It was four-fifteen on Friday afternoon when Summer heard the key in the door. She bit her glossy, cherry-flavored bottom lip. She didn't even know why she bothered to put on make-up, it's not like she cared what Seth Cohen thought. It's not like she would ever see him again after this ridiculous stint in which she was being captive in her own home. It would be as if she had never met him before in her life, a stranger she had passed on the street, passed without a second glance. Nope, she didn't care at all.

Oh, who was she kidding?

Anna had left early that morning, with Kurt in tow, on her way to Wisconsin. Anna had apparently made up with the cruel bastard, though Summer couldn't imagine why, even if she really could. The truth was, Summer liked Kurt, and she knew he wasn't really cruel, he was just fed up. And in her spoiled little heart, she knew why. She had been—was being—a bitch. It was unfair to ask Anna to drop everything to take Summer with her. It was unfair to keep her from the life she would be living if she didn't have Summer hanging around her neck like an albatross she would never be rid of... It didn't mean Summer had to forgive Kurt, though. He should at least have to grovel a little.

Anna had kissed Summer on her way out the door, and waited until the last minute to mention she would be gone for almost two whole weeks. It didn't matter. Summer was determined to be as calm and unaffected with Seth as she would be with a stranger; he would think her made of stone.

She had tormented herself all afternoon with where she would sit when he first saw her after what she referred to privately as The Dinner-Party Debacle, for a debacle it was. She agonized over what she should wear, and how she should act. Should she be chilly, but polite? Or just downright standoffish? Should she wear her hair up, or down? He had to believe that she didn't care. After changing clothes three or four times, she finally settled on a pair of jeans and a plain white starched blouse. She settled herself on the end of the sofa with one of her Braille books and waited, not able to think of anything but Seth.

She wondered if he still looked the same, dark dancing eyes and windswept curls. Did his smile still quirk at the corners of his mouth, did he still kiss with a single-minded passion? Was he still as witty and sarcastic as she remembered him? Was he older, wiser?

She heard the door creak open, a light tap on the threshold. She sat up straighter.

"Hi, Summer," Seth said shyly as he came in the door, a lump rising painfully in his throat when he caught sight of her. She looked so lovely, he wanted to cry.

"Good evening," she replied stiffly. She didn't remove her hand from her book.

"Were you okay, here by yourself all day?"

"Anna works. I'm alone every day, today was no different," she informed him icily.

"O-Oh, I didn't realize. I'm sorry," he bumbled.

She didn't answer. She looked right through him, but he almost swore he could see the pain behind her eyes. He had known this wouldn't be easy, but such a chilly reception just reinforced his doubt. What had he been thinking, agreeing to this? Moreover, how had Anna gotten Summer to agree to this? He sighed. Summer had long ago shuttered up her heart, and playing house with Seth for a week or even two wasn't going to change that at all.

He steadied himself, his hands were trembling. "I was thinking about ordering up Chinese for dinner, if that's okay?" He offered tentatively, as he removed his trademark track jacket and hung it on the coat rack by the door. He nestled his portfolio next to the entry table, dropping his keys down onto it's polished surface.

"That's fine."

"Do you still like General Tso's chicken?" he asked, still hesitant.

"Yes."

"Okay, I'll get some dumplings, too."

Summer forced a hard smile. "Sounds fine."

"Don't get too excited," Seth mumbled under his breath as he moved towards the kitchen, rolling up the sleeves of his dress-shirt.

After a few minutes of rummaging around in the cabinets and pantry, he returned to the living room. "Do you want sweet and sour?...you don't have any in the fridge…"

"Hey, Seth?" His heart clenched painfully. He couldn't remember the last time she'd called him by his given name. Well, when she wasn't screaming it, anyway.

He swallowed the lump that was still painfully crowding the back of his throat. "Yeah?"

"I know you're just here because you feel sorry for me. So you don't have to be nice to me," Summer raised her chin in subtle defiance.

"I think it's safe to say you don't really know me anymore, Summer," Seth replied coldly, furious at her implication that he was only there out of pity. "Now do you want sweet and sour or not?"

"No."

"I'll call in the order," Seth escaped back to the kitchen, and let out a long breath, his body sagging against the nearest solid surface. He pressed his back against the wall, forcing himself to take long, deep breaths. He'd never been so nervous around a girl in his entire life; not even his most embarrassing fumbling around Summer in the days of his youth could compare to the way he felt now.

He could hear a delicate cough from the living room, and the panic nearly overwhelmed him again. What on Earth would they talk about for the next six hours? He forced himself to concentrate. Just ignore her. Yeah, right.

He called in the order, and then went back to the front door, pulling in his suitcase and backpack full of necessities. He could tell she was curious as to what he was doing, but she certainly wouldn't deign to ask him, and so he didn't bother to tell her, either. Sort of a sick retaliation, but nothing she didn't deserve.

He opened the door to the guest room—second door on the left—Anna had told him earlier that morning on the phone. It reminded him startlingly of his room back home. The walls were a cool ocean blue, offset by white crown molding and billowy white curtains. The doors had been speckle-painted a sky blue, and the windows themselves had watery blue treatments. He unfolded his suitcase, putting his underpants—Seth, don't say underpants—and socks in the top drawer, and his tee shirts in the middle drawer. He left the bottom drawer empty. He hung his dress slacks and shirts in the closet, kicked off his Sketchers in the floor.

He emptied his backpack, stacking books on the night table and his laptop on the desk. He had gotten permission to work several days from home—he had naively thought that Summer might need his help. Ha. Now he was sure he would go into work just to be away from her. He lined up his CDs on the edge of the antique desk, noticing the wood had been recently polished. Had Anna done this, in anticipation of his arrival? Or could it be the two princesses actually kept their own house? Seth snorted. They probably had a maid in every day. She probably did their nails while she was at it.

