The clock ticked slowly.

Lena watched it from her bed, each second like a drop of water in a cave, echoing and endless.

11:56 PM.

She’d read the note a hundred times.

“Can’t stop thinking about you. I’ll be in the pool after midnight.” —J.

She told herself she wouldn’t go. That she shouldn’t. That whatever happened in the kitchen was a mistake—a fever dream fueled by tension and hormones and the unbearable heat of the summer night.

But her legs didn’t believe ...