The Body is a Borrowed Church | J. Watkins
juju x black! oc
WC: ~6.4k
Keturah left the church behind years ago, exhausted by itâs oppressive pressures. Only now is she back to her hometown to volunteer at a community hall. âSpread the gospel,â they say. Keturah doesnât want to be thereâ but her mother signed her up and she couldnât quite find the strength to say no. Upon arrival, Keturah recognizes a familiar face and the blemishes of shame on it. Itâs been years since Keturah last saw Juju, but it still feels the same. Like theyâre still ten, partnered up at Sunday school. Into the night, Juju makes a confession and Keturah realizes that Juju needs a different kind of saving.
CW: References to homophobia, internalized homophobia and queer shame, religious trauma, discussion of body shame and purity culture, heavy emotional themes (shame, guilt, fear of divine punishment), crying (obv), angst, etc.
AN: Truthfully, if you struggle with a relationship with the church and identity, I would sit this one out. I wanted to write something thought-provoking about how the shame of being queer starts at a young age, often in communities where love is seen to be the highest currency. This is in no way meant to offend, but instead meant to serve as a tribute to girls and women like me: those who swallowed their identities whole and lived with shame and fear of not being accepted by what was meant to be their village.
AN Cont: By no means is this fic a slow burn. I made Keturah and Juju already have a past in order to make the intimacy feel a little more natural and not forced. I hope it sits well with everyone. If you are struggling with coming to terms with your sexuality, know that you are not alone, and the love you have inside is meant to be shared; not hidden. Enjoy, bugs đ.
Keturahâs car rolled to a stop in the gravel lot, her hands tight on the steering wheel, knuckles pale against the leather. The sky hung low and swollen, the color of bruised flesh, pressing down on the world with a weight that made her chest ache. The air tasted faintly of ash, a smoky tang that clung to her throat and made each inhale feel like swallowing soot. Somewhere, a distant fire had left its signature on the town, curling into the clouds and mixing with the scent of damp earth.
She could see the trees lining the perimeter of the center, their bare branches reaching upward like skeletal hands of God, gnarled and accusing, stretching into the gloom as if to seize anyone daring enough to walk beneath them. Shadows pooled at their roots, thick and dark, and Keturah felt the chill crawl up her spine, crawling under her clothes and settling behind her ribs.
The chill made her shiver, a slow, involuntary shudder that tightened her gut. She gripped the steering wheel harder, willing herself to breathe, but the air in the car seemed heavier than it should be, thick with smoke and memory. Her pulse thumped in her ears, an echo of something she hadnât felt in years: dread. The kind that came before confession, before judgment, before the weight of your own body felt like a trap.
She hesitated. One foot hovered over the brake pedal, the other planted uncertainly on the gravel. Her hand rose to her phone. Maybe she could call. Say she was sick. Say the smoke in the air had made her cough, her voice weak and trembling. Excuses that didnât quite reach the truth, because the truth was sharper, deeper: she had been away from this kind of place for far too long. And yet, she had come.
Her throat tightened again, and she let out a slow, ragged breath. The world outside was silent, except for the whisper of the trees, creaking in the wind, stretching, reaching. She looked down at her phone in her hand and almost dialed, almost fledâbut something inside her, something stubborn and fragile, made her lower it. She couldnât yet tell if it was courage, or just the compulsive pull of old guilt.
The doors of the center loomed ahead, dark and uninviting. A faint swirl of smoke drifted from a nearby chimney, mingling with the cold air and making her stomach knot. Keturah sat frozen for a moment longer, caught between flight and necessity, and then finally, slowly, she unbuckled her seatbelt.
Keturahâs fingers lingered on the cold, grim metal of the door handle, as if willing it to stop being a barrier between her and the world she had avoided for so long. She tugged lightly, almost afraid of what might happen, and the door flew open with a suddenness that made her gasp.
She stepped inside, shivering slightlyânot from the cold, but from the weight of the place pressing against her. Her outfit was painfully muted, a conscious camouflage against herself: a lengthy, oatmeal-colored cardigan that swallowed her frame, khakis that fit like a uniform, and plain brown flats, the sort of shoes a sixth-grade teacher might wear to appear reliable and invisible. She tugged at the cardigan instinctively, smoothing the fabric over her chest as if that could protect her from the stares she didnât yet know would come.
The hall was dimly lit, the fluorescent bulbs flickering with the hesitant rhythm of something half-alive. The air smelled faintly of dust, polish, and the faintest undertone of incense from some earlier service, a combination that made her stomach knot.
Before she could take another step, an older blonde woman appeared, her smile carefully rehearsed, too bright, too sharp.
âHi! Are you volunteering with us?â she chirped, her voice carrying an artificial warmth that made the walls themselves seem colder.
