"Some sins don't need a pulpit to preach. They whisper best in the dark."
The choir had just ended their final note when Naomi stepped out into the quiet evening air behind the chapel. Her satin dress clung to her from the lingering summer heat, and the hem caught on the old stone path leading toward the garden.
She needed the stillness.
Needed the silence.
But silence had a habit of stirring things that shouldn't be heard.
Like the soft echo of footsteps behind her.
"Evening," came a low voice smooth, warm, familiar.
She turned.
Eli stood a few feet away, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his Bible tucked under one arm, his tie slightly loosened. The pastor's son. The golden boy. The one who never looked at her during service, but always seemed to know exactly where she was seated.
Naomi tried to speak but only managed a quiet, "Hi."
"I saw you slip out," he said. "You alright?"
"Fine." She offered a tight smile. "Just needed air."
He stepped closer. "It's hard to breathe in there sometimes."
Was he talking about the heat or the guilt?
Their eyes met, and Naomi felt it again that electric pulse between them. She'd felt it months ago, the first time he handed her a hymnal with fingers that lingered too long. Felt it in the way he avoided her gaze during sermons, only to sneak glances when he thought she wouldn't notice.
Eli's lips curved. "You're quiet tonight."
"And you're not supposed to be back here."
He smiled, stepping even closer. "Neither are you."
She swallowed.
The garden lights flickered on automatically as dusk faded, washing them in a soft gold glow. Fireflies hovered lazily, as if even they didn't want to interrupt what was hanging between them.
"You don't belong here, Naomi," Eli murmured.
"I could say the same about you."
He let out a low breath. "I mean it. You don't belong in this town. You don't belong being stared down by women who hate your red lipstick or whispered about by old men who watch you too long after communion."
Her heart pounded.
"You see them?"
"I see everything." His voice dropped lower. "I see you."
The way he said it made her knees wobble.
"Eli…" she warned, barely able to breathe.
But he reached out, brushing a lock of hair from her face. His touch was soft, reverent, like a prayer spoken too quietly to hear.
"You think I'm just the pastor's son," he said, "but I've imagined things… things no sermon could cleanse."
Her breath hitched. The garden smelled like roses and smoke and something far more dangerous now longing.
She should've walked away.
Instead, she whispered, "Tell me."
Eli's hand found her waist, fingers curling lightly at her side. "I think about that Sunday… three weeks ago. You wore a white dress with a slit. I couldn't focus on anything except the curve of your thigh."
"Eli"
"I imagine what you'd sound like if you said my name but not during prayer."
A shiver traced her spine.
Her fingers found his shirt, gripping the fabric between them. "You shouldn't say these things."
He leaned in. "Then stop me."
She didn't.
Their mouths were a whisper apart now, breaths mingling, fire licking between them without even a kiss exchanged yet.
"I've dreamed of touching you," he murmured, "but I wake up ashamed."
Naomi closed her eyes. "And do you still want to?"
"I do."
"Then do it."
Their kiss was a slow, aching confession.
No tongue. No desperation.
Just lips pressed with the kind of hunger that's been denied for too long like worship twisted into sin.
Eli's hands roamed with reverence, learning the shape of her back, the small of her waist, the secrets of her silhouette. Every place he touched, Naomi felt herself unraveling.
He didn't say a word. Neither did she.
But the silence spoke everything.
They moved to the garden bench, still locked in each other. It was awkward, fumbling, breathless but perfect in its imperfection. A slow exploration. A stolen taste.
When he buried his face in the crook of her neck, she trembled not from fear, but from the enormity of the moment.
"You taste like sin," he whispered.
"And you feel like salvation," she breathed.
Minutes passed. Or maybe an hour.
Eventually, they pulled apart, breathless and stunned by what they'd done what they'd started. There was no going back.
Naomi smoothed her dress, heart still racing.
Eli ran a hand through his hair, then looked at her really looked.
"We should regret this," he said softly.
She smiled. "We probably will."
"But not tonight."
Naomi stepped close again, resting her hand on his chest. "Then tonight, let's pretend this isn't wrong. Just for a little longer."
He nodded, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.
Not a goodbye.
Just a pause.