The movie was some cheap horror flick—the kind with jump scares every five minutes and a plot you stopped following by the second act. You were halfway through a handful of stale popcorn when your sister's phone buzzed.

Before you could argue, she was gone. The door clicked shut behind her, and the lock turned with a sound that felt way too final.

Ashton Evans leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, that messy black hair falling over his forehead. His black shirt clung to him like he'd just walked through rain. The faint ink of his neck tattoo peeked out from his collar, catching the blue light of the screen.