, a silent, slick collaboration. Jay’s head fell back, a muscle jumping in his jaw. His hands tightened on Chloe’s hips, his fingers digging in, urging her to move. She understood, rising on her knees and positioning herself above him. She sank onto him with a slow, deliberate roll of her hips, taking him all the way in with a deep, satisfied sigh. You kept your hand where it was, your fingers now pressed against the place where their bodies joined, feeling the incredible heat and the slide of him inside her with every movement she made.
You felt the slick, rhythmic push of Jay moving deep within Chloe, the sensation vibrating through your fingertips. You leaned closer, your breath hot on Chloe's shoulder, and began to kiss and lick a trail up the side of her neck. She tilted her head, giving you better access, a low moan escaping her as you nipped at her earlobe. Jay’s eyes were locked on the two of you, his gaze feverish. One of his hands left Chloe’s hip and snaked around to find your breast, his thumb rubbing rough circles over your nipple.
The pace quickened. Chloe rode him with increasing fervor, her body slapping against his. You moved your hand, slipping it between her legs from behind to stroke her clit in time with their thrusts. She gasped, her inner muscles clamping down on Jay, who groaned and bucked his hips up to meet her. The room was filled with the sounds of skin on skin, ragged breathing, and the headboard tapping a steady beat against the wall. You felt Chloe’s climax begin to gather, a trembling tension coiling through her body. You pressed harder, faster, and with a sharp cry, she came, shuddering around Jay’s length.
Her orgasm triggered his. He held her hips down, burying himself to the hilt as he pulsed inside her, his release muffled by a choked-off shout. For a long moment, the three of you were frozen in that connected tableau—Chloe impaled and trembling, Jay throbbing within her, your hand still pressed against her. Slowly, the tension bled away. Chloe collapsed forward onto Jay’s chest, and you let your forehead rest against her sweaty back, your arm draped over them both. The only movement was the frantic rise and fall of their chests beneath you.
Jay’s hand, still resting on your breast, gave a final, absent squeeze before sliding away to wrap around Chloe’s back, holding her close against him. You felt the shift as he softened and slipped out of her, a warm wetness trickling between their joined bodies.
You shifted, lying down properly beside them, your head on the same pillow as Chloe’s. She turned her face towards you, her eyes heavy-lidded. Without a word, she leaned in and kissed you, a slow, deep, languid kiss that tasted of salt and exhaustion and something sweetly, indefinably shared. Jay watched, his expression soft. When the kiss broke, he reached out and brushed his thumb over your kiss-swollen bottom lip.
how do you get ideas for ur fics? i dont rlly get reqs but i wanna write but i have no idea what to write
honestly, most of my ideas come from the comments under my fics, kind of like brainstorming with people who've read and enjoyed my works... but otherwise i just write what i want to read! if i rlly wanna read a specific fic ill write the fic myself, so i mostly write for my own enjoyment and share it incase other people want to read too!
oh em gee thank you all so much for 400 followers!! i seriously can't believe i doubled from 200 to 400 in just a little over a month...i genuinely never expected this little account to grow so quickly. i'm so excited for everything i have planned and i can't wait to keep sharing more with you all. thank you!!!!
ᦸ 𝖿𝗐𝖻!𝗇𝗂-𝗄𝗂 🧁 𝗆𝖾an!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 4.8k ⠀˃̵ᴗ˂̵⠀ dom/sub power play NSFW degradation oral sex (fem) elevator sex ㅤinspiried by big ole freak reblogs&kisses
special tag: @lac4ygal
You weren’t joking when you said you hadn’t turned down that third-rate actor.
Ni-ki sat snug in the corner booth, one he had frequented many times over the years. Heeseung was in the middle of an animated story, his hands slicing through the air to mimic some recent campus story, while Jay shook his head, a reluctant grin on his face. Sunghoon leaned back, arms crossed, offering dry, sarcastic commentary that had Jake chuckling into his drink. Ni-ki was smiling too, a real, easy smile as he nudged Jake’s shoulder, adding his own quiet jab to the conversation. The air was thick with the smell of fried food and spilled beer.
Jake’s gaze drifted past Ni-ki’s shoulder, his expression shifting from amusement to mild curiosity. He nudged Ni-ki with his elbow and pointed subtly with his fork toward the front windows of the bustling restaurant. “Hey,” Jake said, his voice dropping slightly. “Isn’t that y/n over there?” Ni-ki’s smile vanished. He followed the line of Heeseung’s point. There you were, seated at a small, candlelit table for two. You were leaning forward, listening intently to the man across from you—a guy in a crisp, pretentious-looking shirt who was gesturing grandly with his fork. You laughed at something he said, the sound inaudible from across the room, but the shape of it, the genuine curve of your lips, struck Ni-ki like a physical blow.
The light, teasing atmosphere at their table evaporated in an instant. Jake watched Ni-ki’s entire body go still, the easy slouch of his shoulders tightening into a rigid line. The clatter of the restaurant faded into a dull roar as Ni-ki’s focus tunneled. He saw the way you touched your date’s forearm briefly, a gesture of casual warmth that sent a cold, sharp clarity through his veins. “Yeah,” Ni-ki said, his voice flat and devoid of its earlier laughter. He pushed his chair back, the sound abrupt against the hum of conversation. “I’ll be right back.”
He moved through the crowded space with a singular, direct purpose, ignoring the waitress who tried to catch his eye. Arriving at your table, he watched the smile freeze on your lips
He pulled out the chair next to you, the metal legs shrieking against the floor tiles. He sat down without taking his eyes off you, effectively boxing you in between him and the window. Your date finally found his voice. “Excuse me, do you two know each other?” Ni-ki finally acknowledged him, a slow, dismissive turn of his head. “Yeah. We do.” He didn’t elaborate. Instead, he reached for the menu tucked behind the condiment caddy, flipping it open as if he were the one who belonged here.
“The pork buns here are decent,” Ni-ki said, his voice dropping into a lower, more intimate register meant only for your ears. He let his knee press against yours under the small table. “But you hate pork. You should get the spicy chicken.” Your date watched this interaction, his earlier confidence visibly deflating. Ni-ki didn’t look at him again, his attention fully on you as he pretended to study the menu.
