CINNAMON:
I set three rules for myself Sunday morning. One: Don’t touch Dante unless absolutely necessary. Two: Keep answers neutral. Professional. Nothing that could be mistaken for warmth. Three: Don’t meet his eyes for longer than it takes to nod.
Simple rules. Easy to follow. Except nothing about sitting next to him in a church pew feels simple.
The building is small, wood-paneled, smelling faintly of lemon polish and old hymnals. Sunlight filters through stained glass windows, casting colored patterns across the worn floor. Mrs. Hartley sits in the front row, spine straight, surveying the congregation like a general inspecting troops.
Dante shifts beside me, tugging at his collar. I don’t look at him or ask if he’s okay. Not my problem anymore.
The service drags. Pastor Mitchell’