Keturah nodded, her voice small. âKeturah Gregg.â
The womanâs gaze flicked to a stack of papers nearly the size of a Bible she held in her arms, flipping through them with precision. âGreat! Weâll have you partnered up with a young ladyâshe came in moments before you. Youâre looking for a⌠Judea Watkins.â
The name landed like a stone in Keturahâs chest. Her eyebrows furrowed instinctively, a tremor running through her spine.
Judea Watkins.
Something in the sound of it resonated, faintly familiar, like a memory pressed beneath years of dust. She swallowed, forcing herself to nod, though unease coiled in her gut.
âYes,â she said, her voice tighter than she intended.
The woman smiled again, though it didnât reach her eyes. âPerfect. Sheâs just over there,â she said, gesturing to a cluster of folding tables under the low, flickering lights. âGo ahead and introduce yourself. Iâm sure you two will get along beautifully.â
Keturahâs chest tightened. She stepped forward, the soft scrape of her flats on the worn floor echoing like a pulse. Every movement felt amplified in the hushed, shadowed hall. And for a moment, she wondered if she had made a mistake by coming at allâor if the mistake had been waiting for her, long before she even knew.
She peeled the sticky âHi! My Name IsâŚâ nametag from its backing, the adhesive tugging slightly at her fingers. The paper stuck faintly to itself before she pressed it onto the cardigan, smoothing it with care, as though placing it here might somehow armor her against the scrutiny of the room.
Her eyes swept across the hall, taking in the small congregation of volunteers already gathered. An older man with thinning gray hair fussed over a stack of aluminum trays; the scent of polished metal mixed with the lingering smoke from outside, a bitter reminder of the world she had stepped into. A motherly woman in a floral blouse guided a small child toward a corner, her voice syrupy with cheer, each syllable dripping with a rehearsed sweetness.
Every movement, every laugh, every whispered greeting seemed slightly off, like the hall itself had a pulse she wasnât supposed to feel but couldnât ignore. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, flickering in uneven intervals that cast jagged shadows across the linoleum, and Keturah shivered despite the cardigan cocooning her.
The nametag pressed to her chest felt simultaneously protective and absurd, a thin veneer of identity she could control in a world she hadnât yet learned to trust.
Ahead, the tables loomed, and her gaze fell on the young woman she had been sent to find.
She was bent over a stack of papers, fingers sliding across them with careful precision, a faint crease of concentration between her brows. Even from this distance, Keturah noticed the subtle way she carried herselfâhead slightly forward, shoulders guarded, as if bracing against a world that had never learned to be gentle. There was a light in her eyes, sharp and quick, that didnât quite belong in this dim, fluorescent hall.
The name had felt familiar when the volunteer coordinator said it, but now the recognition was sharper, like a memory pulling itself out of a dark corner. Keturahâs chest tightened as she took in the soft slope of Jujuâs jaw, the tilt of her head, the way her hair caught the flickering light in subtle, coffee-colored strands. She wasnât performing for anyone here, yet there was a quiet command in the way she occupied space, a self-possession that made Keturahâs fist clench with something she couldnât name.
Other volunteers moved around them, chatting in clipped, rehearsed tones, but Juju seemed almost suspended, like a single candle flame in a shadowed room, absorbing the dimness instead of being swallowed by it. Keturahâs hand twitched at her side, not reaching, just moving, drawn toward the person she was supposed to meet.
She swallowed, tasting the faint tang of smoke still clinging to her tongue, and stepped closer, the sound of her flats soft against the linoleum. Her fingers brushed against the nametag on her cardigan as if she could anchor herself to it, reminding herself who she was, who she had been sent to find.
âJudea?â she said softly, her voice breaking slightly in the hallâs heavy hush.
Juju looked up then, head lifting like a slow sunrise, eyes meeting hers with a flicker of surprise that didnât mask the quiet intensity there. A thin, almost imperceptible smile curved her lips, and Keturah felt the weight in her chest shift, like the room had tilted slightly again, just for them.
âKeturah,â Juju said, her voice low but clear, carrying the warmth of recognition beneath its surface. âItâs⌠been a long time.â
Keturah nodded, words caught somewhere between memory and breath. âYeah,â she managed softly, feeling the weight of those missing years pressing behind her ribs.
Jujuâs eyes flicked toward the stack of papers she had been organizing, then back to Keturah. âWe⌠We did Bible study together, you know. Often. Back then.â Her voice carried a quiet nostalgia, not quite bitter, not quite tenderâjust a reminder of all the shared hours of whispered prayers, memorized verses, and hushed confessions that had somehow passed between them without ever needing to be spoken aloud.
âI remember,â Keturah said softly, the sound of it unfamiliar in her own ears. The memory of those evenings, of quiet rooms and open pages, the murmur of familiar voices under dim light, made the air in the hall feel both oppressive and strangely intimate.