He flopped down onto the bed, bounced on the mattress a few times just to make sure it was a Sealy. He grabbed Wonder Boys and began to read, getting lost in the prose, not even hearing the knock at the front door.

"Um," Summer was standing at the door to the guest room, looking very lost. Seth jumped to his feet, ever ready to come to her aid, then cursed himself silently because of it. "The food is here. I would just pay, but I can't find my purse."

Seth approached the door, and then cleared his throat. She stepped out of his way very purposefully and he sprinted up the stairs and to the front door, pulling out his wallet as he did so. He paid for the food and brought it to the kitchen table, where he began unwrapping everything and removing the lids. Summer stood at the door frame, listening to him move around. He ignored her.

He got forks and napkins from the kitchen and set them on the table on the placemats, along with plates and glasses, which he filled with water from the Brita pitcher in the refrigerator. She was still standing in the same spot when he sat down and began filling his plate.

"It's not getting any warmer," he said, his voice devoid of emotion, though technically he supposed he could have just been teasing. She didn't answer him, but she did approach the table and gracefully sink into the seat adjacent to his, exactly where he had placed her plate. A little shiver went up his spine. How had she known...? She silently filled her own plate, and began to eat. He watched in amazement as she effortlessly moved the fork from her plate to her mouth, never once faltering, never once hesitating.

After a few bites, she put down her fork. "Please stop staring at me."

He grunted, ducked his head, and continued eating, not looking up at her for the rest of the meal. When she was finished, she pushed her plate away, and Seth picked it up wordlessly and took it to the sink, washing all of the dishes without turning to even see if she had left the kitchen or not.

Summer was taken aback. Seth hadn't even attempted conversation with her. After nearly breaking her door down, crying, the night of the DPD, screaming about how he just wanted to talk to her—he hadn't said a word. She didn't know whether to be relieved or angry. How dare he? Order her around? Talk to her with such condescension?—it's not getting any warmer—his mocking tone echoed in her head. How dare he stare at her? She wanted to scream in frustration.

She let him do the dishes.

She settled back onto the couch, picking up her book and pretending to read, listening to him put away the leftovers and wipe the kitchen table off with a sponge. He was probably spreading germs everywhere, the big oaf. Hadn't he ever heard of Clorox wipes? The fan above her swirled lazily, ruffled her carefully styled hair.

Friday nights were usually pizza nights. Pizza, and then an old movie. They would paint their nails and Anna would tell her what was happening on the screen. She frowned. Just two weeks, Summer. You can make it two weeks. He'd be gone, out of her life forever.

Seth flipped the switch in the kitchen, turning the light off with finality. She could feel his uncertainty filling the room, and she smiled behind her hand. She could imagine him standing there, fidgeting, not knowing whether to go back to the guest room, or sit there with her. She let him suffer.

Finally, he went to the door, got something, and came back. She heard him flipping through papers, and mumbling quietly every few minutes. She began to read again, and read the first page four times before she understood what she had been going over for the last fifteen minutes. The second page she only had to read twice, and then it flowed much more easily. She was surprised when he cleared his throat.

"Do you want to watch TV or something?" he asked, ever so polite, gentle. Oh, how she missed his gentleness, his gentle nature, his gentle touch. He used to treat her body like it was china. Sure, she could manhandle him all she wanted, but he never returned the favor. He had never hurt her, not with his hands, not even on accident. Her heart ached. The clock on the mantle struck seven.

"What...what do you want to watch?" she asked, her confidence rising slightly.

"Reruns of The Valley come on TNT. Or, we could watch Law and Order...something else? A movie?"

"The TV Guide is on the table in front of you. What comes on TCM tonight?"

He flipped through the pages, ran his finger down the listings.

"Love Affair, 1939. Charles Boyer, Irene Dunne. Playboy Michael Manet and American Terry McKay fall in love aboard ship, then agree to meet six months later once Manet has had a chance to make his fortune."

"And?"

"And that's all it says."

"Hmmm."

"Indeed."

"Well, you'll have to tell me what's happening."

Seth didn't say anything for a moment. Then, quietly, "I can do that."

"Fine."

Seth flipped the television on, and surfed the channels until he found it. The movie was just starting, and he dutifully told her everything that happened that wasn't explained by the dialog.

When Irene Dunne was hurt in the film, Summer stifled a sob into her hand. How more inappropriate a choice of film could the two of them have made? She rose, quickly. "I'm sorry, I'm very tired. I think I'm going to go to bed."

Seth also stood, though he didn't know why. "Oh, okay," he nodded. "Goodnight."

Summer escaped the room as fast as she could, collapsing against her bedroom door, and taking in a huge gulp of air. Don't hyperventilate, don't hyperventilate. Take a bath, go to bed. Don't you dare cry, Summer Roberts. Not with him in the house. Don't you dare.

How did Cohen do that? How did he make her feel like a complete idiot when she had said probably less than thirty words to him the entire evening? She was frustrated, stymied, and she felt completely out of control. She hadn't allowed herself to feel this way in a very long time. She almost didn't know how anymore.

She ran herself a bubble bath, and sank down in the tub, the warm water slowly relaxing her trembling, tense muscles. She hadn't done anything physical to make her feel so tired, it was emotional exhaustion that plagued her now. She imagined she would fall asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

Only she didn't. She laid awake, unable to sleep, listening to him move around, listening to him. He watched TV for about an hour, and then turned the lights off in the living room and tiptoed down the hall to the guest room. He showered quickly—she listened to the water rushing through the pipes—he had always been an expedient bather. She heard the bedsprings squeak across the hall as he climbed into bed, she imagined his every move as if she were in the same room, watching him.

She wasn't sure at what point she fell asleep, but she did.

To be continued...