Your date cleared his throat, attempting to regain control of the conversation. “We were just discussing the wine list,” he said, a strained politeness in his tone. Ni-ki didn’t even look up from the menu. “She doesn’t like reds,” he stated simply, as if it were the most obvious fact in the world. He finally glanced at the other man, his expression unreadable. “Gives her a headache.” He turned his attention back to you, his eyes searching yours. “You should get the ginger tea. It’s better for you.” He reached over slowly and picked up your half-full wine glass, moving it to the far edge of the table, away from you. His fingers lingered near yours for a beat too long before he drew his hand back.
The air at the table crackled with a new kind of tension. Your date had resorted to silently pushing his food around his plate.
You leaned back in your chair, crossing your legs and letting your foot deliberately brush against Ni-ki’s calf under the table. “Actually,” you said, your voice clear and cutting, aimed at your flustered companion, “he’s right about the red wine. It’s cheap and gives me a migraine.” The man blinked, stunned by the sudden shift.
You turned your head, your gaze locking onto Ni-ki’s. The confidence in your eyes was a challenge. “But he’s wrong about the ginger tea,” you continued, your tone dropping into something lower, more familiar. “I hate ginger. You’re forgetting things, Riki.” You reached out and pulled your wine glass back from where he’d exiled it, taking a deliberate, slow sip, your eyes holding his over the rim.
“If you’re going to interrupt my evening and embarrass my date, the least you could do is remember my preferences.” You set the glass down. “Now, since you’re here, you can make yourself useful. Tell the waiter I want the scallops. And tell him to take this,” you gestured dismissively at the full plate in front of your date, “away. He’s lost his appetite.”
A flicker of something hot and approving flashed in Ni-ki’s eyes at your command. He didn’t look away from you, but raised a hand to signal a passing server without breaking your stare. “The lady will have the scallops,” he relayed, his voice smooth. “And clear this, please.” He nodded toward the other man’s plate. As the waiter hurried to comply, your date finally found his voice, a sputter of indignation. “This is really rude—”
“Go,” you said flatly, not even looking at him. You took another sip of wine, your focus entirely on Ni-ki. The man stared, flushed with humiliation, before muttering something under his breath and standing up to leave. You waited until he had disappeared into the crowd before speaking again, “Now. You dragged yourself over here and ruined a perfectly adequate dinner. You have my attention. Start explaining why I shouldn’t just get up and walk out that door.”
Ni-ki leaned forward, closing the small distance you’d maintained. “Adequate?” he repeated, the word laced with disdain. “You were smiling at him. You don’t smile like that for ‘adequate.’” His hand came to lace his fingers with yours on the table, “You don’t get to do that. We had an understanding.”
“We had a casual arrangement,” you corrected, tilting your head. “You’re acting like you own something. You don’t.” The challenge was direct, a test flung right into his path. The waiter returned with your scallops, placing the plate before you, then disappeared again. You picked up your fork, spearing a perfectly seared piece, but didn’t bring it to your lips. You just held it, watching him, waiting for his move.
Ni-ki’s jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to the fork in your hand before lifting back to your face. “A casual arrangement,” he echoed, his voice dangerously quiet. “Right.” He leaned in closer, his arm brushing yours as he reached for the bread basket, his movements deliberate. “So my texts go unanswered because you’re busy with… that.” He didn’t bother hiding the contempt. “And I’m just supposed to wait around until you’re bored?”
You brought the scallop to your mouth, taking a slow, deliberate bite, savouring it before answering. “You don’t ‘wait around’ for anyone, Riki. You do whatever you want, with whoever you want,” you said, licking a trace of butter from your lower lip. “That was the whole point, wasn’t it? That’s literally what no strings attached means.”
He watched the movement of your tongue, the deliberate, almost obscene way you cleaned the butter from your skin. A low sound escaped him, not quite a laugh. “No strings,” he agreed, his eyes darkening. “But there’s an understanding. A courtesy. You ghost me for a week and show up here, smelling like his cologne, sitting in our spot.” He finally took a piece of bread, tearing it apart with his fingers but not eating it.
“Our spot?” You arched a brow, setting your fork down. “It’s a restaurant booth, Riki. It doesn’t have a name etched on it.” You leaned back, putting a few more inches of charged space between you. “And I didn’t ghost you. I was occupied.” The words were light, but your pulse was a rapid drum against your ribs. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the coiled energy in his stillness.
He finally placed the shredded bread on his plate, then slowly wiped his fingers on the napkin in his lap. His eyes never left yours. “Occupied,” he repeated flatly. He reached over, his fingers brushing yours as he took your unused water glass, bringing it to his own lips and drinking deeply. When he set it back down, the rim bore the faint, damp imprint of his mouth. “Tell me,” he said, his voice a low murmur meant only for you. “Was he any good?”
You let a slow smile curve your lips, one that didn’t reach your eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” You picked up your wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid. “It seems to be all you can think about. I’m flattered, really. I didn’t know you cared so much about the details of my social calendar.”
His hand shot out, not to grab you, but to still the stem of your glass, his fingers covering yours. The contact was electric, a sudden jolt that silenced the ambient noise of the restaurant. “Don’t,” he warned, his voice a rough whisper. “Don’t play that game with me. You know exactly what this is.” He applied the slightest pressure, holding your hand and the glass in place, a silent anchor in the storm of your mutual provocation.
You didn’t pull away. You met his stormy gaze, your own defiant. “Then enlighten me. Because from where I’m sitting, it looks a lot like a man who agreed to no strings getting tangled in his own.” You leaned forward, your breath ghosting over his knuckles. “Does it bother you, Ni-ki? The thought of someone else’s hands on me?” The question hung in the air, a dangerous, shimmering thing. You watched the muscle in his jaw leap, a telltale sign of the control he was fighting to maintain. He released your hand abruptly, as if burned, and sat back in the booth, his expression shifting into something unreadable and cold.
The cold mask he wore was more unnerving than his open anger. He picked up his own wine, took a measured sip, and surveyed you over the rim. “Bother me?” he finally said, his tone chillingly conversational. “No. It clarifies things.” He set the glass down precisely. “It shows me what our ‘arrangement’ actually was. A convenience for you when you had nothing better lined up.”
His words were designed to wound, to reduce what had burned between you to something transactional and cheap. You felt the sting, sharp and precise, but you refused to let it show. Instead, you gave a light, airy shrug, returning your attention to your scallops as if the conversation had lost all interest. “If that’s the narrative you need,” you murmured, cutting another piece. “Believe whatever helps you sleep.”