Keturah reached one hand toward a folding chair, fingers brushing the smooth metal as she pulled it out. The legs scraped softly against the linoleumâscrreeeckâa sharp, metallic sound that seemed impossibly loud in the hush of the hall. Keturah flinched, embarrassed by how much attention she drew to herself, and yet the sound felt grounding, real, a tether to the moment she was trying desperately to inhabit without flinching.
Jujuâs eyes followed the motion, the faintest lift of her brow betraying curiosity or amusementâKeturah couldnât tell which. The air between them seemed to thicken, heavy with unsaid things, the smell of dust and faint vanilla wrapping around them, the hum of fluorescent lights flickering above.
Keturah lowered herself into the chair with a careful grace.
The two talked, catching up on the ins and outs of life.
She told Juju about how she worked at a magazine and that she had a black cat, ironically named Lucifer. Keturah detailed her decision to move away. The fight she had with her mom and the fear of traveling into the unknown. That if she turned her back, God would no longer protect her.
Juju asked questions, too.
Are you at peace out there, alone?
Howâd you get into working for a magazine?
How long did it take for you to gather the courage to leave?
Keturah shifted slightly in her chair, the cardigan sliding over her lap as she tried to settle the sudden jitteriness in her chest. âSo⌠howâve you been?â she asked, voice careful, almost cracking.
Jujuâs eyes softened, a subtle crease forming at the corner of her mouth. âIâve⌠been okay,â she said. âStill around here mostly. Still going to church, Bible study. You know, the usual. Iâm the cook at Maid Rite.â
Keturah nodded slowly, aware of the weight those words carried. She had long since stepped away from that life, and the reminder pressed uncomfortably against her ribs. âRight,â she said, forcing a small, wry smile. âYouâre still⌠devoted. I can tell. Makes me feel like Iâm giving a confession just answering your questions.â
Juju wincedânot dramatically, but enough for Keturah to notice, a subtle flinch in her eyes and the way her lips pressed together. Her pulse skipped.
âOhâshit,â Keturah said quickly, eyes widening. âI didnât mean that⌠I justââ She stumbled, trying to gather her words, panic rising in the hollow of her chest. âI just mean⌠itâs weird, being here after so long. I didnât mean toââ
Jujuâs gaze softened again, but there was a shadow there, just for a moment. She didnât want to make a scene, didnât want to ruin the fragile bridge they were rebuilding after all these years. âItâs⌠okay,â she said, voice tight but careful, brushing it off. âReally. Iâm just⌠happy to see a familiar face again. Thatâs all.â
Keturahâs hand hovered over the nametag on her chest, pressing it lightly as if it could steady her nerves. âI didnât want to offend you,â she murmured. âIâm sorry.â
Jujuâs lips pressed into a thin line, a small, almost inconceivable exhale escaping her. She smiled faintly, a shadow of the warmth Keturah remembered, even as her heart ached from the reminder of what they had once shared in silence. âItâs⌠fine. I promise. Really,â she said, leaning back slightly and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
Keturah glanced toward the cluster of folding tables and the materials stacked neatly on themâcolorful pamphlets, worn Bibles, markers, and handouts with carefully scripted lessons. A faint hum of activity buzzed in the background as a few younger girls trickled in, their voices soft but eager, sticky with the thrill of being part of something bigger than themselves.
She cleared her throat, attempting to lighten the heaviness that had settled between them. âSo⌠weâre supposed to⌠talk to them about the Bible,â she said, her voice tentative, a wry lift at the end that didnât quite reach humor. âSpread the gospel, save souls⌠you know, the usual.â
Jujuâs eyes followed her, and a small crease appeared between her brows. âWhy⌠Why did you decide to come back?â she asked, her voice careful, tinged with curiosity. Not accusatory, just probingâtrying to understand the girl sheâd once shared quiet, sacred hours with.
Keturah laughed, but it came out hollow, nothing really funny about it. She shook her head, shrugging slightly. âMy mom⌠signed me up,â she admitted, the words soft, almost apologetic. She looked down at the ring on her index finger, twisting it lightly. âApparently she thinks volunteering here will⌠help me reconnect. Or⌠something.â
Juju tilted her head, eyes studying her. âReconnect,â she echoed softly, a faint edge of both amusement and wariness in her tone. âReconnect with what⌠Keturah?â
Keturah forced another small smile, a little tighter than before, and shrugged again. âWith⌠everything Iâve run from, I guess. Or maybe just⌠the idea of a normal Sunday,â she said, her words fumbling slightly. She glanced at the younger girls now laughing quietly over a coloring sheet, and the corner of her mouth twitched upward. âAt least itâs something to do. Less awkward than⌠talking to you.â
Jujuâs lips twitched, a faint smile fighting its way through, but there was a shadow there, too. She didnât say anything, not yet.
