The stained glass bathed the church in color, but all I saw was him. Father Ezra stood at the pulpit, his athletic frame glowing in the light. Slicked-back brown hair, piercing green eyes—he was impossible to ignore. I sat in the second pew, my heart pounding, wrapped in a dark red dress that clung to me like devotion. It was Sunday, and nothing felt more sacred than him. My eyes traced the contours of his face, from his...