For a long moment, there was only the sound of your fork against the china. Then he moved, not away, but deeper into your space. His arm settled along the back of the booth behind you, not touching, but the heat of him was a palpable presence along your shoulder. His head dipped close, his lips nearly brushing your ear as he spoke, his breath warm against your skin. “I don’t need a narrative,” he whispered, the quiet words laden with a promise that felt like a threat. “I just need you to remember who you’re really playing with.” He pulled back just enough to see your face, his eyes tracing your reaction, waiting for the flicker of fear or recognition he was sure to find.
You didn't flinch. You turned your head, bringing your face within an inch of his, the scent of his cologne—something dark and spicy—overwhelming the lingering trace of the other man's. "I remember," you said, your voice equally soft, equally dangerous. "I remember every rule we broke. I remember who taught me how." You let your gaze drop to his mouth for a heartbeat before lifting it back to his eyes. "The student might just be surpassing the teacher."
A faint, almost imperceptible tremor went through the arm resting behind you. He didn't move away. His free hand came up, his fingers hovering just beside your cheek, not touching, but you could feel the static charge of his proximity on your skin. "Is that what you think this is? A lesson?" His thumb finally made contact, a slow, deliberate stroke along your cheekbone. It was a claiming gesture, utterly at odds with his detached tone. "You haven't even begun to learn what I can do."
The waiter chose that moment to approach, hesitating a few feet from the table, sensing the volatile energy. Ni-ki's hand fell away instantly, his expression smoothing into polite neutrality as he looked up. "Just the check, please," he said, his voice now perfectly normal, sociable. The waiter nodded and retreated. As soon as the man turned his back, Ni-ki's focus snapped back to you, the polite mask gone. He reached into his jacket, pulled out his wallet, and tossed a stack of bills onto the table—far more than the meal cost. "We're leaving," he stated, no longer a question or a challenge, but a simple, incontrovertible fact. He slid out of the booth and stood, waiting for you, his posture rigid with a tension that vibrated in the air between you.
You looked at the money, then at him, a slow smile spreading. Making him wait was its own kind of power. You took one last, deliberate sip of your wine, the glass leaving a faint stain on the linen as you set it down. Only then did you slide from the booth, your movements fluid and unhurried. You didn’t take the hand he hadn’t offered. You simply walked past him, the brush of your body against his in the narrow aisle a fleeting, electric contact, and headed for the door.
He was right behind you, his presence a solid, heated pressure at your back. The night air outside was cool, a shock after the restaurant’s warmth. You didn’t turn toward the valet or the street. You walked to the edge of the building, into the shadowy alcove near the service entrance, and stopped, leaning against the rough brick. You turned to face him, the distant streetlight casting his features in sharp relief. “So,” you said, your voice a low murmur in the quiet alley. “You paid for dinner. What happens now?”
He closed the distance in two strides, his hands coming up to cage you against the wall, his body not touching yours but surrounding it completely. The scent of him, of wine and restrained fury, filled your senses. “Now,” he said, his gaze dropping to your mouth, “you tell me his name.” His voice was gravelly, the command in it absolute. “And then you forget it.”
You held his gaze, the corner of your mouth lifting. “I told you. It doesn’t matter.” Your voice was steady, a stark contrast to the frantic rhythm of your heart. “And your little audience is watching, by the way.” You flicked your eyes past his shoulder toward the restaurant’s front window. There, clustered inside, were four of his friends—Jake, Sunghoon, Heeseung and Jay—their faces pressed close to the glass, their expressions a mix of shock and avid curiosity. They’d clearly followed him out and were now witnessing the entire confrontation.
Ni-ki didn’t bother to look. His focus remained entirely and relentlessly on you. “Let them watch,” he breathed out, the words a hot whisper against your lips. His hands slid from the brick to frame your face, his thumbs pressing into the hinge of your jaw. “They’ve seen me walk away from plenty of things. They’ve never seen me take something back.” He leaned in, his nose skimming the line of your cheek, inhaling deeply as if to erase any foreign scent. “His name.”
From inside, one of his friends—probably Jake—rapped sharply on the window, a muffled call of “Hey, man!” reaching you both. Ni-ki flinched, the sound a crack in his intense concentration. His eyes snapped toward the window for a split second, a flash of pure irritation crossing his features before he looked back at you, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly.
You saw the interruption fracture his control. It was the opening you needed. You brought your hands up, not to push him away, but to settle on his chest, feeling the hard, frantic beat of his heart beneath your palms. “Riki,” you said, your tone shifting, losing its edge of taunting challenge for something lower, more intimate. “They’re your friends. This isn’t for them.” You applied the slightest pressure, not to create distance, but to anchor him, to pull his focus back from the spectacle to the silent war between just the two of you.
He stared down at your hands on him, his breath coming in a short, harsh exhale. The noise from the window persisted, another muffled shout. He closed his eyes for a second, his jaw working. When he opened them, the blind possession had banked into something colder, more calculated. He released your face, his hands dropping to his sides. He took a single step back, breaking the intimate cage of his body, though the space between you still crackled. “You’re right,” he said, his voice now devoid of all emotion. He glanced over his shoulder, giving his friends a single, sharp look that immediately silenced them and sent them shuffling back from the glass.
He turned back to you, his expression unreadable in the shadows. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his car keys. “My place. Now. Or this ends here, and you can go back to your occupation.” It wasn’t a request, nor was it the heated demand from before. It was an ultimatum, delivered with a chilling finality. He didn’t wait for your agreement. He simply turned and began walking toward the valet stand, the set of his shoulders telling you he fully expected you to follow.
You watched him walk away, the arrogant certainty in his stride igniting a fresh spark of defiance. He hadn't even looked back. The valet was already hurrying toward his sleek, black car. You could turn, walk in the opposite direction, hail a cab, and let him drive off alone. The thought was a sweet, fleeting fantasy. But the memory of his hands on your face, the raw intensity in his eyes before his friends interrupted—it was a hook buried deep. You pushed off from the wall and followed, your heels clicking a steady rhythm on the pavement that matched the stubborn beat of your heart.
