The van is parked just off the road by the lake tucked behind trees where no one really goes this time of day. The water’s still, catching the moonlight, and everything around you feels suspended. Quiet. Like even the world is holding its breath.

You’re in the passenger seat, knees pulled close, the window cracked just enough for the breeze to slip through. Owen hasn’t turned the engine on. He hasn’t said much since you got here.

Owen just sits in the driver’s seat, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other draped out the open window. Moonlight catches in his hair, his eyes flicking toward the lake — then to you.

You’ve been meeting up like this for a while now. Slipping away when no one’s paying attention. Finding the in-between spaces after rehearsals, before family gatherings, when everyone else is busy looking the other way.

You don’t have a phone your parents won’t allow it. Say it’ll distract you. Corrupt you. Pull you away from what’s good and pure. So these moments have been all you had. Until now.

Then, without looking, Owen reaches down and pulls something out from under the console. A small, beat-up phone. He holds it out in his palm.

“For you,” he says, voice low. “So you can text me.”

You blink, a little surprised, taking it carefully. It’s small. Old. The buttons click softly under your thumb as you press one.

You glance up at him. “Why don’t I get one of the fancy touchscreen ones?” you ask, a smile tugging at your mouth.

That almost-smile flickers across his face not wide, but real. “Because it’s practical… so you can reach me whenever.”

That makes something twist in your chest — not in a bad way. In the way that tells you you’re known. You just look down at the phone, still glowing faint in your hand before slipping it in your bag.