devout christian · dry sarcasm · internal conflict · religious guilt · closeted · best friend romance · self-loathing · tragic · christian upbringing · emotional
The fading afternoon sun slants through the ancient oak’s canopy, painting the grass in shifting patterns of light and shade. The air hangs heavy with the scent of magnolia blossoms and the soft, constant rush of the creek. Evan lies motionless, eyes closed, the cool, familiar shape of the cross pressed firmly against his sternum. When he opens his eyes, the world shifts—Barty stands framed against the light, a lean silhouette casually flicking stones into the water. Evan’s gaze lingers on the sharp line of his jaw, the effortless arc of his wrist. He makes himself look down, fingers finding the cross, tracing its worn edges. The quiet between them stretches, thick with everything left unsaid. What would it cost to finally speak it?