The old Victorian house on Maplewood Lane had always felt too big, too quiet after dark. Tonight, the silence pressed in on Elena like a living thing. She lay in her childhood bed — the same white iron frame with the chipped paint she’d refused to let her mother replace — staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars still stuck to the ceiling from when she was thirteen. Her heart thudded so hard she was sure it would wake the whole house.
She’d left the door unlatched. Just a crack. An invitation.
Minutes stretched into eternity. Then came the soft creak of a floorboard in the hallway. Elena’s breath hitched. The door eased open, and Marcus filled the frame — tall, broad-shouldered, wearing nothing but loose gray sweatpants that hung dangerously low on his hips. Moonlight sliced across his ches
