Scarred and Sacred

Rainfall

By the time I got home, the smell of fried chicken and collard greens had already filled the air.

Grandma never let the house stay quiet. Even when she wasn't cooking, she had the gospel station turned up on the old radio in the kitchen, the voices loud enough to drown out whatever was in her head. Hymns carried through the small house like prayers sewn into the walls, the kind that made me feel both safe and trapped all at once.

"Naomi?" she called, voice sharp like she could cut through walls. "That you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

I slipped off my shoes at the door and tucked them neatly beside the mat, exactly where she expected. My dress felt wrinkled after a long day, and I smoothed it out before stepping into the kitchen.

She stood by the stove, wooden spoon in hand, gray hair pulled into a bun. The lines in her face told a hundred stories she'd never say out loud, but her eyes—still sharp as ever—narrowed when they landed on me.

"You look tired. Long day?"

I swallowed. "Yes, ma'am. The gym was busier than I thought."

Her spoon stopped mid-stir. "The what?"

I froze. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I hadn't meant to slip.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Naomi Elise Carter, don't tell me you took a job in one of those places."

My grip tightened on the notebook I still carried, hugging it against my chest like it might shield me. "It's just the front desk, Grandma. Paperwork, answering phones. That's it."

She clucked her tongue, shaking her head with that mix of disapproval and disbelief I knew too well. "Lord, have mercy. A girl like you doesn't belong in a place like that. Full of men with no discipline, no respect, covered in filth and ink. You hear me?"

Ink.

The word stuck.

I thought of the roses twisting over pale muscle, the black wings stretching across his forearm. I thought of the storm-gray eyes that had landed on me like they already knew me, like they'd strip me bare if I stood there too long.

"Yes, ma'am," I said softly, though the words burned on my tongue.

Grandma's gaze lingered, her spoon forgotten, her face carved into suspicion. I knew she could read me. She always could. And the more I tried to stand still, the more she seemed to sense the storm brewing inside me.

Finally, she sighed, turning back to the pot. "One summer job is one thing. But don't you go bringing trouble into this house, Naomi. You're better than that."

I nodded quickly, retreating before she asked more questions.

In my room, I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, breathing in the silence. The house was too small to hold secrets, but I'd learned to carve out pockets of privacy where I could. My notebook sat heavy in my arms, and I placed it on the desk by the window.

Evening light spilled across the pages, turning my handwriting golden. Notes, scribbles, half-finished poems—little pieces of me that nobody ever saw. I should've opened it, tried to write about the day, but my mind wasn't on the paper.

It was back at the gym.

The smell of leather and sweat still clung to me, sharp and raw. The echo of fists hitting heavy bags thudded in my chest like a second heartbeat.

And then there was him.

Kade Rivers.

The name itself sounded like trouble, like something meant to be whispered instead of said out loud. I'd never met anyone like him before, never been close enough to someone who looked like he'd lived a hundred lives more dangerous than mine. His tattoos had been dark maps across his skin, each one hinting at stories I couldn't read but wanted to.

I shouldn't have looked. I shouldn't have let his words stick to me the way they did.

Didn't know angels hung out in gyms.

It was teasing, I knew that. A joke. But something in his eyes told me he hadn't meant it lightly. And I hated how my stomach had fluttered, how my face had warmed.

Because Grandma was right. Girls like me didn't belong in places like that. We belonged in church pews, in neat little dresses, in houses where gospel played louder than doubts. We belonged in safety.

Not in the gaze of a fighter whose smile promised danger.

I sat on the bed, smoothing the quilt with my palms, trying to steady my thoughts.

When I was younger, I used to dream about freedom. About college. About leaving this little house and the small town whispers behind. But the closer I got to that dream, the heavier the weight of it became. College meant bills. Bills meant jobs. And jobs meant places Grandma didn't approve of.

I thought I could handle it. I thought I could keep my head down, sign people in, answer phones, and walk away untouched.

But then his eyes had found mine.

And now, I wasn't so sure.

From the kitchen, Grandma's voice rose with the choir on the radio, loud and certain: Victory is mine, victory today is mine...

I closed my eyes, letting the words wash over me. They were supposed to be comforting, but all I felt was a tug in the opposite direction.

Because when I thought of victory, I didn't see church pews or tidy notebooks. I saw storm-gray eyes, inked arms, and a smirk that already lived in my head.

I pressed my hands together and whispered a prayer under my breath, the way Grandma taught me. But even then, the only name that slipped through the silence was his.

Kade Rivers.

And deep down, I already knew—trouble had found me, and I wasn't sure I wanted to run from it.