Chapter 17
Kieran's POV
After dinner, Catherine insisted on helping me change the bandage. I refused, my tone leaving no room for argument, and grabbed the medical supplies before retreating to the shared bathroom on our floor. The space was a disaster—mildewed walls, cracked tiles, an ancient water heater that had given up producing hot water hours ago. The Wagners upstairs had used it all.
I locked the door and leaned against it for a moment, the CVS bag heavy in my hand. Then I carefully peeled off my St. Jude's uniform shirt, trying not to jostle my right arm. In the spotted mirror, I looked pale and gaunt, my torso marked with the rough scar tissue running from elbow to wrist on my right arm, and now the fresh burns underneath Summer's careful bandaging.
I sat on the closed toilet lid and began unwrapping the gauze she'd applied hours earlier. My left hand worked clumsily at the medical tape, pulling it away from my skin bit by bit. The bandage came loose in strips, revealing the angry red burns beneath—still blistered, still raw, but cleaner than they'd been before Summer had worked on them outside my apartment.
The burn cream she'd applied had dried into a thin film over the damaged skin. I could see where she'd been careful, thorough, the way the ointment covered every inch of the injury. My throat tightened at the evidence of her care.
I turned on the faucet, letting the water run until it reached lukewarm—the best this building could offer. Then I dampened a clean piece of gauze from the CVS bag and gently wiped away the residue of the old ointment, working slowly to avoid aggravating the blisters. My nerve damage meant I felt the pain in strange, delayed waves, but it was still there—that deep, nauseating ache that seemed to radiate from inside the tissue.
I bit down hard on my lip and gripped the edge of the sink with my left hand, my forehead pressed against the cold tile wall. The damp gauze turned slightly pink as I cleaned the burns, and I stood there shaking, counting seconds, waiting for my body to adjust.
When I finally finished cleaning the area, my arm throbbed and my fingers were clumsy as I patted the skin dry with the cleanest towel I could find. I stared at the supplies Summer had bought—the expensive burn cream, the sterile gauze, the medical tape.
And the Pop-Tarts.
I picked up the box, the bright pink packaging garish under the bathroom's flickering fluorescent light. The artificial strawberry scent hit me immediately, sweet and chemical, and underneath it I could still smell her—that clean, real strawberry smell that clung to her hair and skin.
This was the first gift I'd ever received that didn't come with conditions. Not a signing bonus in exchange for competition results, not wages for hours worked, not a "you do this and I'll give you that" transaction. Just... a gift. Because she thought I might like strawberries. Because she'd noticed I didn't eat much. Because she cared.
The realization made my chest feel too tight, like my ribs were compressing my lungs. I tore open the corner of the package and breathed in that overwhelming artificial sweetness, and for just a moment I let myself remember the way she'd looked at me on the street, the way she'd promised she wouldn't let me suffer anymore, the way her voice had been so steady and sure.
Then reality crashed back in—the cold bathroom, the mildewed walls, the fact that this warmth didn't belong to me and never would.
I carefully rewrapped the Pop-Tarts and decided to give them to Lily. She needed the sweetness more than I did. But before I put them away, I took one pastry out of the package and slipped it into my uniform pocket. Just one. Just something small to prove this had been real.
The mirror was fogged from the lukewarm water, a thin layer of condensation coating the glass. Without thinking, I dragged my fingertip through it and wrote one word: summer.
Then the image of her slammed into me—those bright eyes, that red mouth, the way her short skirt had ridden up when she crouched to help Lily, exposing the smooth, lean length of her thighs. My cock twitched and thickened instantly, pressing hard against the zipper of my jeans.
I stared down at the obvious bulge, shame and raw hunger knotting in my gut. My hand moved before I could think better of it, cupping the rigid length through the denim. The pressure made me hiss between my teeth.
This was messed up—freezing bathroom, burned arm, exhausted—but I didn't stop. I yanked the zipper down with my good hand, shoved jeans and boxers just past my hips, and wrapped my fingers around my cock. It was already leaking, slick at the tip. I gave one rough stroke, then another, faster.
I braced my injured forearm against the sink and shut my eyes, sinking into it: Summer's strawberry scent, her soft hands on me, the fierce way she'd looked at me like I was worth protecting. I pictured her on her knees, those red lips parting, taking me deep while her eyes stayed locked on mine.
Three more hard pumps and I was done—come spilling over my fist in thick, hot pulses. I bit down on my own arm to choke the groan, body jerking through the aftershocks.
When it passed I was just a seventeen-year-old standing in a shitty bathroom, dick softening, hand sticky, shame settling in like ice. I cleaned up with trembling fingers, wiped the worst of it off with toilet paper.
But when I looked back at the mirror, the word summer was still there in the fog. I left it.