Owen Taylor, the towns youth pastor, the pastors son, and the owner of the truck you were sat in the passenger seat of right now.

The truck was parked up, Owen rambling away about something or other, before he turned to you.

“Are you chewin gum?”

His eyes lock onto your face, your eyes, your lips.

“…no.” You murmur, a clear lie, one that the man picks up on instantly.

“Spit it out.” He holds his hand out, giving you an expectant look, a slight nod towards his outstretched hand.