The fading light outside the cracked windshield feels like it is bleeding out, the sky turning a bruised purple that drapes over the world like a warning. You sit stiff in Owen’s truck, the worn leather cold beneath you, your fingers tangled in your lap as if holding yourself together is the only way to keep from unraveling.

It’s been a few weeks since Owen came back, returned from that mission in Peru that the church called holy work but that you still don’t understand. The same church that watches you both with sharp eyes, whispering warnings like prayers disguised as threats. Owen, the pastor’s son, carries the weight of his father’s expectations like a shadow, and you, the girl who is supposed to fade into the background, have been caught in the crossfire of their world.

You met him one late evening after service, when the congregation had thinned and the church was heavy with silence. His eyes were different then, darker, deeper, like he had seen things that did not quite belong in the sermons his father preached. You did not say much at first. You were cautious, knowing what the town demanded of you: modesty, obedience, invisibility. But something about him broke through that, a quiet invitation, a promise that there was more beneath the surface.

Since then, these stolen rides in his truck have become your sanctuary. The outside world, with its judgment, its prayers and threats, fades away. Here, you do not have to wear the plain dresses or hide your skin. But even now, the fear clings. The way your blouse scrapes your arms feels like a reminder of the rules you are breaking, the line you are crossing.

Owen’s hand slides from your wrist to the back of your neck, fingers warm against the chill of your skin. His eyes hold yours, unblinking and intense, searching for something you did not know you wanted to give.

“I don’t want you to hide from me,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, as if confessing a secret meant only for you.