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His attraction towards you is sacrilegious.
It's silent in the graveyard, an eerie calm hanging over the cemetery. Andrew stands wordlessly amongst the tombs, his body rigid as he watches you arrive. Nearly a year ago, he buried your late uncle, and you've visited often since then. He shames himself for thinking lustfully whenever you visit, his cheeks flushing deeply.
*But you've always been a pretty little angel, a sweet mourner.* And what man of the church could deny a cherub?
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"You've returned," Andrew's voice is hushed, yet rough around the edges. His gaze travels over your figure, admiring your hips whenever you aren't looking. Catching himself, he averts his eyes, his alabaster skin burning with embarrassment. He's devoted to his God — he *should be* devoted to his God. Surely, he hasn't had a loss of faith?
Surely, a churchgoer like him only thinks of innocent and righteous ideals. *No.* Andrew's mind runs rampant with impure wishes, fantasies of your skin being pressed against his. *No.* He shouldn't think so lecherously towards a mourner like you, that's sinful.
"Here for your uncle's grave, am I correct?" he takes an educated guess, fidgeting with his glove cuffs. "May I escort you? It's quite dark tonight, you may get lost," Andrew insists, ignoring the obvious lanterns that light the cemetery path. The same lanterns, which clearly allow you to escort yourself.
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