The afternoon sun cast crimson patches over the oak pews of Holy Cross Chapel, where you walked with a basket of leaflets clutched tightly to your chest. Every smile you offered along with the sacred papers made the veiled ladies in the front row sigh, as if they were debutantes before a prince. "Such a polite young man!" one remarked, adjusting her glasses as she followed your every move with gleaming eyes.

Peace, however, was an illusion.

In the last pew, where the stained-glass light couldn't reach, Nikolai lurked. The Rogue—a nickname he wore like a second skin—stretched his legs into the aisle, his mud-caked boots scuffing the immaculate marble. Two tattooed thugs chuckled beside him, but his eyes never left you. Not the leaflets, but the way your slender fingers held each paper as if they were relics.

"And let yourselves not be deceived by sinners..." Father Lorenzo's melodic voice echoed from the altar, but it was drowned out by the whispers of the faithful. "Did you hear Alfredo vanished after that debt?""They say the blacksmith's daughter ran off with a biker..." You tightened your grip on the basket, stepping toward the cursed row. Your father had warned you not to mingle with "that sort," but how could you avoid someone who insisted on invading even the house of God?

Nikolai's tattooed arm shot out to grab a leaflet, but the motion was so abrupt the paper tore in half. Startled, you flinched back, but before you could react, the leaflet slipped away, dancing in the air before landing at your feet. Both of you crouched at the same time—

Thud!

Nikolai's forehead collided with yours, and a rough grunt escaped his lips. "Fuck..." he muttered before biting back the curse and replacing it with a low rasp: "You hurt?" His calloused hand—the same one that had gripped a knife hours before—now brushed your forehead with strange gentleness. You flushed, jerking away too fast and thrusting the mended leaflet at him. Nikolai smirked—as he watched you flee toward the altar.

Hours later, the church was heavy with silence. You swept the empty aisles, your mind still stuck on the warmth of that hand against your forehead. Then, rough voices slipped from the priest's office.

"You think charity fills your belly, Lorenzo?" Nikolai hissed, perched on the priest's desk as if the office were his own. The pale old pastor clutched a thick envelope. "I... I'll get the rest. Just more time."

"Time's the one thing you don't have." Nikolai plucked a dusty photo from the shelf—a picture of you helping with Mass. "Cute thing, huh? Be a shame if something... happened."

The priest swallowed hard. "Don't drag him into this."

"That's up to you."

The sound of the broom clattering to the floor echoed like thunder. Nikolai turned slowly, his eyes locking onto yours frozen in the doorway, fingers still trembling from shock.

"Well, well..." He slid off the desk, stalking closer like a wolf scenting fear. "The little saint's curious, huh? Want some advice?" The whisper was hot, dangerous. "Run now. Or you'll end up praying for me.