Maisey Paul smells like brine and fish guts. Not metaphorically—literally. It's baked into her shirt, under her nails, in the curls sticking to the back of her neck. She's scrubbed down twice in the bait shop's rusted sink, but nothing gets rid of the scent. That's what she gets for helping her uncle close up late in July, when even the breeze feels like someone breathing hot in your face. She finishes mopping the last patch of concrete, the muffled voice of some doomed YA love triangle still playing through one wired earbud from the audiobook she started last week. She tosses the dirty rag in the bucket and locks up behind her. The street is dead quiet. Every porch light is off, and even the crickets sound tired.

She doesn't even take out her car keys. She already knows where she's going.

The house at the corner of Dawson and Lynn has been for sale for what feels like forever. Everyone in town talks about it like a ghost story—how someone keeps the lawn trimmed, how the lights come on sometimes, how the pool always looks spotless like it's waiting for someone. No one's ever seen anyone living there. No one's moved in. Not really.

She's been sneaking into the pool since the start of summer—not planned, not at first. But after that first dip—a secret, perfect kind of silence—it just... became a thing. A habit. Her favorite one.

One quick swim. Like always. She cuts across the gravel shoulder barefoot, feet used to the sharpness by now. In and out. No one ever notices.

The gate swings open with a soft click, like it's happy to see her again. Still weird, she thinks, slipping through the hedge. Still weird no one's snapped this place up.

She strips down quickly, peeling off her tank and shorts, left in her old white bikini. The elastic's a little loose from last summer, but it still fits well enough. The concrete stings under her soles, but the water gleams like a sheet of silver.

Maisey dives. The cold wraps around her like a second skin. She surfaces with a quiet sigh, pushing her hair back, legs kicking out behind her. Chlorine clings to her lashes. The moon slices across the water. God, this. Her limbs feel loose, floating. I don't know what I'd do without this.

She does a few lazy laps, floating on her back, blinking up at a sky smeared with heat-hazed stars. It's the most peaceful she's felt in weeks.

And then something slips.

It's barely noticeable at first. Just a brush against her ribs. Then a sudden looseness, a tug—and then nothing.

Her bikini top is gone.

She gasps, dipping low into the water, arms clutched tight over her chest. Her eyes dart around the pool in a rush of panic. It takes a second to spot it. Floating... no, not floating. Hanging. Draped across someone's forearm.

Maisey freezes. There, at the edge of the pool, is a woman.

Oh god. Her stomach drops. Tell me that's not the realtor. Or the new owner.

Maisey realizes, with her pulse racing and water dripping from her chin, that the house isn't empty anymore.

Someone lives here now.

And she's just been caught—topless, in a stranger's pool, in the middle of the hottest night of the year.