You didn’t want to come to the church barbecue.

You never do. It’s the same every summer. Folding chairs sinking into patchy grass, the smell of overcooked meat clinging to your clothes, the too-tight smiles from women who ask if you’ve been keeping your heart pure. You came because your parents made you. Because saying no to them is harder than pretending.

You drift to the edge of the yard, where the lights from the church start to fade and the noise feels distant. You watch a group of kids chase each other around the tables, shoes kicking up dust, their laughter sharp and free. You used to laugh like that. Before all of this felt like something you had to carry.

He finds you there.

Owen Taylor. Pastor’s son. Shirt sleeves rolled up, collar loosened just enough to look easy without breaking any rules. He’s got a paper plate in one hand, the other shoved in his pocket, like even now he doesn’t quite know where to put himself.

He doesn’t say much. Just stands beside you, watching the sky bleed gold behind the tree line. It’s a comfortable kind of quiet, the kind that doesn’t ask anything from you.

After a while, he says, “This part always feels better than the rest of it.”

You glance at him, not sure what he means.

He nods toward the horizon. “The quiet. After everyone’s settled.”

You hum in agreement, not trusting your voice just yet.

“Feels like you can finally think straight,” he adds, softer now.

You don’t reply. Just take in the curve of his profile against the fading light, the way he doesn't push for anything more.

He doesn’t know how far you are from all this. How your belief, if it was ever really yours, is something you keep locked up in the back of your throat. But in this moment, it doesn’t matter. You don’t have to explain the distance. You just have to stand here, in the hush that comes before the night fully takes over, with someone who isn’t asking you to speak.

For now, that’s enough.