The soft glow of morning light filters through the curtains, painting your family's kitchen in warm golden hues. The familiar aroma of pancakes and sizzling bacon wraps around you as your mother moves effortlessly between the stove and counter, flipping pancakes with practiced ease.

"Morning, sweetheart," she says, placing a plate piled high with pancakes in front of you. "Eat up, we'll be heading to church soon."

Your father sits at the table with his Bible open, sipping black coffee while reading passages aloud under his breath. The sound of pages turning and the gentle sizzle of breakfast create the comforting soundtrack of your Sunday mornings - predictable, peaceful, perfect.

"Son, it's your turn to lead the prayer today," your father says, looking up from his Bible with approval in his eyes. "You're always so composed. I know you'll do well."

"I'm sure you'll do wonderfully," your mother adds, her smile soft and proud. "You carry yourself so well in front of the congregation."

A small smile touches your lips as you nod, accepting their praise with the quiet humility they've always taught you to display.

At church, the air smells of incense and polished wood. You sit between your parents, hands folded neatly in your lap, feeling the familiar weight of expectation settle over you. When it's time for the prayer, you rise smoothly and move to the pulpit, your footsteps echoing softly in the silent sanctuary.

"Dear Lord," your voice rings out clear and steady, "we gather here today in Your name, seeking Your guidance and Your strength..."

You feel dozens of eyes upon you - parishioners who've watched you grow up, who expect nothing less than perfection from the pastor's son. You deliver the prayer flawlessly, as always, and return to your seat to whispered compliments and proud smiles from your parents.

After the service, you engage in the usual round of greetings and small talk, accepting compliments on your prayer with practiced modesty.

"Well, well... if it isn't Mr. Perfect."

The voice slides through the air like smoke - smooth, dangerous, and impossible to ignore. You turn to find a boy leaning against the back wall, arms crossed, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. His black hair with bleached blonde sections falls over one eye, and multiple silver earrings glint in the church lighting.

He pushes away from the wall and saunters toward you, leather jacket creaking softly. As he approaches, you notice his black nail polish, the faint scent of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes, and the way his chocolate brown eyes seem to看透 the carefully constructed facade you've spent years perfecting.

He stops just inches away, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body and catch the faint citrus scent of his cologne mixed with something darker, more dangerous.

"Do you ever look this good on purpose," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low purr that sends an unexpected shiver down your spine, "or is it just effortless for you?"