Chapter 72
Summer's POV
I smiled, unable to help myself, and his gaze dropped to my mouth for just a second before he looked away, his ears going even redder.
The silence between us shifted, becoming something warmer, something that made my skin tingle with awareness. I was hyperconscious of how close we were sitting, of the way his thigh was pressed against mine now, of the way I could see his pulse beating in his throat.
I reached into my Longchamp bag, suddenly needing something to do with my hands. "I brought snacks," I said, pulling out a small cooler bag I'd packed that morning.
Kieran's eyebrows rose. "A whole cooler?"
"It's not that big," I protested, even though it kind of was. I unzipped it, revealing what I'd packed: two pints of Ben & Jerry's ice cream, still cold from the ice packs I'd stuffed around them, along with plastic spoons.
His lips twitched. "You brought ice cream on a bus trip?"
"It's still cold," I said defensively, pulling out one of the pints. Strawberry Cheesecake. My favorite. "I have chocolate chip cookie dough too, if you want that one instead."
I held out the second pint to him, but he didn't take it. He was looking at the strawberry one in my hand, his expression unreadable.
"I want that one," he said quietly.
I glanced down at the pint I was already opening. "Oh. But I already—" I'd already peeled back the lid, already dipped my spoon in. "I can give you the cookie dough instead—"
"I want the strawberry one," he repeated, and there was something in his voice that made my stomach flip.
I stared at him, my brain trying to catch up. "But I already started eating it."
"I know," he said, and his gaze dropped to the spoon in my hand, to the ice cream melting on it.
My heart started doing that thing again, that rapid flutter-thump that made it hard to breathe. I brought the spoon to my lips, suddenly self-conscious, and took a small bite. The sweetness exploded on my tongue, cold and creamy, and I had to resist the urge to close my eyes in pleasure.
When I opened them, Kieran was watching me. Not casually. Not politely. He was watching me, his dark eyes fixed on my mouth with an intensity that made heat crawl up my neck.
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry despite the ice cream. "Do you... do you want some?" I managed to ask, my voice coming out breathier than I intended.
He didn't answer. He just held out his hand.
I thought he was asking for the pint. I thought he wanted me to hand it over so he could eat from his own spoon. But when I started to pass it to him, he shook his head.
"The spoon," he said quietly.
My brain short-circuited. "What?"
"Give me your spoon."
I stared at him, my heart pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it. "But I already—I already used it."
"I know," he said again, and this time there was no mistaking the deliberateness in his tone.
My hand trembled slightly as I held out the spoon. He took it from me, his fingers brushing mine, and the contact sent electricity shooting up my arm. I watched, transfixed, as he brought the spoon to his mouth—the same spoon I'd just had in my mouth—and closed his lips around it.
His eyes never left mine.
I forgot how to breathe. I forgot my own name. All I could do was stare at him as he pulled the spoon out slowly, his tongue catching a drop of melted ice cream at the corner of his mouth, and I felt my entire body flush with heat.
"It's good," he said, his voice low and rough.
I couldn't speak. My mouth had gone completely dry. I watched as he dipped the spoon back into the pint, scooping up another bite, and brought it to his lips again. This time, he didn't look away. He held my gaze as he ate, and there was something almost challenging in his expression, like he was daring me to say something, to acknowledge what was happening between us.
But I couldn't. I was frozen, my heart racing, my skin tingling, my entire body hyperaware of his presence beside me.
He handed the spoon back to me, and when our fingers touched again, I swear I felt sparks.
"Your turn," he murmured.
I took the spoon with shaking hands, staring down at it like I'd never seen one before. He'd just—we'd just—we were sharing a spoon. We were eating from the same spoon. That was... that was...
Intimate.
The word flashed through my mind, unbidden, and I felt my face go hot. This was more intimate than holding hands. More intimate than sitting close. This was—God, this was practically kissing.
I brought the spoon to my lips, my heart hammering, and took a bite. The ice cream tasted different now, sweeter somehow, and I couldn't tell if it was because I was imagining the taste of him on it or if I was just losing my mind.
Kieran was still watching me, his gaze heavy and intent, and when I licked my bottom lip to catch a drop of melted ice cream, his eyes darkened.
"You have some—" He reached out, his hand hovering near my face, and for a wild second I thought he was going to touch me. But then he pulled back, his ears going red again. "On your lip. You have some on your lip."
I wiped at my mouth with the back of my hand, my cheeks burning. "Did I get it?"
"Yeah," he said, but his voice sounded strained.
We passed the spoon back and forth in silence after that, taking turns, our fingers brushing with each exchange. The air between us felt charged, electric, like the moment before a thunderstorm when you could feel the static building in the atmosphere. Every time he put the spoon in his mouth, I couldn't stop staring. Every time I did the same, I could feel his gaze on me like a physical touch.
By the time we finished the pint, my hands were shaking and my heart was racing so fast I felt dizzy. Kieran set the empty container aside, his jaw tight, and when he looked at me again, there was something raw and vulnerable in his expression that made my breath catch.
"Summer," he said, my name barely more than a whisper.
"Yeah?" I whispered back.
He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but then he seemed to think better of it. Instead, he reached out and gently—so gently it made my chest ache—brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered for just a second, barely grazing my cheek, before he pulled away.
"Nothing," he said quietly. "Never mind."
But it wasn't nothing. I could see it in his eyes, in the way his hand curled into a fist on his thigh, in the way his breathing had gone shallow and uneven.
I wanted to ask him what he'd been about to say. I wanted to close the distance between us and—and—
But I didn't. I couldn't. Because I was terrified that if I did, if I pushed too hard, he'd pull away again, and I couldn't bear that. Not now. Not when we were finally okay again.
So I just smiled at him, soft and tentative, and said, "Thank you for sharing with me."
His expression softened, and he smiled back—a real smile this time, small but genuine. "Thank you for bringing it."
We sat in silence after that, our shoulders pressed together, our hands resting on the armrest between us, our pinkies almost touching. The bus rumbled on through the autumn landscape, carrying us toward whatever came next, and I let myself believe, just for a moment, that maybe—just maybe—this time things could be different.