A small, tentative hand appeared on the edge of the folding table, and Keturah looked up to see a little girl no older than six, hair in messy pigtails, eyes wide and bright with curiosity. She clutched a worn stuffed bunny to her chest, peeking at them shyly.
âHi,â the girl said softly. âWhat⌠What is this place?â
Juju bent slightly, lowering herself to the girlâs level, offering a gentle smile. âWeâre just⌠talking about the Bible,â she said, her voice careful, measured. âSharing stories about God and how He loves everyone.â
Keturah shifted uncomfortably, feeling the words stick in her throat. The truth of itâof what they had both endured, the sermons and rules and shameâmade her stomach tighten. She couldnât imagine forcing it on someone so small, the way it had been forced on them. âYeah,â she said, her voice quieter, almost conspiratorial. âStories. Like⌠little lessons about being kind, and helping each other.â
The girl tilted her head, her eyes flicking between the two of them, her grip tightening on the bunny. Keturah swallowed. She glanced at Juju, who looked equally uncertain, the corners of her mouth tight.
Then Keturah reached into her purse, feeling the smooth surface of a small sticker she had tucked awayâgreen, with a cartoon frog smiling up at the world. She held it out gently. âHere,â she said softly. âFor you. Just⌠because.â
The girlâs face lit up immediately, the tension in her shoulders melting as she took the sticker and pressed it to her little notebook with reverent care. âA frog!â she exclaimed. âI love frogs!â
Juju exhaled softly, a sound somewhere between relief and quiet admiration, watching the little girl beam. Keturah allowed herself a small, private smile, the weight in her chest lifting fractionally.
For a moment, the Bible lesson and the heavy, familiar air of expectation fell away. There was just the little girl, the frog sticker, and the fragile, fleeting joy that came from giving something harmless, something chosen, instead of dictated.
Juju leaned closer to Keturah, whispering softly, âYou⌠didnât have to do that.â
Keturah shrugged lightly, pressing a thumb to the stickerâs edge. âI know. But I wanted to.â
The girl looked up at them again, eyes wide and trusting, and Keturah felt a strange, tender acheâhalf nostalgia, half hopeâbloom in her chest.
Once the little girl had toddled off, clutching her sticker and babbling about frogs to someone else, Keturah exhaled slowly, the faintest shadow of anger threading through her voice.
âThey take advantage of that kind of innocence, Juju,â she murmured lowly, almost reverent, her eyes flicking toward the materials still stacked on the table.
Juju froze, her heart stuttering in her chest. The nicknameâJujuâspoken by Keturah after so many years, sounded impossibly sweet, almost fragile in the quiet hall. It wasnât just the name; it was the cadence, the softness, the weight of memory and familiarity woven through it.
Her pulse raced, a mix of warmth and shock, and for a moment she felt the air around her thicken, as though time itself had paused to let the sound of that word settle in. She opened her mouth, thought of replying, but the words faltered under the weight of everything unsaid between them.
Keturahâs eyes softened, not meeting hers directly, yet somehow piercing through the distance that had grown over years. âThey shouldnât,â she added quietly, more to herself than anything, though Juju heard it perfectly. âThey shouldnât take advantage of them, or of anyone. Not like they did with us.â
Jujuâs hands clenched slightly in her lap, the rhythm of her heartbeat hammering behind her ribs. She swallowed hard, forcing a small, composed nod, unwilling to let herself lose composure in front of someone she hadnât seen in years, though her chest ached with the pull of Keturahâs voice, the weight of that old intimacy resurrected in two tender syllables.
Keturah tried to focusâon the task, on the moment, on anything but the way Juju movedâbut her eyes betrayed her.
Every time Juju leaned forward, every soft curve of her neck, every subtle twitch of her smile tugged at her attention like gravity.
She watched the way Jujuâs lashes caught the light, the way her handsâsteady, capable, beautifulâfidgeted when she was nervous. It wasnât lust, not exactly; it was something sweeter, deeper, a pull sheâd spent years pretending she didnât feel.
And now, seeing Juju up close again, she couldnât help it. She stole glances like they were prayers she was finally brave enough to whisper.
Another small figure wandered over to their boothâa little girl with a pink bow clipped crookedly into her hair, clutching a half-crumpled coloring sheet. She hovered at the edge of the table, shy but curious, eyes flicking between the Bible crafts and the two young women behind the booth.
Juju straightened, offering her the softest smile. âHey, sweetheart,â she said, voice gentle in the way it always was with kids. âDid you already finish coloring that?â
The girl nodded and slid it forward. âI made it for my grandma,â she whispered.
âOh wow,â Juju murmured, genuinely impressed. She crouched a little to be eye-level. âSheâs gonna love this. You used her favorite colors?â
The girl nodded again, a little giggle escaping.
