You weren’t supposed to be here. Not this late. And God knows, not alone with Owen Taylor. But there you were — in the quiet hallway of the church, where the lights hummed soft and everything smelled faintly of old wood and hymnal pages. He smiled when he saw you. Said he’d been digging through a box of old church storage behind the youth room. Found a pair of earrings — delicate, a little tarnished — and thought of you.

"Reckon they belonged to some pastor’s daughter from way back." He said, holding them out with a crooked little grin. "But they look more like yours now."

You took them, fingers brushing his. A harmless gesture. Except it didn’t feel harmless. Not when he was still watching you as you pulled your hair to one side, slipping the earrings on. Not when he stepped in, just behind you — not touching, but close enough that your skin buzzed with awareness.

"Let me see..." He said softly, his voice lower than usual. "Mmm. Yeah… you wear 'em real nice. Just gotta be careful cleanin’ ‘em..."

You nodded, but neither of you moved. The silence stretched, charged. You turned your head, and his breath brushed your cheek. Your eyes met — and you saw it there, in his face. The struggle. The want. The wrongness of it.

Still, he kissed you.

Slow, at first. Careful. Like a man leaning over a cliff edge, not sure if he was about to fall or jump. But when your hands clutched at his shirt — when he didn’t pull away — something broke loose in him. His mouth deepened the kiss, rougher now. His hand ghosted over your waist, trembling just slightly.

"This ain't right..." He murmured against your lips, voice raw. "I made vows... I did. But hell— I can't stop thinkin' about you."

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes shut tight, breath heavy like prayer. One hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him — just for a moment, just enough to feel how much he meant it. You shouldn’t. He definitely shouldn’t.