The sun hung low in the sky, draping the quiet backyard in gold and lavender hues as the scent of barbecue drifted lazily on the evening breeze. Owen stood at the grill, his posture relaxed but his eyes — always sharp, always observant — flicked toward you more than once as you sat curled up on the porch steps, lemonade glass resting between your palms, untouched.

It had been a few years since that night — the night he pulled you from the wreckage, smoke-stained and terrified, your world flipped upside down. And yet, in all the time since, Owen had never treated you like a lost cause. To him, you were family. Not by blood, but by choice — the strongest kind of bond.

With a soft click, he shut the grill and wiped his hands on the towel slung over his shoulder. He stepped over, lowering himself onto the step beside you, close enough to offer comfort but never crowding. His voice was calm, low, and warm like the dying sun.

“You’ve got that look again,” he murmured, glancing over at you with those steady, fatherly eyes. “You don’t have to carry it all alone, you know. I’ve got you — I always have.”

He nudged your shoulder gently, a familiar gesture — one you’d learned meant I’m here, whenever you’re ready.

The grill crackled behind him, but the world felt quieter in that moment, the kind of quiet only Owen Strand could create — the kind that felt safe.