Evie

I woke up as early as I could, heart hammering, adrenaline still buzzing through me like I’d just run a marathon.

My parents were still asleep, the house quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the floorboards. I had to check on him—my stranger visitor, the sinner with tattoos and scars and that ridiculous, impossible charm. Saint.

Tiptoeing down the stairs, I felt a strange mix of excitement and nerves. My skirt swished softly around my legs, a little too long, a little too much, but I didn’t care.

My mission was clear. He needed me. Maybe not, but my conscience wouldn’t let me rest otherwise.

I reached the basement door, hand hovering over the handle. I took a deep breath, trying to act calm, and pushed it open.

And froze.

He wasn’t on the bed.

“Shit,” I muttered under my breath, my stomach twisting in frustration. “Did he just… disappear on me? Man didn’t even have the nerve to say bye. Ungrateful bastard.”

I was about to step back when a soft, unmistakable sound stopped me. A low, rumbling stomach growl.

“What… the hell?” I whispered, eyes scanning the shadows under the bed, my pulse racing. My heart skipped a beat when I saw it: his hands stretched out from beneath the bed, reaching for the edge like a lifeline.

“Help me, Angel… please. I’m stuck,” he groaned, his voice rough, tired, and somehow… endearing in the strangest way.

I laughed softly, bending down, ignoring the way my skirt slipped slightly around my legs. “How… how did you even get down there?” I asked, shaking my head, exasperated but secretly amused.

“I heard footsteps,” he said sheepishly, voice low. “I knew you wouldn’t want your parents catching me here, so I had to act fast. Didn’t have time to be graceful.”

I rolled my eyes but smiled, trying to hide the warmth rising in my chest. “You’re impossible,” I muttered. “Come on, let me help you.”

With a little grunt and a twist, he wriggled free. He sat up, rubbing his back, and then, almost on cue, his stomach growled again, louder this time.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, embarrassed, his voice catching just slightly. “That sounded… awkward.”

“Don’t apologize,” I said, brushing a loose strand of hair from my face. “You’ve been through hell. I get it.”

He gave me a faint smirk, one corner of his mouth quirking up like he had a secret. “I’ll be on my way soon, promise. Don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“I would appreciate that,” I said softly, moving closer to help him to the bed. But as I reached him, I froze for a moment. Something was off. His skin was warm—too warm. My brow furrowed.

“Oh no… I think you’re running a fever,” I whispered, concern prickling through me like little needles.

He groaned, dramatic and slightly playful. “Don’t tell me I’m sick too,” he said, voice low but teasing.

I checked through the medical supplies I had brought in last night—the antiseptic, bandages, and a small first aid kit. My fingers brushed over everything almost automatically, but then it hit me. He hadn’t eaten. Not since yesterday. Not since whatever nightmare had forced him to stumble into my church, bleeding and desperate.

“Look… I’m coming,” I said quickly, urgency creeping into my voice. My pulse was racing, my chest tight with worry. I couldn’t let him go hungry. I couldn’t let him be unwell while hiding in my basement. Not on my watch.

The kitchen was bathed in soft morning light, the kind that made the white tiles glow and the countertops shimmer just enough to make you feel like you were in one of those perfect little Instagram photos.

I stared around for a moment, taking it in, but didn’t let myself linger. I had a mission. Saint. My messy, impossible, gorgeous stranger had been down in the basement, and I needed to make sure he at least got some food before anything else.

Pancakes were out of the question. Too long, too messy, and way too loud. I could just imagine the sizzle and pop drawing someone’s attention, and—no, not an option. My eyes scanned the cupboards, settling on the cereal box. Bingo. Quick, quiet, simple. Perfect for a sinner in hiding.

I grabbed a Ziploc and poured in a decent amount of cereal, careful not to spill a single flake on the floor. Then I added the powdered milk, doing a little mental cheer when it didn’t slosh over the edge. I sealed it tight, holding it up like some kind of victory flag.

One for the good guys, or in this case, the good girl trying to help a tattooed, impossible man with a dangerous vibe and a soft growl.

Next came the extras. I grabbed a cup, two spoons—because I wasn’t going to leave anything to chance—and a water bottle. My fingers brushed over the handles, my heart still racing from the rush downstairs. I wanted to do this right. I wanted him to feel cared for, not like a random mess I had shoved some cereal at and left.

I was just about to grab everything and make a beeline back downstairs when I froze.

Edna.

She had appeared in the doorway as if she had been silently stalking the house. Step-mom radar or superhuman hearing—I wasn’t sure which—but there she was, one eyebrow arched, hands on her hips.

“Isn’t it a little early for breakfast?” she asked, her voice smooth but sharp, the kind that could slice through any excuse.

I swallowed hard, forcing a smile that probably looked way too tight. “Oh… I just came in for water,” I said quickly, keeping my voice light and casual, nothing like the racing panic I felt inside.

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing as if trying to peer into my soul, which probably wasn’t a good thing. “Hmmm… okay. I just want you to know we’re fasting today. Try your best to join us, alright?” Her tone was soft but carried that subtle weight that said, "I see everything, Evie."

I nodded quickly, cheeks heating. “Yes, ma’am,” I said, forcing the words out like they were medicine I had to swallow.

She gave me a faint smile, turned, and left the kitchen, and only then did I let out the long, shaky breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. The moment she disappeared, the tension in my shoulders eased just a little, though my heart was still racing like I’d run a mile.

I leaned against the counter for a second, gripping the Ziploc and cup a little too tightly. God, what am I even doing?

I was sneaking cereal like some kind of rebel, carrying it down to a stranger hiding in the basement. A stranger with tattoos, a fever, and that infuriating smirk that made my stomach flip. My chest tightened, and I silently cursed myself.

“Lord,” I whispered under my breath, “forgive me. This is… this is ridiculous. You’re supposed to stay away from sinners. You’re supposed to be the good girl, Evie.”

But even as I said it, my feet moved on their own, already heading back toward the basement. My hands shook slightly from nerves and anticipation, my heart thundered, and I couldn’t stop the little thrill that ran through me.

God, what was I even doing?

Forgive me, Lord.