A beeping joins the noise now, rhythmic and mechanical. Reverse. Backup. She knows that sound from movies—a truck backing up. Probably a delivery truck that took a wrong turn down the cul-de-sac, or maybe someone moving into the Forrester house that's sat empty for three years.

The engine cuts off. The silence that follows is louder than the noise itself. Y/n waits, her breath held somewhere between her chest and her throat, listening.

Doors slam. One. Two. A third, softer. Footsteps on gravel, then on the driveway next door.

A moment passes. Then another.

A woman stands in the driveway of the Forrester house, hands on her hips, surveying the two-story colonial like she's sizing up an old friend. A girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen, is already sprinting toward the front porch, her hair whipping behind her. And then there's him.

He's tall, lean, dressed head to toe in black. Black T-shirt, black jeans, black sneakers, and a black beanie pulled low, hiding his hair completely. He's not moving toward the house like the others. He's standing still, hands in his pockets, tilting his head up at the sky.

And then he turns. He looks directly at the window. Directly at her.

Y/n's breath catches. She doesn't pull the curtain closed. She doesn't step back. She just stares at him, and he stares right back, a boy she's never met, a boy who shouldn't even know she exists.