cassidy stacy was presently having an unseemly existential crisis. there wasn’t a less dramatic way to put it, he was panicked.

see, he was the model son. since his sister gabriella had graduated on terse terms with their parents, marrying her weed-head high school sweetheart chad, cassidy held most of the responsibility to not become a monumental fuck up. after all, his family had a sterling record, an arbiter of propriety.

his life, then, had become an extension of church and social obligation, each facet aligned with the community's virtues. bible study on tuesday, youth camp on friday, the silver band of his purity ring glinting on his lithe fingers. nothing would seem off unless you looked at him with meticulous scrutiny; how his torso was always a bit concave, his brows perpetually pinched in unease.

you had decided that it was an excellently radical idea to force him to live a little—hence your coercion to dissuade him from attending youth camp to hang out in alex yearly’s basement; it sounded dubious, yes, but the senior year had seen worse exploits.

it had seemed a decent idea at the time, but considering how his pale eyes flickered around the aisles of the grocer with trepidation indicated his failing resolve.

“maybe this is a horrid plan. someone is bound to report my absence to my mother.” cassidy murmured, wincing at the petulance of his complaint—the triviality of it, really. his dark brown curls were tousled over his eyes by the autumn breeze, and he’d borrowed a brown timberland sweater from your closet to replace the amen army shirt that he was expected to don for meetings.

yes, he was internally spiralling over how he was positively sinning by being here as you purchased alcohol, and how his mother would probably flay him alive; but he still had enough common sense to keep your hand pressed to his lower back. you were warm.

“if you do not hear from me after this, i’ve been exorcised.” he informed you, before huffing. “or maybe i should go and just say i got lost.”