You reached the passenger side just as the valet closed the driver’s door for him. Ni-ki stared straight ahead through the windshield, his profile sharp and unyielding. You pulled the handle and slid into the cool leather interior, the door thudding shut with a sound of finality. The car was silent, filled only with the scent of him and the expensive, clean smell of the vehicle. He didn't acknowledge you. He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb with a smooth, powerful surge.
He drove with a focused aggression, weaving through the late-night traffic. The city lights streaked past the windows, painting his face in alternating flashes of neon and shadow. After several blocks of suffocating quiet, he spoke, his eyes never leaving the road. "Was it worth it?" he asked, the question slicing through the quiet. "The game. The point you were trying to make. Was it worth what you just threw away?" His voice was flat, but the question hung there, heavy and real, demanding an answer the restaurant’s games had never allowed.
You looked out your own window, watching the blur of the city. “I didn’t throw anything away,” you said, your voice quieter now, stripped of its earlier performance. “You did. The moment you decided our casual arrangement came with a leash.” You finally turned your head to look at him. “You want to know if it was worth it? Him?” You let out a soft, humourless breath. “He was a distraction, a way to see if I could feel something that wasn’t you. I couldn’t. That’s the pathetic truth.”
His hands tightened on the steering wheel, the leather creaking under his grip. He said nothing for a long moment, the admission hanging in the space between you, more intimate than any touch had been all night. He took a sudden, sharp turn, pulling the car into the underground garage of his building. The tyres echoed in the concrete cavern as he navigated to his reserved spot and killed the engine. The sudden silence was deafening.
He didn’t move immediately. He sat there, staring at the blank concrete wall ahead. “A distraction,” he repeated, the word tasting bitter. He finally turned to look at you, the car’s interior light casting his expression in a stark, unforgiving glow. The anger was gone, replaced by something more weary, more complex. “Get out,” he said, but the command had lost its force. It sounded like a surrender. He pushed his own door open and stepped out into the cool, still air of the garage, not waiting to see if you obeyed.
You followed him out, the car door thudding shut with a heavy finality that reverberated in the concrete space. He was already walking toward the private elevator, his strides long and tense, but he didn't look back to see if you were coming. The implication was clear: he expected you to follow. You took your time, the click of your heels a deliberate counter-rhythm to his silent retreat.
Inside the elevator, mirrored walls reflected a thousand versions of his strained profile. He stared straight ahead, refusing to meet your gaze in the glass. The air was thick with everything unsaid. Before you could react, his hand shot out, not towards you, but to the elevator control panel. He pressed a small, red button marked ‘STOP’, and a sharp, jarring alarm blared for a single second before he silenced it with another press. The elevator shuddered to a halt between floors, the gentle hum of movement ceasing entirely.
"You made your point," he said, his voice rough. "You proved you don't need me. So why are you here?" It wasn't an accusation. It was a genuine, weary question. He was waiting, not for an argument, but for your next move, completely disarmed. You smiled, a small, knowing curve of your lips, and took a single, purposeful step forward.
He didn’t retreat from your advance. He held his ground, but his posture softened, a subtle yielding. “I’m here,” you said, your voice low and deliberate, “because you saw me and lost your composure. Because you still think you have a say in what I do.” You reached out then, not to touch him, but to brush a non-existent speck of lint from the shoulder of his jacket. The gesture was intimate, proprietary. He shuddered.
“I don’t want a say,” he breathed out, the confession ripped from him. “I want… instructions.” The word hung in the air, stark and honest. All the fight, all the jealousy, had been a twisted plea for exactly this. For you to take the chaos he felt and give it order. You let the silence stretch, letting him feel the weight of his own admission, the vulnerability of it.
Your hand finally settled on his shoulder, your grip firm, anchoring. “Then kneel,” you said, the command clear and absolute in the quiet room. For a heartbeat, he simply looked at you, his dark eyes wide. Then, without a word of protest, his knees gave way, bending until he was on the floor at your feet, his head bowed. The submission was total, beautiful in its simplicity. You looked down at him, at the elegant line of his neck, and placed a hand gently atop his head.
Your fingers threaded through his hair, not petting, but claiming. The soft strands were cool against your skin. He let out a shaky exhale, his shoulders relaxing further into the position, as if a terrible weight had been lifted. The proud, rebellious boy was gone, replaced by this quiet, pliant creature at your feet. You applied the slightest pressure, and he understood, leaning his forehead against your thigh. The warmth of his skin seeped through the fabric of your pants.
"Good," you murmured. His breath hitched again, a small, grateful sound. You kept him there for a long moment, letting him feel the safety of surrender. This was your world now, this elevator and the boy who had finally stopped running from what he needed. You withdrew your hand from his hair, and he made a faint, involuntary noise of protest at the loss of contact.
"Look at me," you instructed. He lifted his head slowly, his eyes finding yours. They were clear now, free of anger or pretence, just a deep, waiting calm. You cupped his chin, your thumb stroking the line of his jaw. "The distraction is over," you stated, your voice leaving no room for argument. He nodded, a tiny, obedient movement against your hold. "From now on, you ask for what you need. You use your words." A faint blush colored his cheeks, but he held your gaze. "Can you do that?"
His lips parted, his voice a hushed, reverent whisper. "Please." The word hung in the silent elevator. "Please, let me taste you." You held his gaze for a beat longer, then gave a single, slow nod. Your hands went to the waistband of your pants, pushing them and your underwear down just enough. He didn't need further instruction. His hands came up to steady your hips as he leaned forward, his mouth finding you with an eager, worshipful precision. His tongue was a slow, deliberate stroke, lapping at your heat as if savoring a sacred offering. A soft sigh escaped you, your head tipping back against the mirrored wall. He moaned against you, the vibration shooting a sharp thrill up your spine. His movements became more focused, his tongue circling and dipping, his entire being devoted to the single task of pulling pleasure from you. His eyes were closed in concentration, lashes dark against his cheeks, a picture of perfect, blissful service.
His hands tightened on your hips, holding you steady as he lost himself in the act. There was no hesitation, no seeking of his own pleasure, only a deep, abiding focus on yours. The flat of his tongue pressed and circled, his lips sealing around you to draw a soft, shuddering cry from your throat. The mirrored walls reflected the scene a dozen times—your fingers now tangled in his dark hair, his shoulders flexing with the effort of his ministrations, the absolute surrender in every line of his kneeling form.
