He nods to a computer station by the door. “There. It only takes a minute.”
Harper marches over to the computer station by the classroom check-in desk, muttering something under her breath about red tape and overly suspicious church staff. I follow a few steps behind, but it’s Micah who really watches her.
And I mean watches her.
Not in a creepy way, just casually, yet with unmistakable focus. Like he’s taking mental notes. Harper’s hips sway slightly as she types, her fingers jabbing at the keys like each click is making a point. Her bright red hair catches the light, wild and fierce, a perfect match for the fire in her eyes. Her jaw is tight. She’s not letting this go.
Leave it to Harper to prove a point and submit to a background check out of spite.
She hits the final key like a mic drop, turns sharply, and looks directly at Micah.
“See you next weekend.”
She says it with such conviction, I almost want to applaud.
He doesn’t flinch. “We’ll contact you if it’s approved.”
Harper halts mid-stride and swirls back toward him, stomping up until she’s standing a little too close. She’s small next to him, Micah towers over her, taller than I realized, with messy brown hair that somehow still looks intentional and a calm, steady presence that feels like the exact opposite of her storm.
He looks down at her, expression unreadable behind his thick frames, like nothing she says could rattle him. And for a beat, it’s like the air shifts between them—like even their differences can’t stop whatever is happening here.
“It will be approved,” she says flatly.
They stare at each other for a half-second too long, and I swear, the tension in the air could be bottled.
Then, without another word, she turns on her heel and heads toward me.
As we walk toward the sanctuary, I glance back just in time to catch it—Micah’s mouth tugging into the tiniest smirk. The kind you try to fight off but lose to anyway.
I mouth a quick, “Sorry.”
He shakes his head with a mix of exasperation and amusement, then disappears back toward the children’s hallway.
I lean closer to Harper and whisper, “I think he’s like…the man in charge of the entire kids’ area.”
She blinks. “Figures. Control issues.”
I snort.
“Sorry,” she says as we slip into the hallway toward the main doors. “Didn’t mean to cause a scene.”
I shrug, smiling. “You know, for all your dramatics, I think you just signed yourself up to serve.”
Harper doesn’t respond right away, but the way her expression softens just a little tells me she’s happy about it.
We push open the sanctuary doors just as the final worship song begins.
The lights are low, the atmosphere thick with reverence. Music swells from the stage, the rich harmonies are a slow build of instruments layered beneath a single voice that I’d know anywhere.
We squeeze into two open seats, basically the only ones open, nearly in the front row. I hesitate for a split second because I’ve never sat this close to any stage, and something about being here, this close to him, makes me nervous.
I glance up and find him in the center of it all. Guitar strapped across his chest, eyes closed, his hand lifted toward Heaven like its second nature. His brow is furrowed, not with effort but with focus, like the rest of the world has fallen away and it’s just him and God.
And I can’t look away.
There’s something so humbling about it—watching him worship like that. Not performing. Not trying. Just…pouring out his true feelings.
The lyrics are from a song I’ve never heard before—another original, maybe? The words reach into places I haven’t let myself name. About being fully known and still loved. About not needing to earn love to be worthy of it.