Juju smiled wider, a glow warming her features. âThatâs really kind of you. Do you want a sticker to go with it?â
The girlâs face brightened. âYes, please!â
Juju reached into the bowl of glittery, overly cheerful stickers the church had providedâbut paused, glancing at Keturah, remembering the frog sticker from earlier. Keturah smirked and subtly slid her own stash of cute, non-religious stickers across the table.
Juju chose a tiny sunflower one, handing it to the girl with a gentle tap to her palm. âThere you go. For being sweet.â
The girl beamed, then skipped away, gripping the coloring sheet like a treasure.
Keturah watched Juju for a momentâher tone, her tenderness, the effortless warmth she carriedâand felt something soft and aching curl behind her ribs.
Juju felt the weight of Keturahâs eyes before she even looked up, like a warm hand resting against the back of her neck.
She turned slowly, meeting that gaze head-onâno words, no smile, just a quiet, steady knowing. Her eyes softened first, then deepened, something unspoken but unmistakable flickering there. Gratitude. Want. Recognition. A little fear.
Keturah didnât look away, and Juju didnât either; instead, she held the moment like it was fragile and precious, letting it say everything they werenât ready to speak out loud. For a few suspended seconds, the whole room blurred at the edges, and it felt like they were the only two people still in focus.
The hall had emptied, the laughter and chatter of children and volunteers replaced by the quiet scrape of folding chairs and the faint echo of footsteps fading down the corridor. Keturah and Juju were left behind, the two of them stacking chairs, wiping down tables, and collecting stray papers. The room smelled faintly of dust, faint incense, and the remnants of burnt offerings from the morning sermon.
For a long while, they moved in silence, the only sound the occasional squeak of a chair foot against linoleum, the soft thump of a stack being set down, the rustle of papers shifting. There was something comforting in the rhythm, a steady task to focus on while the weight of unspoken words hung between them.
As they stacked the last few chairs, the room finally quiet, Keturah nodded toward the kids still laughing in the hallway. âAt least they get to just⌠be. No expectations. No sermons about who theyâre supposed to become.â
Jujuâs hands stilled on the back of a metal chair. âYeah,â she murmured, voice tight. âI like seeing them like that. Free. I didnât get thatânot really. So if I couldnâtâŚâ She swallowed, blinking fast. âI just want them to keep their innocence as long as they can. I donât want anybody taking that from them.â
Keturah didnât push or try to soothe; she just stood beside her, close enough for their shoulders to almost touch, letting Jujuâs quiet ache settle between them without judgment. âYouâre giving them what you didnât have,â she said softly. âThat matters.â
A silence settled between them and then Juju finally spoke, her voice low, hesitant, almost swallowed by the hallâs hush. âI⌠Iâve been struggling, Keturah,â she admitted, pausing as she lifted a chair onto the stack. Her hands trembled faintly. âAt church. I⌠I donât belong.â
Keturahâs fingers froze briefly on the chair in her hands, but she said nothing, waiting.
Jujuâs shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the floor, voice tight. âI know that I⌠embody the very thing they hate.â She didnât finish the sentence, but Keturah knew. She had seen it in the way Juju flinched at glances, in the careful way she moved through the world, in the quiet self-policing that left her tense and hollow.
âIâve caught myself⌠looking atâŚâ Jujuâs words died on her tongue, fragile and sharp, like a whispered curse she wasnât allowed to say. She swallowed hard, eyes flicking to Keturah. ââŚand I like what I see. But it feels⌠really wrong.â
Keturahâs hands tightened slightly around the metal of the chair. She let her breath settle, careful not to let the intensity of her own heartbeat betray her. She wanted to reach out, to say the words that might make this easier, but she also knew some truths had to be held in the quiet, between glances and gestures, before they could be spoken aloud without breaking.
Juju exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing just fractionally. She stacked the chair down with deliberate care, then met Keturahâs eyesânot with accusation, not with shame, but with the fragile vulnerability of someone finally daring to admit a truth theyâd buried deep.
Keturah pressed her thumb against the chair leg, steadying herself.
Keturah paused midâstack, her fingers still curled around the cold metal frame of the chair. She let herself look at Jujuâreally look at her. The drawn tension in her shoulders. The way her eyes kept darting away then back again, searching for permission to exist, even in this tiny, empty hall.
Keturah weighed it all quietly.
The danger of honesty.
The familiarity of hiding.
The consequences of choosing herself in a place that had never chosen her back.
Her pulse ticked in her throat. She could lie. She could laugh. She could brush this off so easily.
But Juju was shaking.
And Keturah couldnât stand the sight of that.
She let out a long breath. âJujuâŚâ
Juju looked up, eyes wide, afraid and hopeful in the same second.
