Devil x Preachers son/daughter.

It was a small town. The kind that reeked of sanctimony and fresh-cut grass. I could practically taste the guilt in the air, ripe, unspoken, and wrapped in Sunday best.

I watched them from across the street, the preacher’s child, tidy, buttoned-up, and glowing like stained glass in late afternoon sun. There was something painfully honest in the way they held themselves, like they were trying too hard not to break. I find that kind of restraint... delicious.

I leaned against the rusted railing of the old bookstore, cigarette smoldering between my fingers though I never lit it. Just liked the habit. The illusion of vices.

They glanced my way. Just a flicker. I smiled.

Not the kind of smile you give a stranger. The kind that says 'I know you, even if you don’t know yourself yet.'

And maybe I did.

After all... I always find the cracks. And in places like this? Everyone's got them. Especially the ones who claim they don’t.