Chapter 161
Summer's POV
The sirens were getting louder now, maybe three or four blocks away, the sound bouncing off the buildings in a way that made it hard to tell exactly where they were coming from.
Drake backed away, still talking, his voice rising to compete with the approaching sirens. "This isn't over. Not by a long shot. You're my son. She's my daughter. This is my family. You can't just—"
Then he turned and ran, disappearing into the alley between buildings like a rat scurrying back to its hole.
Catherine was pulling Lily toward the door of their building, the little girl sobbing into her mother's coat, but she stopped when she saw Kieran swaying on his feet, blood streaming down his face. She moved toward him, one hand outstretched, her expression torn between the need to protect her daughter and the need to help her son.
Kieran pushed himself fully upright and jerked his head sharply toward the entrance, the movement making him wince. "Go," he said, his voice rough and thick. "Take her inside. Now."
"But you're—"
"Now." The word came out harsh, almost angry, and he waved his left hand in a sharp gesture of dismissal. "I'm fine. Get her out of here."
Catherine's eyes met his for a long moment, and I saw something pass between them—understanding, fear, the weight of too many years of this same violence playing out on loop. She knew what he was doing, knew he was protecting Lily from seeing any more, from having this night burned any deeper into her memory than it already was.
She turned to me, her face pale and lined with exhaustion. "Thank you," she said quietly, the words almost lost under the approaching sirens. "But please... don't come again. It's not safe. He meant what he said—he'll come back."
Then they were gone, the door closing behind them with a soft click that somehow felt louder than all the shouting had been.
The street was suddenly very quiet despite the sirens, which had stopped getting closer—probably stuck at a red light a few blocks over, or maybe turning down a different street first. Just me and Kieran and Mia standing by her car, and the sound of blood dripping onto pavement.
Kieran was still standing there, one hand pressed to his face, his lip split and bleeding steadily down his chin. His right eye was already starting to swell, the skin around it darkening to purple. But what struck me wasn't the injuries—it was the way he held himself, perfectly still, perfectly controlled, like if he moved too much something inside him might shatter. Like he was made of glass and willpower and nothing else.
"You shouldn't have come." His voice was rough, raw, like something had been scraped out of his throat. He wouldn't look at me, his gaze fixed on some point past my shoulder, and there was something in that deliberate avoidance that hurt more than anything Drake had said.
I wanted to say something, wanted to tell him I was glad I did, that I'd do it again, that I wasn't sorry. But my throat was too tight, my voice trapped somewhere behind the fear and adrenaline that still flooded my system.
He started to turn away, moving slowly like his body hurt, and I noticed the way his shoulders curved inward, the way he seemed to be folding in on himself, trying to disappear even though he was the tallest person on this street corner.
"Kieran, wait." I finally found my voice, thin and shaky but there. "Please."
He stopped but didn't turn around. Just stood there with his back to me, blood dripping from his chin onto the pavement in a steady rhythm that sounded too loud in the quiet.
I walked over to him, still holding the cake box. My hands were shaking so badly the box rattled, the sound absurdly cheerful against the backdrop of violence and sirens and everything that had just happened.
"You got first place." I held it out to him, though he couldn't see it with his back still turned. "That's... that's amazing."
He looked over his shoulder at the box. Then at me. His eyes were red—from tears or from Drake's fist, I couldn't tell—but there was something else there too, something that made my chest ache. Like he couldn't quite believe I was still here, still holding out this stupid cake like it mattered, like anything mattered after what I'd just witnessed.
"Why do you care so much?" he asked, and the question wasn't accusatory or defensive. It was genuine, like he really didn't understand, like the concept of someone caring about him was so foreign he couldn't wrap his head around it.
"Because you matter to me." The words came out before I could stop them, before I could dress them up in something safer, something less revealing. "More than you think."
His throat moved, the muscles working under his skin as he swallowed. He reached out with his left hand and took the box, his fingers careful not to crush the cardboard even though the cake inside was already ruined. His right hand stayed behind his back, hidden, and I wondered if it was hurting him, if Drake had done something to it during the fight.
"Thank you," he said quietly, and there was something in his voice that made me think he wasn't just talking about the cake. "For today. For everything."
"Field Day." I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, trying to pull myself together, trying to sound normal even though nothing about this was normal. "You promised you'd come."
"I'll be there." He paused, and when he spoke again there was the ghost of something that might have been a smile in his voice. "I'll see you in that uniform you designed."
I laughed. It came out half sob, the sound catching in my throat. "Then you better not be late."
He started to walk away toward his building, the cake box dangling from his left hand, his shoulders hunched forward like he was trying to make himself smaller, trying to disappear into the shadows that pooled between the streetlights. Each step was careful, measured, like he was counting them in his head to keep himself focused on something other than the pain.
Something inside me snapped.
I moved without thinking, my feet carrying me forward before my brain could catch up, before I could talk myself out of it or remind myself of all the reasons this was a terrible idea. My arms wrapped around him from behind, my cheek pressing against the rough fabric of his jacket, and I held on tight, held on like he might vanish if I let go. I could feel the heat of him through the worn denim, could feel the way his whole body went rigid under my touch.
"Don't leave me," I whispered into his back, my voice breaking on the words.