Keturah hesitated only one more heartbeat before stepping into the truth. âIâve always loved women.â The words landed soft but heavy, reverberations humming between them. âAnd itâs⌠part of the reason I left.â
Juju blinked, stunnedânot recoiling, not judging, just holding the confession like something precious and fragile.
Keturah huffed out a breath that was halfâlaugh, halfâsigh, waving a hand vaguely around the empty fellowship hall. âI mean, according to these peopleââshe motioned to the colorful posters about purity, the Bible trivia sheets abandoned on tables, the folding chairs lined up like soldiersââI shouldnât even exist.â
Her voice wavered, but only for a second before she steadied it. âAnd I justâŚâ She shook her head, searching for the right shape of the feeling. âIâm at the point in my life where I decided I donât have time for other people to decide my worth for me.â
She set another chair onto the stack with a firm, final clack.
âIâm destined to live, Juju,â she murmured. âNot just exist. You should be, too.â
Jujuâs breath hitchedâbarely audible, but enough that Keturah heard it. Enough that she dared to meet her eyes again.
Keturah leaned against the stacked chairs for a moment, letting the words settle. Her eyes softened, scanning Jujuâs face for any sign of judgmentâor recoilâbut found none. She shook her head slightly, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
âIâm not here to change you or your mind,â she said quietly, voice low and steady. âI just thought Iâd chime in. It gets lonely, keeping yourself hidden.â
Juju nodded, her fingers twisting lightly in the hem of her blouse. Her mouth opened, then closed again, hesitating, as if the question she wanted to ask carried too much weight. Keturah caught the pause, raising an eyebrow with subtle curiosity as she picked up a lone broom leaning against the wall, fingers brushing the worn handle.
Juju exhaled slowly, finally finding courage in the quiet of the empty hall. âDo you⌠still feel guilty sometimes?â Her voice was fragile, almost breaking, but not silent.
Keturahâs hand tightened briefly around the broom. She considered the questionâhow to answer honestly without collapsing the space between them with too much of her own pain. The corners of her mouth tilted faintly, rueful.
âYes,â she admitted softly, almost to herself. âSometimes. But⌠not the way I used to. Iâve learned that guilt canât decide who you are. Only you can do that.â
The door clicked shut behind them, and the sudden quiet of the empty parking lot wrapped around them like a shroud. The air was sharp, biting at cheeks and noses, each inhalation stinging as if the cold itself were a judgment. Keturahâs breath fogged in front of her, curling and dissolving into the darkness. Jujuâs misty exhale hovered nearby, fragile and trembling.
They fell into step side by side, neither reaching for the other, but the proximity was enough. The wind tugged at their hair, and the chill crawled along their skin like a ghost of old shame, whispering lessons learned long ago in a place that had never truly loved them.
Juju hesitated, her fingers twitching at her sides, then finally she spoke, voice barely above the hiss of the cold. âDid⌠church⌠mess you up too?â
The question hung between them, heavy and sacred, like a whispered confession in a darkened room. Keturah swallowed, letting the fog curl from her lips as she exhaled slowly.
âIt did,â she said finally, her voice low, trembling slightly against the wind. âIt taught me that wanting softness⌠made me dirty. That loving who I loved meant breaking Godâs heart.â She shook her head, letting the chill bite deeper, letting the truth settle in the frost. âI got tired of apologizing for existing. I mean⌠Iâm happy now, but⌠nothingâs perfect. I still have nightmares.â
Jujuâs eyes widened, glistening in the dim glow of the streetlights. She looked like she might cry, her breath catching in the cold. The thought of Keturahâs truth mirrored her own, a reflection she had buried under scripture and fear for years.
âI⌠Iâm still scared,â Juju admitted, voice small, fragile. âEvery time I⌠feel something for a woman, I get scared. Scared Iâll wake up⌠and God will take everything away.â Her fingers twitched, shaking slightly though they didnât touch Keturah, as if the cold alone wasnât enough to explain the shiver that ran through her.
Keturah glanced at her, eyes softened, heart tightening.
The wind cut through the thin layers of their coats, but somehow it didnât matter. Step by step, they drifted closer, drawn together by the quiet gravity of shared confession. Keturah noticed it firstâhow Jujuâs eyes kept flicking toward her, lingering just a fraction too long before darting away, a subtle mix of curiosity, fear, and something unspoken.
Keturah felt her chest tighten. She realized she had been doing the sameâstolen glances, heart quickening, breath shallow in the cold. Every time their eyes met, a flicker of something dangerous and tender passed between them, like a spark threatening to ignite in the frozen night.
Juju shiveredânot entirely from the coldâand Keturahâs fingers itched to reach out, but she held back, letting the space shrink on its own. Her pulse thrummed with every tentative step, every foggy exhale of breath, every beat that mirrored Jujuâs own unsteady rhythm.
