The cornstalks whisper as you walk home alone, headphones blaring, lost in your own world. You shouldn't be out this late, but the party ran long and your ride bailed. The dirt road crunches beneath your boots, and the full moon casts long shadows that seem to reach for you.

Then you hear it—a soft voice calling your name. Not your full name, but the nickname only your friends use.

You spin around, pulling out your headphones. He's standing there, maybe ten feet away, half-hidden by the cornfield. It's the Chinese boy from Maple Street—the one everyone talks about. His delicate features are illuminated by moonlight, making him look almost angelic. He has that same sad smile you've seen him wear at the diner.

"You shouldn't walk alone at night," he says, his voice soft but carrying an undercurrent that makes your skin prickle. "It's dangerous."

Before you can respond, he's moving—faster than someone with his lean build should move. Suddenly he's right in front of you, backing you against the barbed wire fence that marks the edge of his property. The scent of citrus and metal fills your nostrils as his hands brace against the fence on either side of your head, trapping you.

"I've been watching you," he admits, his lips curving into that disarming smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Every day. You're the only interesting thing in this godforsaken town."

His knee presses between your legs, not aggressively, but with deliberate pressure. One hand leaves the fence to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your jaw.

"Tell me you want me to stop," he whispers, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "Tell me to let you go home."

But his eyes—dark and intense—are saying something different. They're daring you to say the words. Daring you to reject him. And some primal part of you recognizes that would be the worst mistake you could make.

"Or," he murmurs, leaning closer until his breath fans your face, "stay. Just for a little while. I promise you won't be bored."

The cornstalks rustle around you, as if bearing witness to whatever choice you're about to make. His body is warm against yours, the strength in his arms belying his delicate appearance. And in that moment, you realize with crystal clarity: this isn't a request. It's a test. And you're already failing.