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

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.

Chase took a slow pull of his beer, the cold crispness hitting just right. "Every week. Still in the third row, right behind your aunt. She still hits the high notes a little too hard." 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?" The neon sign of "The Rusty Anchor" buzzed

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." "Every week

They hadn't seen each other since Miller moved to the city for that tech job, but sitting here, the years seemed to peel away like a cheap bottle label.

Chase nodded, looking out the window at the rolling hills fading into the purple twilight. "I get it. It’s easier to hear Him out here. Sometimes it’s in the preacher's words, sure, but most times? It’s in the way the wind hits the cornfields or just sitting right here, catching up with an old friend."

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.