âYou⌠keep looking at me,â Keturah murmured softly, almost to herself, almost teasing, her voice carried low against the wind.
Jujuâs gaze flicked up, startled, cheeks warming under the streetlight glow. âI⌠canât help it,â she admitted quietly, voice shaking slightly, breath curling into the frigid air. âYouâre⌠just⌠there.â
Jujuâs chest felt tight, a coil of sensation she hadnât realized she remembered so vividly. It was an old, almost forgotten rhythmâthe kind that made her stomach twist and her breath catch. Part of it was curiosity, sharp and electric, a flicker of wonder at seeing Keturah so unguarded, so alive, standing just a step away.
But layered over that was something more dangerous, more tenderâa crush, or the memory of one, that made her heartbeat uneven, her fingers itching to reach out and yet hesitate. Fear tangled itself in that flutter, a cautious whisper that if she let herself lean in, the worldâor God, or judgmentâmight collapse on her for daring to feel.
It was delicious and terrifying all at once: a recognition that she had wanted this before, that she wanted it now, and that wanting it felt, in some strange, sacred way, both sinful and inevitable. Her breath caught in her throat, curling into the cold air, and her pulse hummed like a secret drum she wasnât meant to hear, echoing through her chest with a familiarity that made her shiver.
The wind had softened to a stillness that made each exhale visible, curling like mist between them. Keturah and Juju lingered under the dim glow of the streetlights, the night cold enough to sting, but the air between them charged in a different wayâwarm and fragile, trembling with truth.
Jujuâs voice came first, low, hesitant. âI⌠I hate my body sometimes,â she admitted, the words raw. âWe were taught to cover everything. Every inch. Desire⌠was always wrong. Even married desire⌠they said it was⌠sinful.â
Keturahâs chest tightened, the memory of her own lessons surfacing with a bittersweet ache. âI know,â she murmured.
âWe were taught that touch was suspicious unless it hurt. Intimacy⌠it was something whispered about behind sermons. Something dangerous. Something forbidden.â
Jujuâs voice cracked as she spoke, and she looked away, bracing as if expecting lightning to strike. The vulnerability radiating from her made Keturahâs chest ache.
Slowly, deliberately, Keturah reached out, fingers brushing against Jujuâs jawânot gripping, not forcingâbut enough to tilt her chin back toward her. The contact was featherlight, grounding, and Juju didnât pull away. Her body shook, small tremors rippling through her shoulders, her chestânot from the cold, but from years of shame, repression, and unspoken longing.
Keturahâs voice was low, tender. âThis isnât a sin. Itâs sweet. Gentle.â
Jujuâs breath hitched, a shaky fog escaping into the cold air. Her eyes glimmered with tears she hadnât expected to let fall, yet she held Keturahâs gaze, fragile and raw.
Keturah allowed herself a small, rueful smile, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her own ear. âWanna know something?â she asked softly.
Juju hummed in curiosity, chest tight, fingers brushing against the hem of her coat, waiting.
âI had a crush on you,â Keturah admitted, voice barely above a whisper, yet somehow carrying the weight of years. âEven back then.â
Jujuâs eyes widened just slightly, and for the first time that night, the tension in her chest shifted, loosening. The ache of past shame gave way, just fractionally, to something warmerâsoft, intimate, reclamatory.
Keturahâs hand lingered near Jujuâs jaw, the faintest warmth radiating between them. âYou donât have to punish yourself anymore,â she murmured. âSoftness doesnât have to be dangerous. Desire⌠desire can be gentle. It can be yours.â
Jujuâs breath fogged in the cold, curling between them like a fragile veil. She leaned in slowly, drawn to Keturahâs touch, the warmth of her hand hovering near her jaw. Her fingers twitched, longing to reach out, to hold Keturahâs hand, but hesitation rooted her in place.
Keturah noticed, her smile wistful, soft. âYou can touch me, too,â she murmured, voice low, tender, offering permission and safety all at once.
Jujuâs fingers finally found Keturahâs, their warmth meeting through the thin gloves and sleeves. The simple contact sent a spark through her chest, her heart hammering like it might burst. She felt simultaneously terrified and entirely at home, the years of fear and repression melting, even if only a little, into the cold night air.
âI had a crush on you, too, you know,â Juju admitted, voice trembling with wonder and nervous laughter. âI liked⌠the way your mom did your hair. Those two little puffsâŚâ
Keturah tilted her head, giggling softly. âThey were ugly,â she said, and the memory made them both smile despite the lingering chill.
For a moment, they simply stared at each other, breaths mingling in the cold, fogged air, warmth radiating through the clasp of their hands. No words were needed; the history, the confessions, and the tenderness between them hung in the space like sacred smoke.
âFeels good, doesnât it?â Keturah murmured, voice husky, her thumb brushing lightly over the back of Jujuâs hand.