You guided him with gentle pressure, and he followed without question, his rhythm shifting to match your unspoken demands. A low, continuous hum of pleasure vibrated in his chest, the sound echoing softly in the confined space. His own need was evident in the tense set of his back, in the way his knuckles whitened where he gripped you, but he made no move to seek friction for himself. This was his offering, his penance, and his reward all at once. The building tension in your core was a slow, sweet coil, fed by every devoted stroke of his tongue.
A sharp, breathy gasp was your only warning before the release washed over you, your thighs trembling against the sides of his face. He didn’t pull away, drinking down every wave until you gently tugged his hair, signalling him to stop. He rested his forehead against your thigh, his breathing ragged and warm against your sensitive skin. He stayed there, perfectly still, waiting for your next command as the last tremors subsided.
You let the silence stretch, the only sound his laboured breathing and the faint, residual hum of the elevator’s machinery. Your fingers loosened their grip in his hair, shifting to a slow, almost absent-minded petting. He leaned into the touch, a quiet sigh escaping him. After a long moment, you guided his head back, forcing him to look up at you. His lips were glistening, his eyes dark and hazy with a satisfaction that had nothing to do with his own physical release.
"Stand up," you said, your voice soft but firm. He obeyed slowly, his muscles stiff from kneeling. You reached down and pulled your clothing back into place with deliberate, unhurried movements, your eyes never leaving his. He watched you, his expression open and expectant, a faint flush still high on his cheekbones. You stepped closer, closing the small space between you, and smoothed a thumb over his damp bottom lip. He shivered, his gaze dropping to your mouth.
"Now," you whispered, your breath ghosting over his skin. "Take us home."
ᦸ 𝖿𝗐𝖻!𝗇𝗂-𝗄𝗂 🧁 𝗆𝖾an!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 4.8k ⠀˃̵ᴗ˂̵⠀ dom/sub power play NSFW degradation oral sex (fem) elevator sex ㅤinspiried by big ole freak reblogs&kisses
special tag: @lac4ygal
You weren’t joking when you said you hadn’t turned down that third-rate actor.
Ni-ki sat snug in the corner booth, one he had frequented many times over the years. Heeseung was in the middle of an animated story, his hands slicing through the air to mimic some recent campus story, while Jay shook his head, a reluctant grin on his face. Sunghoon leaned back, arms crossed, offering dry, sarcastic commentary that had Jake chuckling into his drink. Ni-ki was smiling too, a real, easy smile as he nudged Jake’s shoulder, adding his own quiet jab to the conversation. The air was thick with the smell of fried food and spilled beer.
Jake’s gaze drifted past Ni-ki’s shoulder, his expression shifting from amusement to mild curiosity. He nudged Ni-ki with his elbow and pointed subtly with his fork toward the front windows of the bustling restaurant. “Hey,” Jake said, his voice dropping slightly. “Isn’t that y/n over there?” Ni-ki’s smile vanished. He followed the line of Heeseung’s point. There you were, seated at a small, candlelit table for two. You were leaning forward, listening intently to the man across from you—a guy in a crisp, pretentious-looking shirt who was gesturing grandly with his fork. You laughed at something he said, the sound inaudible from across the room, but the shape of it, the genuine curve of your lips, struck Ni-ki like a physical blow.
The light, teasing atmosphere at their table evaporated in an instant. Jake watched Ni-ki’s entire body go still, the easy slouch of his shoulders tightening into a rigid line. The clatter of the restaurant faded into a dull roar as Ni-ki’s focus tunneled. He saw the way you touched your date’s forearm briefly, a gesture of casual warmth that sent a cold, sharp clarity through his veins. “Yeah,” Ni-ki said, his voice flat and devoid of its earlier laughter. He pushed his chair back, the sound abrupt against the hum of conversation. “I’ll be right back.”
He moved through the crowded space with a singular, direct purpose, ignoring the waitress who tried to catch his eye. Arriving at your table, he watched the smile freeze on your lips
He pulled out the chair next to you, the metal legs shrieking against the floor tiles. He sat down without taking his eyes off you, effectively boxing you in between him and the window. Your date finally found his voice. “Excuse me, do you two know each other?” Ni-ki finally acknowledged him, a slow, dismissive turn of his head. “Yeah. We do.” He didn’t elaborate. Instead, he reached for the menu tucked behind the condiment caddy, flipping it open as if he were the one who belonged here.
“The pork buns here are decent,” Ni-ki said, his voice dropping into a lower, more intimate register meant only for your ears. He let his knee press against yours under the small table. “But you hate pork. You should get the spicy chicken.” Your date watched this interaction, his earlier confidence visibly deflating. Ni-ki didn’t look at him again, his attention fully on you as he pretended to study the menu.
Your date cleared his throat, attempting to regain control of the conversation. “We were just discussing the wine list,” he said, a strained politeness in his tone. Ni-ki didn’t even look up from the menu. “She doesn’t like reds,” he stated simply, as if it were the most obvious fact in the world. He finally glanced at the other man, his expression unreadable. “Gives her a headache.” He turned his attention back to you, his eyes searching yours. “You should get the ginger tea. It’s better for you.” He reached over slowly and picked up your half-full wine glass, moving it to the far edge of the table, away from you. His fingers lingered near yours for a beat too long before he drew his hand back.
The air at the table crackled with a new kind of tension. Your date had resorted to silently pushing his food around his plate.
You leaned back in your chair, crossing your legs and letting your foot deliberately brush against Ni-ki’s calf under the table. “Actually,” you said, your voice clear and cutting, aimed at your flustered companion, “he’s right about the red wine. It’s cheap and gives me a migraine.” The man blinked, stunned by the sudden shift.
You turned your head, your gaze locking onto Ni-ki’s. The confidence in your eyes was a challenge. “But he’s wrong about the ginger tea,” you continued, your tone dropping into something lower, more familiar. “I hate ginger. You’re forgetting things, Riki.” You reached out and pulled your wine glass back from where he’d exiled it, taking a deliberate, slow sip, your eyes holding his over the rim.
“If you’re going to interrupt my evening and embarrass my date, the least you could do is remember my preferences.” You set the glass down. “Now, since you’re here, you can make yourself useful. Tell the waiter I want the scallops. And tell him to take this,” you gestured dismissively at the full plate in front of your date, “away. He’s lost his appetite.”
