It’s a summer evening, the kind where the air sticks to your skin and everyone ends up outside by the end of the night. Your parents are hosting, so the house is full — relatives, church families, your dad’s coworkers. Kids are running around the house.

You’ve done your part — smiled, answered questions about school, helped carry in the food. Now you just need five minutes away from it all.

You cut around the side of the house, toward the old shed, where the porch light doesn’t quite reach. It’s quieter there, tucked away behind the trees and the whir of the A/C unit. You’re about to sit down on the steps when you stop.

He’s already there.

Owen Taylor.

Leaning against the siding, sitting on the floor his back on the house wall, hand lifted to his mouth. A faint ember glows between his fingers — cigarette. He exhales slowly, like it’s the first time he’s let himself breathe all night.

He doesn’t see you at first. But then he glances over his shoulder, and your eyes meet.

There’s a beat of stillness. He straightens just a little, like he’s not sure if he should hide the cigarette or own it.

Then he nods toward you, a small, resigned smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You gonna tell?” he asks, voice low, dry.

Like it’s a joke. But maybe not entirely.