Juju nodded, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow gasps, the ache in her heart softening into something sweeter, something reclaiming. For the first time in years, desire didnât sting.
Jujuâs fingers trembled as she lifted her hands to Keturahâs face. Slowly, almost reverently, she palmed her cheeks, letting the warmth of her own hands press against Keturahâs skin. Keturahâs breath hitched at the intimacy, at the trembling devotion in Jujuâs touch.
It felt sacred. Not in the way theyâd ever been taught in Sunday school, not in the way hymns or sermons promised holiness. This was a quiet, human kind of sacredâfragile, trembling, real.
âIâve⌠never been touched like this,â Juju whispered, her voice breaking, the fog of cold mingling with the fog of years of fear. âNever⌠without feeling like I should be afraid. Like⌠the moment itself is wrong.â
Keturahâs thumb brushed lightly across Jujuâs temple, her other hand cupping the side of her jaw. âYour body is not a battleground,â she murmured, voice low, steady, each word carrying weight and relief. âItâs not a sermon. Not a warning sign of doom. Not something to apologize for.â
Jujuâs chest rose and fell unevenly, and quiet tears slid down her cheeks. She instinctively tried to pull back, the reflex of a lifetime of shame, and whispered, âI⌠Iâm sorry.â
Keturah shook her head, thumbs sweeping softly across her cheeks, tracing away the tears. âYou donât have to apologize for being human,â she said. âNot ever.â
Juju leaned further into Keturahâs palms, into the warmth, into the softness, as if she were learning what it meant to live in a body that could be tender instead of a cage. The tremor in her shoulders softened. The tight coil in her chest unwound, thread by thread.
Their hands lingered together, fingers intertwined lightly, the cold night air curling around them like a fragile veil. Breath fogged and mingled, hearts hammering in tandem, and slowlyâalmost unnoticeablyâthey inched closer.
Keturahâs lips twitched into a teasing smile, voice low and playful despite the weight of the moment. âI donât usually kiss people within three hours of knowing them,â she murmured.
Juju let out a soft, breathy laugh, the sound trembling with warmth and relief. âWeâve known each other our whole lives,â she said, leaning just slightly closer. âWe just⌠found each other again, right?â
Keturahâs smile softened, her eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and longing. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, letting the gap between them shrink, letting the shared history, the confessions, the reclaimed softness, pull them together like a quiet tide.
Jujuâs fingers tightened around hers, a gentle anchor, and their foreheads nearly touched. The ache of years apart, the fear theyâd both carried, dissolved in that shared fog of breath and warmth.
âRight,â Keturah whispered, voice almost lost to the wind, but full of promise.
And then, gently, impossibly slowly, they leaned in, letting the cold bite at their cheeks, the lingering shame of old teachings fall away, and allowed themselves the sacred, trembling intimacy of a first kissâthe one that wasnât a sin, wasnât punishment, wasnât doctrine.
Their lips met with the gentlest pressure, tentative at first, a whisper of contact that made the world shrink to the space between them. Jujuâs eyes fluttered closed, the sharp bite of the cold fading into the warmth radiating from Keturahâs hands and chest.
The kiss carried weightâyears of fear, repression, and guiltâcurling tight in Jujuâs chest. And yet, with each tender press of lips, those burdens began to unravel. The transgressions she had catalogued in her mind, the shame she had carried as if it were her own bodyâs crime, burned away in the quiet fire of shared softness.
She let herself lean into it, leaning into Keturahâs warmth, into the safety of their history and the tenderness of the moment. Her hands traced up to Keturahâs shoulders, her body tremblingânot with cold this time, but with the intensity of a feeling long forbidden, finally allowed to exist.
Keturah responded in kind, letting her thumbs brush across Jujuâs cheeks, her hold gentle but grounding, as if she were holding years of fear and loneliness in her hands and letting them go, one shiver at a time.
After a long, slow moment, they reluctantly pulled back, foreheads resting against each other, eyes still closed. Juju exhaled, a shaky laugh escaping her lips. âI⌠I feel like I can breathe,â she whispered. âItâs addicting.â
Keturah smiled, brushing a stray curl from Jujuâs forehead. âMe too,â she said softly.
Her eyes found Jujuâs, and for a moment the world outside of themâthe cold, the doctrine, the lingering weight of fearâfaded into nothing.
âI know you donât want to go back to that,â Keturah said softly, voice low and steady, carrying both promise and reverence. Her gaze held Jujuâs like a vow. âAnd I wonât leave you behind again.
Juju exhaled, slowly, shakily, letting herself be present, letting herself feel. And for the first time in a long while, she believed that maybe⌠just maybe⌠someone could walk beside her without judgment, without leaving, through all the shadows theyâd survived.
Š juumecca, all rights reserved. myself or others should not be able to find my works on any other platform unless stated by myself. thank you.