A flicker of something hot and approving flashed in Ni-ki’s eyes at your command. He didn’t look away from you, but raised a hand to signal a passing server without breaking your stare. “The lady will have the scallops,” he relayed, his voice smooth. “And clear this, please.” He nodded toward the other man’s plate. As the waiter hurried to comply, your date finally found his voice, a sputter of indignation. “This is really rude—”
“Go,” you said flatly, not even looking at him. You took another sip of wine, your focus entirely on Ni-ki. The man stared, flushed with humiliation, before muttering something under his breath and standing up to leave. You waited until he had disappeared into the crowd before speaking again, “Now. You dragged yourself over here and ruined a perfectly adequate dinner. You have my attention. Start explaining why I shouldn’t just get up and walk out that door.”
Ni-ki leaned forward, closing the small distance you’d maintained. “Adequate?” he repeated, the word laced with disdain. “You were smiling at him. You don’t smile like that for ‘adequate.’” His hand came to lace his fingers with yours on the table, “You don’t get to do that. We had an understanding.”
“We had a casual arrangement,” you corrected, tilting your head. “You’re acting like you own something. You don’t.” The challenge was direct, a test flung right into his path. The waiter returned with your scallops, placing the plate before you, then disappeared again. You picked up your fork, spearing a perfectly seared piece, but didn’t bring it to your lips. You just held it, watching him, waiting for his move.
Ni-ki’s jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to the fork in your hand before lifting back to your face. “A casual arrangement,” he echoed, his voice dangerously quiet. “Right.” He leaned in closer, his arm brushing yours as he reached for the bread basket, his movements deliberate. “So my texts go unanswered because you’re busy with… that.” He didn’t bother hiding the contempt. “And I’m just supposed to wait around until you’re bored?”
You brought the scallop to your mouth, taking a slow, deliberate bite, savouring it before answering. “You don’t ‘wait around’ for anyone, Riki. You do whatever you want, with whoever you want,” you said, licking a trace of butter from your lower lip. “That was the whole point, wasn’t it? That’s literally what no strings attached means.”
He watched the movement of your tongue, the deliberate, almost obscene way you cleaned the butter from your skin. A low sound escaped him, not quite a laugh. “No strings,” he agreed, his eyes darkening. “But there’s an understanding. A courtesy. You ghost me for a week and show up here, smelling like his cologne, sitting in our spot.” He finally took a piece of bread, tearing it apart with his fingers but not eating it.
“Our spot?” You arched a brow, setting your fork down. “It’s a restaurant booth, Riki. It doesn’t have a name etched on it.” You leaned back, putting a few more inches of charged space between you. “And I didn’t ghost you. I was occupied.” The words were light, but your pulse was a rapid drum against your ribs. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the coiled energy in his stillness.
He finally placed the shredded bread on his plate, then slowly wiped his fingers on the napkin in his lap. His eyes never left yours. “Occupied,” he repeated flatly. He reached over, his fingers brushing yours as he took your unused water glass, bringing it to his own lips and drinking deeply. When he set it back down, the rim bore the faint, damp imprint of his mouth. “Tell me,” he said, his voice a low murmur meant only for you. “Was he any good?”
You let a slow smile curve your lips, one that didn’t reach your eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” You picked up your wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid. “It seems to be all you can think about. I’m flattered, really. I didn’t know you cared so much about the details of my social calendar.”
His hand shot out, not to grab you, but to still the stem of your glass, his fingers covering yours. The contact was electric, a sudden jolt that silenced the ambient noise of the restaurant. “Don’t,” he warned, his voice a rough whisper. “Don’t play that game with me. You know exactly what this is.” He applied the slightest pressure, holding your hand and the glass in place, a silent anchor in the storm of your mutual provocation.
You didn’t pull away. You met his stormy gaze, your own defiant. “Then enlighten me. Because from where I’m sitting, it looks a lot like a man who agreed to no strings getting tangled in his own.” You leaned forward, your breath ghosting over his knuckles. “Does it bother you, Ni-ki? The thought of someone else’s hands on me?” The question hung in the air, a dangerous, shimmering thing. You watched the muscle in his jaw leap, a telltale sign of the control he was fighting to maintain. He released your hand abruptly, as if burned, and sat back in the booth, his expression shifting into something unreadable and cold.
The cold mask he wore was more unnerving than his open anger. He picked up his own wine, took a measured sip, and surveyed you over the rim. “Bother me?” he finally said, his tone chillingly conversational. “No. It clarifies things.” He set the glass down precisely. “It shows me what our ‘arrangement’ actually was. A convenience for you when you had nothing better lined up.”
His words were designed to wound, to reduce what had burned between you to something transactional and cheap. You felt the sting, sharp and precise, but you refused to let it show. Instead, you gave a light, airy shrug, returning your attention to your scallops as if the conversation had lost all interest. “If that’s the narrative you need,” you murmured, cutting another piece. “Believe whatever helps you sleep.”
For a long moment, there was only the sound of your fork against the china. Then he moved, not away, but deeper into your space. His arm settled along the back of the booth behind you, not touching, but the heat of him was a palpable presence along your shoulder. His head dipped close, his lips nearly brushing your ear as he spoke, his breath warm against your skin. “I don’t need a narrative,” he whispered, the quiet words laden with a promise that felt like a threat. “I just need you to remember who you’re really playing with.” He pulled back just enough to see your face, his eyes tracing your reaction, waiting for the flicker of fear or recognition he was sure to find.
You didn't flinch. You turned your head, bringing your face within an inch of his, the scent of his cologne—something dark and spicy—overwhelming the lingering trace of the other man's. "I remember," you said, your voice equally soft, equally dangerous. "I remember every rule we broke. I remember who taught me how." You let your gaze drop to his mouth for a heartbeat before lifting it back to his eyes. "The student might just be surpassing the teacher."
A faint, almost imperceptible tremor went through the arm resting behind you. He didn't move away. His free hand came up, his fingers hovering just beside your cheek, not touching, but you could feel the static charge of his proximity on your skin. "Is that what you think this is? A lesson?" His thumb finally made contact, a slow, deliberate stroke along your cheekbone. It was a claiming gesture, utterly at odds with his detached tone. "You haven't even begun to learn what I can do."
