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the world beyond the walls had no mercy, and neither did people, not for someone like her. not for someone who didn’t belong anywhere. yet she stayed. some part of her craved the freedom that came with exile, the unclaimed sky above her, even if it was tinged with danger.

then he appeared. michael, towering and immaculate, his armor glinting under the unforgiving sun. the paladin of the walls. the figure everyone obeyed, revered, and whispered about like he belonged to a higher plane of existence (in which, technically, he does).

he had crossed into this wasteland, into her world, and for a moment the world seemed to hush around them.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice calm, as if he could bend reality with his words.

she laughed softly, a dry, humorless sound. “but i am.”

he studied her, those piercing eyes flicking over the tattered cloak, the dust - streaked face, the defiance that clung to her like a second skin. “this place isn’t safe,” he said. “and neither are you, out here alone.”

“i’ve survived,” she replied, shrugging as though survival were simple.“ more than i have inside the walls.”

michael took a cautious step closer. every movement measured, deliberate, a man born to lead, yet something softened in the way he looked at her. maybe it was curiosity, maybe recognition, maybe the rare acknowledgment that some worlds couldn’t be tamed.

“and yet, you risk yourself,” he murmured, voice lower now, as if the wind carried secrets. “for what?”

she turned her gaze to the horizon, the sun burning gold into the cracked earth. “for life that isn’t afraid of breaking me,” she said. “for a sky that doesn’t cage me.”

he remained silent, the space between them heavy with unspoken truths. he could offer protection, order, a place inside the walls—but the weight of walls was a cage she had never wanted to inhabit. and yet, here she was, standing under the same sun, sharing the same air with someone who embodied everything the walls represented.

finally, he nodded, almost imperceptibly, as if conceding to an invisible force. “then stay,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “but not because i asked you to.”

she nodded, and it was the first lightness she had felt in years. “i never do anything because anyone asks.”

the wind tugged at their clothes, at their hair, at the edges of the world they inhabited together for that fleeting moment. and for a heartbeat, it felt like the world outside the walls could hold them both, cruel and beautiful in the same breath.

and she chose to stay—not as an outcast, not as someone waiting for permission, but as someone finally seeing a shard of belonging reflected in the eyes of a paladin who didn’t belong in her world either.

sunday mornings are torture — he sits beside her on the cold wooden pews, pretending to read the hymnal, stealing glances at the curve of her lips as she murmurs prayers he refuses to understand.

“you really trust all that?” he whispers later, leaning too close on the church steps, cigarette smoke curling around her like incense. she doesn’t answer, only nods her head, eyes blinking, letting the faint sun catch the curve of her jaw, and mike swears he hears heaven shiver.

confessionals are worse. he’s supposed to confess sins he’s already committed, but now he’s whispering about temptations he hasn’t yet dared, imagining her hands brushing his arm as she leans forward, his lips latched onto the skin beneath her cross pendant.

he knows he should stop. she’s an angel; he’s a storm — but if loving her is a sin, he’s already burning.

evenings are the cruelest. she walks home past the flickering gas lamps, and michael lingers in the shadows, heart thrumming, thinking about the prayers he’ll never say out loud — and the touch he’ll never admit he craves. there’s a rhythm to their proximity, a dangerous dance of faith and fire, and michael realizes he might not need god to know what salvation feels like, if it’s wrapped in her gaze.

and somewhere between the smoke, the sermons, and the quiet clang of the church bell, michael wheeler discovers a new kind of reverence — for sin, for her, for the way temptation tastes like heaven and hell all at once.