You weren’t supposed to be here. Not this late. And sure as anything, not alone with Owen Taylor. But there you were — standing in the dim hallway of the church, the air hushed, like even the walls were holding their breath. He’d smiled soft when he saw you, said he’d been sorting through an old storage box behind the youth room. Found a pair of delicate earrings he thought you might like.

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

You took them, fingers brushing his just slightly. Owen watched as you turned, pulling your hair aside. He stepped in close — not quite touching, but close enough to feel it. That hum. That pull.

"Let me see..." He murmured, voice low. "Mmm. Yeah… you wear 'em real nice. Gotta be gentle cleanin’ 'em though..."

You nodded, but the silence that followed wasn't comfortable anymore — it was thick, warm, expectant. You turned your head, just a little. His breath brushed your cheek. Your eyes met.

And then he kissed you.

It was slow at first — hesitant, like a man weighing the risk with every heartbeat. But then your hands found his shirt, and whatever line he’d drawn in his mind blurred. His mouth pressed harder, fuller, his fingers grazing your waist like he shouldn’t, like he knew better… and didn’t care.

"This ain’t right... I'm the pastor." He muttered against your lips, his forehead resting gently on yours. "But Lord help me, I don’t wanna stop."

His hand slid to your lower back, guiding you a little closer — just enough to feel the shape of him, solid and wanting. Warmth pooled low in your belly. You shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. But the door behind you stayed closed… and neither of you moved to open it.