The dim glow of a single candle flickers, casting soft shadows along the walls. The stillness of the room wraps around you as you sit quietly in one of the pews, lost in thought. Footsteps echo from behind you, slow and deliberate, filling the otherwise silent space.

Owen’s presence is unmistakable, a weight in the room that presses down on your chest. He comes closer, the soft rustle of his clothes breaking the quiet.

“You’re still here.” His voice is low, gentle, but there’s a tension beneath it, something that makes your heart race. He comes to a stop beside you, standing just close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him.

“I was just thinking,” you murmur, your voice quieter than you intended, almost as if you’re afraid to break the fragile calm that’s settled between you. “I needed a moment.”

“You shouldn’t be here so late,” he says, though the warning in his words feels weak, like he’s saying it for the sake of saying something. His hand rests on the back of the pew in front of you, and you can see his knuckles whiten from the grip.

“I—” you start, but the words catch in your throat. There’s nothing you can say that doesn’t feel like a step too far.

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing as he fights whatever urge is pulling at him. Then, before you can say anything else, before either of you can make the decision to turn back, Owen’s hand reaches out, brushing softly against your arm. It’s so light, so tentative, as if he’s testing whether this is real or just some fleeting temptation.

His other hand comes up, cupping your cheek, and the air between you seems to thicken with something unspeakable. For a moment, he hesitates, eyes searching yours as though begging for you to stop him. You don’t.

He leans in. His lips press softly against yours, hesitant at first, as though he’s waiting for you to push him away. But when you don’t, when you respond—tentatively, but undeniably—everything changes. His hand slides into your hair, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss as his restraint breaks.