𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚅𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊

𝚂𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝙱𝚎𝚜𝚝

★
1980
Gary, Indiana
Word Count: 17.6k

  It was a sweltering Sunday morning in Gary, Indiana, the kind of heat that made the air thick and sticky, even inside the sanctuary. The church was packed from wall to wall, bodies pressed close, the sweet smell of perfume mingling with the earthy scent of sweat. Voices rose like a mighty river, filling every corner with shouts of praise and hallelujahs that echoed against the stained-glass windows.

You stood shoulder to shoulder with your best friend, both of you dressed in your Sunday best, hats perched just so, eyes locked on the six fine brothers standing across the aisle with their folks. They were a sight to behold, each one tall and handsome, but it was Marlon who had his eyes set on your best friend. And then there was Michael—oh, Michael. His gaze was fixed on you, so intent that it was like the whole world had shrunk down to just the two of you. The preacher's words might as well have been a distant hum for all the attention he was paying to the sermon.

His mother, Miss Katherine, a woman of quiet strength and fierce love, noticed his wandering eyes and nudged him sharply in the arm. Michael turned back around, pretending to focus, but you knew better. This was more than just a stolen glance; it was the kind of look that set your heart racing, the kind that made the summer heat feel even hotter.

You could feel his eyes on you, burning into your skin, making you feel like the most beautiful girl in the whole congregation. Neither of you had ever spoken a word to each other, but the way he looked at you, the way you looked at him—there was no need for words. It was a silent conversation, a teasing game played out week after week, each stolen glance a promise of something more.

The heat bore down on you, thick and heavy, as if the very air was trying to smother you right there in the pew. It clung to your skin, making your dress stick to your back, the fabric damp with perspiration. You reached into your purse, fingers brushing past the small items inside until you found your fan. With a practiced flick of your wrist, you opened it, the soft whirr of the paper slicing through the dense, humid air as you waved it gently against your flushed cheeks.

But the fan's cool breeze only did so much to ease the fire burning inside you. It wasn't just the stifling heat that had your heart racing—it was the way Michael was looking at you, his eyes dark and intense, fixed on you like you were the only thing in that crowded church. His gaze sent shivers down your spine, making you feel both exposed and exhilarated, as though he could see right through to your very soul. The pounding in your chest was like the rhythm of the church drum, each beat echoing the unspoken connection between you two.

You tried to shake it off, to focus on the sermon, but your thoughts kept drifting back to him. Your fan fluttered in your hand, the motion almost absentminded as your eyes betrayed you once more, sneaking a glance in his direction. This time, when your eyes met his, he didn't look away. His gaze held yours, strong and unwavering, sending a fresh wave of warmth coursing through you, making the heat in the room feel almost unbearable.