He watched the video with his hand wrapped tight around his cock.
He wasn't thinking about her.
Not directly.
She didn't remember making the call--just the silence that came after he answered.
Now she was here.
Standing on the porch of a man she hadn't seen since she was a girl. Her dad's brother. "Uncle Matt", back before her parents handed their lives over to the church and cut off everyone who made them feel too human.
Her duffel bag was heavy. Her hoodie soaked. Her sneakers squished with every step. She smelled like bus stations and cold sweat.
But she'd made it.
And now she couldn't move.
The porch light buzzed above her. Moths danced in slow circles around the bulb. She hadn't knocked. Couldn't. She wasn't sure she could stand much longer, let alone explain herself.
She was just about to turn away when the door opened.
Matt stood there.
He looked older--hair grayer at the temples, lines carved deeper at the corners of his eyes--but the steadiness was still there. That quiet, grounded presence she used to feel when she was little, sitting on his back deck eating popsicles. A welcome reprieve from her parents who droned on about prophecy and posture.
He'd taught her how to catch frogs once. Told her they were harmless if you held them right.
He looked at her for one long second.
Not shocked. Not pitying. Just... seeing.
Then he stepped back.
"Come in."
She passed him in silence.
The house smelled like cedar and lemon. Warm. Clean. Nothing like the stiff linen and cold tile of her parents' home. Nothing like the damp church basement where she'd been couch-surfing.
He nodded toward the hallway. "Third door on the right."
She remembered. The room down the hall.
She didn't say thank you. Just walked.
The guest room was lit by a soft lamp. The duvet white. The walls a dusty blue. A folded towel on the chair. A glass of water on the nightstand. A new toothbrush still in its wrapper.
It was too much.
Too soft. Too quiet.
She dropped her bag. Peeled off her hoodie. Crawled onto the bed fully clothed.
She didn't cry. Didn't scroll her phone.
She just shut down.
And slept.
*
She dreamed of being left behind.
Not the metaphor. Not the sermon.
She dreamed of the actual Rapture. Empty clothes in pews. Cars crashed into poles. Someone's voice screaming from outside while Grace stood alone in the sanctuary.
*
She woke before dawn in a pool of sweat.
The sheets were wet against her back. Her limbs heavy with exhaustion.
She used to beg God not to forget her.
Now she didn't believe he was even real. Why was she still dreaming about this kind of crap?
The glass of water was still full. There was a note beneath it.
"Take your time. I'll probably be in the kitchen." - Uncle Matt
She stared at the words.
Her chest hurt.
She drank the water in four slow gulps and sat back down, holding the note like a leaf she didn't want to crumple.
The day before had collapsed in on itself.
It wasn't one thing. It was all of it. The last straw was the search history.
