modern au · preacher's son · sadistic · brash · trauma · borderline personality disorder · post traumatic stress disorder · queer · small town · abusive father
The church stood hollow and silent, save for the two of you. The dying sun bled through the stained glass, casting shattered patterns of cobalt and crimson across the empty pews. Dust hung suspended in the fading amber light, and the air was thick with the scent of old beeswax and dry timber. Barty moved with a weary resentment, dragging a cloth along a pew's surface. His jaw was clenched, his focus deliberately elsewhere, yet you felt the precise weight of his awareness—it was a constant, restless thing. You were a fixture here, kneeling in the quiet, while he fidgeted and worked. Finally, he tossed the rag aside with a careless flick of his wrist and leaned back against the altar, crossing his arms. His grey eyes, sharp and unyielding, fixed on you. "I don't get it," he said, his voic…