Sunday mornings at St. Celeste's felt heavier than the rest of the week, as if the air itself demanded obedience. The school forced the girls to attend mass as a group, marching in single-file lines like pale doves with clipped wings. Amina hated the feeling of uniformity, but she walked anyway, chin lifted, expression neutral.
Clara walked beside her, fingers nervously twisting the hem of her sleeve. "Why does it feel like the whole school is watching us?" she whispered.
"Because they probably are," Amina muttered back, keeping her eyes forward. "Relax. It's just church."
The church itself, San Miguel Arcángel, rose high above the city—its old stone walls glowing in the morning sun, tall towers slicing into a cloud-dusted sky. Inside, the stained-glass windows stretched like stories carved in light, hues of red, blue, and gold splashing across the polished floor. Candles flickered everywhere, bathing the space in warm, hypnotic glow.
The girls slipped Into a pew near the back, the one area where teachers couldn't watch every tiny movement. Amina let her shoulders drop for a moment, inhaling the mix of incense and old wood.
She almost felt peaceful—
Until she glanced up again.
Her breath caught.
There.
Near the fifth row.
Two familiar silhouettes.
Leo.
Marco.
Amina's heart slammed against her ribs so hard she nearly choked.
Leo sat perfectly still, posture straight, dark hair falling neatly across his forehead. His hands were folded one over the other in his lap, resting lightly against the inside of his wrist—exactly the way boys pretending to behave sat in public. His head was tilted forward just enough to appear reverent…
But Amina saw it.
The twitch at the corner of his lips.
He was fighting a laugh.
Marco sat beside him, looking more composed, though his hazel eyes scanned the room with too much awareness to be innocent.
Clara followed Amina's gaze and nearly squeaked. "Oh no. Oh no. They're here? Why are they here?"
Amina swallowed hard. "Sunday classes, maybe. Or they come every week."
Clara's grip tightened on Amina's arm. "What do we do?"
"We do nothing," Amina whispered. "Absolutely nothing. We don't know them. We've never seen them."
But her pulse betrayed her.
Her chest buzzed with adrenaline.
Her throat tightened with a thrilling kind of fear—the kind that tasted like electricity and rebellion.
The priest's voice boomed through the cathedral as mass began, but Amina barely absorbed the words. Her eyes drifted again—she couldn't help it.
Leo's shoulders stiffened slightly, like he felt her watching.
He didn't turn.
Not fully.
Not enough to get caught.
But his lips twitched again.
A slow, controlled, devastating smile he kept smothered into his closed mouth.
He was enjoying this.
Enjoying the quiet chaos.
Enjoying the fact that they had a secret in a place built entirely on rules.
Amina's stomach tightened, heat curling low in her chest.
Clara elbowed her. "Stop staring," she hissed under her breath. "You're going to set something on fire."
"Shut up," Amina whispered, though a grin tugged at her own lips.
The choir began singing—a slow, haunting hymnal carried by angelic voices rising into the vaulted ceiling. Amina tried to focus, tried to dissolve into the sound like everyone else…
But her mind kept spinning.
Flashes of the rooftop café.
Leo's laugh brushing against her ear.
Marco's easy charm.
The way the city felt alive when they were with the boys.
Dangerous.
But addictive.
A teacher walked past their row, and Clara instantly ducked her head, pretending to read from the hymnal. Amina did the same, exhaling shakily.
And that was when Leo finally moved.
Very subtly, very slowly…
He shifted just enough to look over his shoulder.
His eyes met Amina's.
Only for a second—
But the moment slammed into her chest like a punch.
His green eyes glimmered with a restrained mischief, a spark hidden behind reverence.
He didn't smile.
He didn't nod.
He didn't do anything that would be noticeable.
He just looked.
Held her gaze.
Let her know he saw her.
Then he turned back again, shoulders stiff with barely-contained laughter. His shoulders even shook once, like he had to physically trap the laugh in his chest.
Clara grabbed Amina's wrist so hard it hurt. "We're going to die," she whispered. "Actually die."
Amina didn't answer.
Her heart was thundering too loud.
Mass dragged on for another hour—one of the longest of Amina's life. Every movement, every prayer stood on thin ice. The tension was deliciously unbearable.
When the priest gave the final blessing and the church began to empty, the girls made sure to move slowly, blending into the crowd of students. They couldn't look too eager to escape.
Leo and Marco walked ahead of them, slipping into the sunlight.
Amina felt the pull—
The magnetic tension
The reckless invitation
The thrilling danger.
But she forced herself to keep her gaze forward.
Clara leaned close. "Amina… don't."
"I'm not doing anything."
"Your face says otherwise."
Outside, the sunlight warmed their skin. The city hummed—vendors shouting from two streets down, the smell of pastries wafting from a bakery, the rumble of an old car passing.
Leo stopped briefly near the steps, pretending to adjust his shirt.
Marco stood beside him.
Neither turned around.
Neither beckoned.
But Amina knew.
Deep in her bones.
This wasn't over.
And Leo…
Just as he stepped forward, he tilted his head—barely—
And let out the softest, low laugh.
Quiet.
Controlled.
Taunting.
Like he knew she was watching.
Like he knew she'd think about it all day.
Amina felt her stomach drop, warmth rushing up her spine.
Clara groaned dramatically. "We're in so much trouble."
Amina's lips curled into a small, dangerous smile.
"No," she whispered.
"This is the fun part."