Evie

I never believed I could have loved a sinner until Saint came along. The irony still makes me laugh sometimes—how a girl who practically grew up on church benches ended up breaking every rule she swore she’d never touch.

But that night, I didn’t know who he was. I didn’t know his name, his story, or the mess he was about to drag me into. I only knew one thing: he was bleeding out on the church steps, and I couldn’t just walk away.

It started like any other Thursday night. The storm outside had turned the world into a gray blur. Wind howled through the cracks of the old chapel, making the stained-glass windows rattle like teeth.

Everyone had already gone home—my parents were stuck across town after evangelism, probably praying the storm wouldn’t swallow the old mission van whole.

And me? I was left behind. Again.

I swept the floors, humming half-heartedly to an old worship song, pretending I wasn’t irritated that my life was as predictable as the Sunday schedule taped on the bulletin board. Clean the church. Pray. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

Sometimes I wondered if this was what my life was going to be forever—a quiet, careful cycle that looked holy from the outside but felt like slow suffocation on the inside. I was twenty-one, but I felt like I’d lived a hundred small, uneventful lives.

I was just grumbling under my breath about wanting something—anything—to change when I heard his voice.

“Help me.”

The voice was hoarse, almost drowned out by the rain. I froze, the broom handle tight in my grip. For a second, I thought I imagined it.

Then it came again, softer, desperate. “Please. Help me.”

My heart kicked against my ribs. I turned slowly toward the door, every instinct screaming that I should not open it. Because no good story ever starts with a voice saying, "Help me," in the middle of a storm, right?

But I moved anyway.

When I opened the door, my breath hitched.

There he was—a man slumped against the steps, soaked through, his entire shirt stained dark with blood. For a heartbeat, I just stared. He looked like something torn out of a nightmare.

“Oh my God,” I whispered, rushing forward before my brain could catch up.

He was tall, muscular even under all the grime, with tattoos covering his arms and neck—black ink swirling over tanned skin. His face was sharp and angular, the kind that would’ve been beautiful if not for how pale and broken he looked in that moment.

“Hey, hey, can you hear me?” I asked, dropping to my knees beside him. Rain soaked through my jeans immediately.

He nodded weakly, his breath shallow. “Don’t… call anyone. Please.”

That was the first thing he said. Not help me more; I’m not dying. Just don’t call anyone.

And that should’ve been the red flag that sent me running. But all I saw was how much blood there was, how his hands shook as he tried to hold pressure to his side.

“You’re hurt,” I said, stating the obvious because my brain had apparently short-circuited.

He gave a small, almost pained smile. “Yeah. Not my best night.”

I looked around. The church parking lot was empty, the streetlights flickering. No one in sight. The storm drowned everything. If I didn’t help him, he’d die right there, and I’d never sleep again knowing I could’ve done something.

So I did what any idiot with a bleeding stranger and too much empathy would do. I grabbed him by the arm. “Come on. You need to get inside.”

He winced but let me pull him up. His arm was heavy across my shoulders, his body trembling with effort. Together we stumbled into the church, dripping water and blood across the clean tiles I’d just mopped.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

I got him down the hallway toward the basement, where we kept cleaning supplies, old pews, and a few blankets for the youth retreats. He groaned every few steps, but he didn’t complain. Just kept muttering, “Almost there,” like he was afraid to stop moving.

When we finally made it to the storage room, I eased him down on an old couch that probably hadn’t been used since I was twelve.

“Stay here,” I said, trying to sound braver than I felt. “I’ll get something for the bleeding.”

He caught my wrist before I could leave. His grip was weak but firm enough to make my heart stumble. “Don’t call 911,” he said again, voice tight. “Please. If you do, I’ll be dead before sunrise.”

I stared at him. “You’re already halfway there!”

He gave me a look, a tired, haunted one that was also certain. “You have to trust me.”

Trust him. The bleeding, tattooed stranger hiding in a church basement. Sure, why not?

But the words "His blood will be on your head" echoed somewhere deep in my conscience, the way guilt always did. So I nodded, against every ounce of logic in me.

“Fine,” I muttered. “But you’re leaving tomorrow morning. No arguments.”

He just exhaled a shaky “deal” and leaned back, eyes fluttering shut.

I sprinted back to the small room behind the choir stands where I kept my things. My hands shook as I grabbed a towel, rubbing alcohol, a first-aid kit, and a flashlight. My heart was still racing when I returned.

He hadn’t moved much. His shirt was torn, exposing a deep gash along his ribs. I winced.

“This is going to hurt,” I said quietly.

He managed a smirk. “Already does.”

“Then don’t move.”

The smell of blood mixed with gasoline and smoke, making me gag. I pressed a towel to his wound, and he hissed through his teeth, muscles tensing.

“Sorry,” I whispered.

“You don’t have to apologize for helping me,” he said.

I glanced up, meeting his eyes for the first time. They were a stormy gray, half-shadowed but clear enough that I could see something flickering there—pain, maybe guilt. Maybe both.

For a second, I forgot what I was doing. Then I remembered the blood on my hands and went back to cleaning the wound.

“What happened to you?” I asked softly.

He hesitated. “Wrong place. Wrong people.”

I didn’t push. It wasn’t my business. At least, that’s what I told myself.

When I finished bandaging him, I stepped back, wiping my hands on my skirt. “You’ll need to rest. There’s a blanket in the cabinet. I’ll check on you before sunrise, but you can’t make any noise, okay? My parents will be back soon.”

He nodded, exhaustion finally pulling him under. “Thank you,” he murmured, and his eyes slipped shut.

That thank you did something to me... something small but sharp. Maybe because no one had thanked me in a long time. Not really. Not in a way that felt like they meant it.

I left quietly, closing the basement door behind me. The moment it clicked shut, I pressed my back against it and took a deep breath.

What had I just done?

I should’ve been terrified. Maybe I was. But under the fear, there was something else—something I didn’t want to name. A pulse of adrenaline, maybe even… purpose. Like for the first time in a long time, my life wasn’t just going through motions.

“Evie!”

My heart stopped. That was my dad’s voice.

I spun around. The front doors creaked open, letting in a rush of cold wind and rain. My parents were home.

I hurried out of the hallway, praying they wouldn’t notice the faint trail of blood on the floor.

“Coming!” I called, forcing my voice to sound normal.

My dad was shaking rain off his jacket, looking worn out but cheerful in that steady, godly way he always did. My stepmom, on the other hand, looked like she’d swallowed a lemon. Her lips pinched the second she saw me.

“Why did you take so long to answer?” my dad asked.

“I was just… finishing up cleaning,” I said, tucking a strand of wet hair behind my ear. “Didn’t hear you right away.”

He nodded, satisfied enough not to ask further. My stepmom didn’t look convinced. She shot me a glare before ushering my two younger stepbrothers inside, both dripping mud everywhere.

“Honestly, Evie,” she muttered, “you should’ve been in bed by now.”

I bit back a sigh. “Yes, ma’am.”

Dad gave me a small smile. “You’ve done enough tonight. Go rest. We’ll see you at morning prayer.”

I nodded quickly, eager to escape before anyone noticed the pounding in my chest.

As I turned toward the hallway, lightning flashed through the windows, lighting up the church for a split second—and in that light, I thought I saw my dad walking towards the basement.

My stomach dropped.

No, no, no.