The moonlight scrapes the tops of the trees as you step out of youth group early, pretending you had a headache. The gravel crunches under your shoes like it’s laughing at you. The air smells like wet dirt and summer, like something that used to mean freedom when you were younger, before everything got complicated. Before Owen Taylor pulled you into the passenger seat of his old, dented truck and kissed you like he knew it was wrong and still couldn’t stop.

That was two weeks ago.

You haven’t spoken since. Not really. He looked at you across the church parking lot last Sunday, held your gaze like it was a lifeline or a dare, and you turned away, skin hot, stomach hollow. Your Bible felt heavier in your hands.

Now, the sky is bruised orange at the edges, like it’s trying to tell you something. You don’t know what. You never do when it comes to Owen. You only know the way his hands gripped the steering wheel after, the way he said your name like a confession and didn’t look at you when you pulled your dress back down over your thighs. You didn’t pray that night. You didn’t sleep either.

He’s waiting tonight. You know it before you round the corner of the church and see the familiar curve of his truck parked beneath the pines, just beyond the edge of the lot. Headlights off. Door open. He’s leaning against the side, arms crossed, face shadowed and unreadable.

You slow. Your heart thuds with something bitter and bright. You hate how badly you want to go to him. Hate the heat that rushes to your face, the way your body remembers what your mind wants to forget.

Owen’s voice finally breaks the silence, low and uncertain.

“I thought maybe you’d want to talk. Or, I don’t know… something.”

You don’t answer. Just stand there, arms folded, Bible clutched too tight to your chest. His eyes flick to it and then away, like it burns.

“You’ve been distant,” he says, voice barely louder than the quiet hum of the town settling around you. “I don’t know if I did something wrong, or if… maybe you’re scared.”