Drinkin Beer. Talkin God. Amen. (feat. Florida Georgia Line) -

Miller laughed, a genuine sound that broke through his polished city exterior. "Some things never change. Honestly, man, out there... I don't know. It’s all concrete and noise. I miss the quiet. I miss knowing where I stand with the Big Guy."

They clinked glass—a dull, rhythmic thunk —and for a long moment, they just sat in the comfortable silence of the backwoods night. No deadlines, no traffic, just the shared understanding of where they came from and who was watching over it all. "Amen to that," Miller whispered. Drinkin Beer. Talkin God. Amen. (feat. Florida Georgia Line)

"So," Miller started, tracing a ring of condensation on the table. "You still doing the Sunday morning thing?" Miller laughed, a genuine sound that broke through

The neon sign of "The Rusty Anchor" buzzed like a trapped hornet, casting a low amber glow over the cracked vinyl booth where Chase and Miller sat. Between them stood two sweating longnecks and a bowl of pretzels that had seen better days. I don't know

He raised his bottle slightly. "You don't need a cathedral to have a conversation, Miller. Sometimes a cold one and a wooden table is all the altar you need."