The church smelled faintly of lavender and old wooden pews — the kind of scent that carried peace, the kind that could quiet even the noisiest thoughts. Morning light streamed in through the stained glass windows, painting soft colors across the tiled floor. The choir hummed a gentle hymn, voices rising and falling like waves, and for a brief moment, I felt the world slow down.
I had come to church that morning to pray, not for anything grand — just for calm. My heart had been restless for weeks, fluttering with thoughts I couldn't name, emotions I couldn't place. I wanted to believe that peace still lived somewhere inside me, beneath the noise of everyday life.
I knelt. I whispered a prayer. And when I opened my eyes — I saw him.
He stood at the far end of the hall, tall and calm, sunlight tracing a golden line down the side of his face. He wasn't smiling, but there was a quiet confidence in the way he carried himself. His eyes moved slowly over the congregation before they landed — on me.
For a second, I thought I imagined it. That maybe my mind, desperate for a distraction, had created the moment. But his gaze didn't shift. It lingered — steady, gentle, curious. I felt something move in my chest, something that felt like a whisper and a spark all at once.
I looked away, pretending to adjust my Bible, but my heart had already betrayed me. It was beating too fast, too loud.
The choir began another hymn. People stood, clapping softly, voices blending in praise. But all I could hear was my pulse, and all I could see — even when I tried not to — was him.
He walked toward the front, greeting a few people along the way. When he passed by me, I caught the faint scent of his cologne — clean, like rain. My fingers trembled where they rested on my lap.
I told myself it was nothing. Just a man, another face among the faithful. But deep down, I knew it wasn't. There was something different about this one. Something quiet, but dangerous — like fire disguised as light.
When the service ended, I tried to leave quickly, but fate had other plans. He was at the door, talking with the usher, and when I passed by, his voice brushed against my ears like a melody I wanted to hear again.
"Excuse me," he said.
I froze. Slowly, I turned.
He smiled — not the kind that asked for attention, but the kind that made you want to look twice.
"You dropped this," he said, handing me a pen I hadn't realized had fallen from my Bible.
"Oh— thank you," I whispered, my voice embarrassingly soft.
He nodded once. "You're welcome."
Our fingers brushed briefly when I took the pen. Just that — a brief touch. But it felt like something sacred had passed between us. Something that neither of us understood, but both of us felt.
As I walked away, I could still feel his eyes on me. I didn't look back. I couldn't.
Because in that single glance, that single touch, something had already begun — something that would burn through everything I thought I knew about love, faith, and control.
And I, Splendour Adelara Grace, was already standing too close to the fire.