The waiter chose that moment to approach, hesitating a few feet from the table, sensing the volatile energy. Ni-ki's hand fell away instantly, his expression smoothing into polite neutrality as he looked up. "Just the check, please," he said, his voice now perfectly normal, sociable. The waiter nodded and retreated. As soon as the man turned his back, Ni-ki's focus snapped back to you, the polite mask gone. He reached into his jacket, pulled out his wallet, and tossed a stack of bills onto the table—far more than the meal cost. "We're leaving," he stated, no longer a question or a challenge, but a simple, incontrovertible fact. He slid out of the booth and stood, waiting for you, his posture rigid with a tension that vibrated in the air between you.
You looked at the money, then at him, a slow smile spreading. Making him wait was its own kind of power. You took one last, deliberate sip of your wine, the glass leaving a faint stain on the linen as you set it down. Only then did you slide from the booth, your movements fluid and unhurried. You didn’t take the hand he hadn’t offered. You simply walked past him, the brush of your body against his in the narrow aisle a fleeting, electric contact, and headed for the door.
He was right behind you, his presence a solid, heated pressure at your back. The night air outside was cool, a shock after the restaurant’s warmth. You didn’t turn toward the valet or the street. You walked to the edge of the building, into the shadowy alcove near the service entrance, and stopped, leaning against the rough brick. You turned to face him, the distant streetlight casting his features in sharp relief. “So,” you said, your voice a low murmur in the quiet alley. “You paid for dinner. What happens now?”
He closed the distance in two strides, his hands coming up to cage you against the wall, his body not touching yours but surrounding it completely. The scent of him, of wine and restrained fury, filled your senses. “Now,” he said, his gaze dropping to your mouth, “you tell me his name.” His voice was gravelly, the command in it absolute. “And then you forget it.”
You held his gaze, the corner of your mouth lifting. “I told you. It doesn’t matter.” Your voice was steady, a stark contrast to the frantic rhythm of your heart. “And your little audience is watching, by the way.” You flicked your eyes past his shoulder toward the restaurant’s front window. There, clustered inside, were four of his friends—Jake, Sunghoon, Heeseung and Jay—their faces pressed close to the glass, their expressions a mix of shock and avid curiosity. They’d clearly followed him out and were now witnessing the entire confrontation.
Ni-ki didn’t bother to look. His focus remained entirely and relentlessly on you. “Let them watch,” he breathed out, the words a hot whisper against your lips. His hands slid from the brick to frame your face, his thumbs pressing into the hinge of your jaw. “They’ve seen me walk away from plenty of things. They’ve never seen me take something back.” He leaned in, his nose skimming the line of your cheek, inhaling deeply as if to erase any foreign scent. “His name.”
From inside, one of his friends—probably Jake—rapped sharply on the window, a muffled call of “Hey, man!” reaching you both. Ni-ki flinched, the sound a crack in his intense concentration. His eyes snapped toward the window for a split second, a flash of pure irritation crossing his features before he looked back at you, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly.
You saw the interruption fracture his control. It was the opening you needed. You brought your hands up, not to push him away, but to settle on his chest, feeling the hard, frantic beat of his heart beneath your palms. “Riki,” you said, your tone shifting, losing its edge of taunting challenge for something lower, more intimate. “They’re your friends. This isn’t for them.” You applied the slightest pressure, not to create distance, but to anchor him, to pull his focus back from the spectacle to the silent war between just the two of you.
He stared down at your hands on him, his breath coming in a short, harsh exhale. The noise from the window persisted, another muffled shout. He closed his eyes for a second, his jaw working. When he opened them, the blind possession had banked into something colder, more calculated. He released your face, his hands dropping to his sides. He took a single step back, breaking the intimate cage of his body, though the space between you still crackled. “You’re right,” he said, his voice now devoid of all emotion. He glanced over his shoulder, giving his friends a single, sharp look that immediately silenced them and sent them shuffling back from the glass.
He turned back to you, his expression unreadable in the shadows. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his car keys. “My place. Now. Or this ends here, and you can go back to your occupation.” It wasn’t a request, nor was it the heated demand from before. It was an ultimatum, delivered with a chilling finality. He didn’t wait for your agreement. He simply turned and began walking toward the valet stand, the set of his shoulders telling you he fully expected you to follow.
You watched him walk away, the arrogant certainty in his stride igniting a fresh spark of defiance. He hadn't even looked back. The valet was already hurrying toward his sleek, black car. You could turn, walk in the opposite direction, hail a cab, and let him drive off alone. The thought was a sweet, fleeting fantasy. But the memory of his hands on your face, the raw intensity in his eyes before his friends interrupted—it was a hook buried deep. You pushed off from the wall and followed, your heels clicking a steady rhythm on the pavement that matched the stubborn beat of your heart.
You reached the passenger side just as the valet closed the driver’s door for him. Ni-ki stared straight ahead through the windshield, his profile sharp and unyielding. You pulled the handle and slid into the cool leather interior, the door thudding shut with a sound of finality. The car was silent, filled only with the scent of him and the expensive, clean smell of the vehicle. He didn't acknowledge you. He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb with a smooth, powerful surge.
He drove with a focused aggression, weaving through the late-night traffic. The city lights streaked past the windows, painting his face in alternating flashes of neon and shadow. After several blocks of suffocating quiet, he spoke, his eyes never leaving the road. "Was it worth it?" he asked, the question slicing through the quiet. "The game. The point you were trying to make. Was it worth what you just threw away?" His voice was flat, but the question hung there, heavy and real, demanding an answer the restaurant’s games had never allowed.
You looked out your own window, watching the blur of the city. “I didn’t throw anything away,” you said, your voice quieter now, stripped of its earlier performance. “You did. The moment you decided our casual arrangement came with a leash.” You finally turned your head to look at him. “You want to know if it was worth it? Him?” You let out a soft, humourless breath. “He was a distraction, a way to see if I could feel something that wasn’t you. I couldn’t. That’s the pathetic truth.”
His hands tightened on the steering wheel, the leather creaking under his grip. He said nothing for a long moment, the admission hanging in the space between you, more intimate than any touch had been all night. He took a sudden, sharp turn, pulling the car into the underground garage of his building. The tyres echoed in the concrete cavern as he navigated to his reserved spot and killed the engine. The sudden silence was deafening.
