couldn't stop thinking about him.
Even after I left the church, even after I tried to distract myself with little chores and chatter, his face stayed with me.
Alfred Thompson. I didn't even know his name yet, but something about him lingered — the calmness in his eyes, the warmth of his voice, the quiet power that followed him like a shadow.
For days, I tried to forget that brief encounter.
But some moments don't fade; they stay, echoing softly in your mind until they become part of you.
It was on a Thursday evening when I saw him again. The sky was bruised purple, heavy with clouds, and the smell of rain hung in the air. I had gone back to church for midweek service, trying to find peace again — and maybe, secretly, hoping to see him.
The church wasn't as full as Sunday. The lights were dimmer, the voices gentler. I sat near the back, pretending to focus on the sermon, but my eyes kept searching — every shadow, every figure that walked past.
And then he came in.
Same calm stride. Same quiet confidence. His white shirt caught the faint glow of the bulbs, and his eyes swept through the room until they found me — again.
My breath hitched.
Why was he looking at me like that?
Like he knew something about me that even I didn't.
After service, I waited outside for the rain to slow. The drops tapped against the church roof like a thousand tiny drums. People hurried past, wrapping themselves in shawls and laughter. But I stayed, standing by the steps, watching the night shimmer under the streetlight.
Then a voice behind me — low, warm.
"You're not going home yet?"
I turned. Alfred stood a few steps away, holding an umbrella.
He smiled — that same smile that made my stomach twist.
"It's raining," I said softly.
"I know," he replied. "That's why I came with this."
He lifted the umbrella slightly, tilting his head toward me. "Can I walk you home?"
For a moment, I hesitated. My heart wanted to say yes; my mind whispered caution. But there was something in his tone — kind, not forceful — that made me trust him.
"Alright," I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper.
We walked side by side under the umbrella, our shoulders brushing lightly. The streets glistened with rain, the lamps painting golden streaks on the wet road. I could hear his quiet breathing beside me, steady and comforting.
"You were at Sunday service," he said after a while.
"Yes."
"I noticed."
I smiled faintly. "I did too."
He chuckled — soft, deep, and disarming. "So, you noticed me?"
I rolled my eyes playfully. "Maybe."
Silence fell between us, but it wasn't awkward. It was warm — like the kind that doesn't need words to feel understood.
When we reached my street, he stopped. "This is it?"
I nodded. "Thank you for walking me."
"My pleasure," he said. His gaze lingered for a second too long before he turned away.
"Goodnight, Splendour."
The way he said my name — like it was something fragile — made me shiver.
"Goodnight," I whispered back.
As he walked away, the rain began again, soft and slow. I watched him until he disappeared around the corner, the sound of his footsteps fading into the night.
And right there, under the whispering rain, I knew something had begun — something beautiful, something dangerous, and something that would change me forever.