11.

☆☆SUMMER’S POV☆☆

Agnes had left an hour ago with a yawn, a limp wave, and a “Text me if a murderer shows up.”

So yeah. Comforting.

Now it was just me, the fridge humming like it had secrets, and this weird feeling in my chest like the house was watching me. Or maybe I’d just watched too many horror TikToks at 2AM.

The clock read 9:12PM. Keith still wasn’t home. Annoying. Little. Brother.

I called him again. For the fourth time today, hoping I'd be lucky, and he'd answer this time around.

He picked up on the third ring, sounding out of breath.

“Yo, sissy.”

“Where are you?”

“Chilling at Owen’s. Why?”

I paused, taking in a deep breath. Then I exhaled. “Put his mom on.”

He laughed, but it wasn’t the funny kind. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yes. Seriously. I’m not stupid, Keith.”

“Where else would I be at this hour? I’m thirteen.”

Last time something like this happened, the cops called. We picked Keith up at the station.

“Then put her on the phone.”

Some shuffling. A weird smacking sound. Then a new voice popped in—too cheery, too perfect.

“Hi, Summer! It’s Mrs. Carter. The boys are just having Mac and cheese for dinner. All good over here. Can Keith stay over tonight with Owen?”

“Umm…”

“Please? The boys are already getting ready to watch soccer with my husband.”

“Okay, Mrs... Carter. He can stay. Thanks for looking after him,” I said, trying to sound less suspicious than I felt.

“Thank you, Summer. My regards to your dad.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. carter.”

She hung up. I slammed the landline back in place and made it to the couch in ten seconds, sinking back with a sigh as I prepared to binge reruns of Gilmore Girls.

So, Keith was actually at Owen’s place. Great. His skate buddy. Now I was officially alone in the house. All night. Nothing but me, my hoodie, leftover pizza, and the occasional creak of the floorboards upstairs.

Totally fine.

Totally.

Fine.

Then I heard a sound. A Thud.

“What the fuck was that?” I almost pissed my pants.

The sound was not from the walls. Not from outside. It was from upstairs. I muted the TV, heart already sprinting. Was that—?

No, it was probably just the house settling. That’s what my dad always said. “It’s just the house settling.” Well, guess what, Dad? Settled houses don’t make murdery footsteps.

I skidded to the kitchen and grabbed the nearest weapon I could find: a cast iron skillet. Yeah. Like a full-on Disney princess but make it paranoid and under-caffeinated.

“Okay,” I whispered to myself, stepping toward the stairs. “If this is how I die, I swear to God, Keith better cry at my funeral or I'll haunt him for the rest of his life.”

I crept up slowly, skipping the third step because it always creaked. My grip tightened around the skillet. Another creak—but this one was real. Not imagined.

The noise was coming from my bedroom. The light was off. I didn’t leave the light on when I left to join Agnes downstairs a few hours ago. I hadn’t come upstairs to my room since then.

I held my breath, raised the skillet, and shoved the door open like I was storming a battlefield. I saw a tall figure standing beside my bed.

“Eat metal,” I screamed, aiming for the head.

A hand shot out of the dark, catching the pan before it could land a brutal blow. The yank was sudden. And the arms that coiled around my waist, pulling me into an all-too-familiar embrace, sent a jolt straight through me.

And then I froze. Petrified.

“Hayden? What are you doing here?”

The image of him and Diana flashed through my mind and I freed myself from his arms.

“What. The. Hell. Hayden,” I hissed, switching on my bedroom light.

Hayden turned, slowly, like a movie villain—except more expensive cologne and tortured eye contact and a tux. Then it dawned on me; the dinner was real.

“Hi, Stranger,” he said. “Got my text?”

I blinked at him. “Hi? That’s your opener? Dude! You just broke into my room like a murderer, and you’re going with hi?”

Hayden looked at the skillet. “You gonna hit me with that?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” I snapped. “Depends on your answer to: WHY ARE YOU IN MY ROOM?”

He looked around, taking in my posters, the nail polish abandoned on the bed, and my phone on my reading desk next to my computer.

“I needed to see you,” he said. “I sent a text. Guess you didn’t see it.”

Curses on that husky voice that sounded like heavenly songs. My heart did this weird lurch. Like, traitor-level lurch.

We weren’t doing this again. Not after what Agnes told me. Not after the dinner with Diana De Morven.

Then my head snapped back to what he said earlier. “A text?”

Oh, shoot! I left my cell phone in my room all day. I quickly discarded the skillet and grabbed my cell phone from the desk. My eyes softened as I read Hayden’s text.

“What are you—”

“You’re home alone?” he cut in. “I noticed your dad’s car isn’t in the driveway.”

I stared at him. He stared back. The silence was… complicated. Then I nodded.

“He won’t be back till tomorrow. Caught up in Miami.”

Hayden’s gaze dipped, then found mine again—slower this time. Quieter. Hungrier. And then he said, “Great. I want to fuck you tonight.”

My fingers loosened on my phone and it crashed onto the floor with a sharp clatter.

“What?” I breathed.

Hayden moved toward me, slipping off his tuxedo jacket, as his eyes raked over my whole body—slowly and deliberately. He stood before me, his blue eyes turning dark. I flinched as his fingers brushed my skin.

“Look at me,” he said, a raw and intimate rasp in his tone. His hand guided my face to meet his gaze. “Eyes on me, Stranger. Here. Eyes. On. Me.”

That’s when I noticed it—his hand. Bleeding. A small gash across his knuckles. My heart almost stopped. There was a red mark across his face and blood on his lips. What happened to him?

I met his gaze, my chest tightening.

“Are you alright?” I asked.

“Don’t speak. Just look at me.”

His lips curled into a lopsided smile, and he tilted my head. Good Lord, You created a masterpiece in Hayden Dylan. He leaned in until our foreheads touched. His breath fanned across my skin—warm, intoxicating.

Breathe, Summer. Breathe.

And then, in a voice barely louder than a heartbeat, Hayden asked, “You’re still a virgin?”

My breath hitched.

“Y–Ye-Yes.”

He chuckled low. “Do you want us to get past that stage?”

“What stage?” I asked, pretending I didn’t understand.

“You. Me. Buried inside you. Taking every inch of you. Leaving your body aflame until you scream my name in a voice you didn’t know you had in you all this time.”

My breath hitched again.

“Bodies tangled under the sheets. Kisses so deep you gasp for air. All these… while I make love to you.”

My heart pounded like a bass drum.

“No,” Hayden murmured. “Scratch that.”

He leaned in. His lips brushed my ear. Then he whispered, “All these while I fuck you for the first time, Summer Peterson. I want you.”

He shifted back. Our eyes locked. And for the first time tonight, I wasn’t scared of dying. I was scared of what Hayden was pulling me into. I was scared of what I was becoming.

Because tonight… I think I might lose my virginity to him. The notorious high school bad boy, Hayden Dylan. My best friend’s brother.