He didn’t move immediately. He sat there, staring at the blank concrete wall ahead. “A distraction,” he repeated, the word tasting bitter. He finally turned to look at you, the car’s interior light casting his expression in a stark, unforgiving glow. The anger was gone, replaced by something more weary, more complex. “Get out,” he said, but the command had lost its force. It sounded like a surrender. He pushed his own door open and stepped out into the cool, still air of the garage, not waiting to see if you obeyed.
You followed him out, the car door thudding shut with a heavy finality that reverberated in the concrete space. He was already walking toward the private elevator, his strides long and tense, but he didn't look back to see if you were coming. The implication was clear: he expected you to follow. You took your time, the click of your heels a deliberate counter-rhythm to his silent retreat.
Inside the elevator, mirrored walls reflected a thousand versions of his strained profile. He stared straight ahead, refusing to meet your gaze in the glass. The air was thick with everything unsaid. Before you could react, his hand shot out, not towards you, but to the elevator control panel. He pressed a small, red button marked ‘STOP’, and a sharp, jarring alarm blared for a single second before he silenced it with another press. The elevator shuddered to a halt between floors, the gentle hum of movement ceasing entirely.
"You made your point," he said, his voice rough. "You proved you don't need me. So why are you here?" It wasn't an accusation. It was a genuine, weary question. He was waiting, not for an argument, but for your next move, completely disarmed. You smiled, a small, knowing curve of your lips, and took a single, purposeful step forward.
He didn’t retreat from your advance. He held his ground, but his posture softened, a subtle yielding. “I’m here,” you said, your voice low and deliberate, “because you saw me and lost your composure. Because you still think you have a say in what I do.” You reached out then, not to touch him, but to brush a non-existent speck of lint from the shoulder of his jacket. The gesture was intimate, proprietary. He shuddered.
“I don’t want a say,” he breathed out, the confession ripped from him. “I want… instructions.” The word hung in the air, stark and honest. All the fight, all the jealousy, had been a twisted plea for exactly this. For you to take the chaos he felt and give it order. You let the silence stretch, letting him feel the weight of his own admission, the vulnerability of it.
Your hand finally settled on his shoulder, your grip firm, anchoring. “Then kneel,” you said, the command clear and absolute in the quiet room. For a heartbeat, he simply looked at you, his dark eyes wide. Then, without a word of protest, his knees gave way, bending until he was on the floor at your feet, his head bowed. The submission was total, beautiful in its simplicity. You looked down at him, at the elegant line of his neck, and placed a hand gently atop his head.
Your fingers threaded through his hair, not petting, but claiming. The soft strands were cool against your skin. He let out a shaky exhale, his shoulders relaxing further into the position, as if a terrible weight had been lifted. The proud, rebellious boy was gone, replaced by this quiet, pliant creature at your feet. You applied the slightest pressure, and he understood, leaning his forehead against your thigh. The warmth of his skin seeped through the fabric of your pants.
"Good," you murmured. His breath hitched again, a small, grateful sound. You kept him there for a long moment, letting him feel the safety of surrender. This was your world now, this elevator and the boy who had finally stopped running from what he needed. You withdrew your hand from his hair, and he made a faint, involuntary noise of protest at the loss of contact.
"Look at me," you instructed. He lifted his head slowly, his eyes finding yours. They were clear now, free of anger or pretence, just a deep, waiting calm. You cupped his chin, your thumb stroking the line of his jaw. "The distraction is over," you stated, your voice leaving no room for argument. He nodded, a tiny, obedient movement against your hold. "From now on, you ask for what you need. You use your words." A faint blush colored his cheeks, but he held your gaze. "Can you do that?"
His lips parted, his voice a hushed, reverent whisper. "Please." The word hung in the silent elevator. "Please, let me taste you." You held his gaze for a beat longer, then gave a single, slow nod. Your hands went to the waistband of your pants, pushing them and your underwear down just enough. He didn't need further instruction. His hands came up to steady your hips as he leaned forward, his mouth finding you with an eager, worshipful precision. His tongue was a slow, deliberate stroke, lapping at your heat as if savoring a sacred offering. A soft sigh escaped you, your head tipping back against the mirrored wall. He moaned against you, the vibration shooting a sharp thrill up your spine. His movements became more focused, his tongue circling and dipping, his entire being devoted to the single task of pulling pleasure from you. His eyes were closed in concentration, lashes dark against his cheeks, a picture of perfect, blissful service.
His hands tightened on your hips, holding you steady as he lost himself in the act. There was no hesitation, no seeking of his own pleasure, only a deep, abiding focus on yours. The flat of his tongue pressed and circled, his lips sealing around you to draw a soft, shuddering cry from your throat. The mirrored walls reflected the scene a dozen times—your fingers now tangled in his dark hair, his shoulders flexing with the effort of his ministrations, the absolute surrender in every line of his kneeling form.
You guided him with gentle pressure, and he followed without question, his rhythm shifting to match your unspoken demands. A low, continuous hum of pleasure vibrated in his chest, the sound echoing softly in the confined space. His own need was evident in the tense set of his back, in the way his knuckles whitened where he gripped you, but he made no move to seek friction for himself. This was his offering, his penance, and his reward all at once. The building tension in your core was a slow, sweet coil, fed by every devoted stroke of his tongue.
A sharp, breathy gasp was your only warning before the release washed over you, your thighs trembling against the sides of his face. He didn’t pull away, drinking down every wave until you gently tugged his hair, signalling him to stop. He rested his forehead against your thigh, his breathing ragged and warm against your sensitive skin. He stayed there, perfectly still, waiting for your next command as the last tremors subsided.
You let the silence stretch, the only sound his laboured breathing and the faint, residual hum of the elevator’s machinery. Your fingers loosened their grip in his hair, shifting to a slow, almost absent-minded petting. He leaned into the touch, a quiet sigh escaping him. After a long moment, you guided his head back, forcing him to look up at you. His lips were glistening, his eyes dark and hazy with a satisfaction that had nothing to do with his own physical release.
"Stand up," you said, your voice soft but firm. He obeyed slowly, his muscles stiff from kneeling. You reached down and pulled your clothing back into place with deliberate, unhurried movements, your eyes never leaving his. He watched you, his expression open and expectant, a faint flush still high on his cheekbones. You stepped closer, closing the small space between you, and smoothed a thumb over his damp bottom lip. He shivered, his gaze dropping to your mouth.
"Now," you whispered, your breath ghosting over his skin. "Take us home."
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