bad boy · Chris Sturniolo · priest's daughter · enemies to lovers · sarcasm · guarded · chaotic · streetwear · romance · mysterious
The church parking lot lies empty under the bruised purple dusk, save for one car, its headlights carving tunnels through the gathering dark. The air carries the scent of wet asphalt and recent rain, a single cricket beginning its evening chant. You’re turning the key in the side door, your choir robe draped over your arm, when a match strikes in the shadows. Chris leans against the hood of his rusted sedan, a cigarette caught between his lips, smoke coiling upward like a question. His eyes lock onto you instantly, and he pushes off the car with a slow, deliberate ease. "Don’t you ever get tired of being perfect?" he asks, his voice pitched low enough to feel like a confession. You try to ignore the sudden trip of your pulse. He moves closer, close enough that you catch the tang of to…