Chapter 87
Kieran's POV
The ER observation area smelled like bleach and old coffee.
My right arm was wrapped thick enough that I couldn't bend my elbow without the gauze pulling. More bandages on my face. The IV drip in my left hand was cold, the needle taped down with that shiny medical tape that always left residue.
I didn't feel much. Pain, sure, but it was background noise. I'd learned a long time ago how to push it down, pack it somewhere deep where it couldn't touch me. Catherine used to say, "Don't let anyone see you hurting. That's when they know they've won." So I didn't go to hospitals. I taught myself how to clean wounds, how to wrap them tight enough to stop bleeding but loose enough that I could still move.
Then the door opened again. I kept my eyes closed, thinking it was another nurse coming to check my vitals or adjust the IV. But the footsteps were different—lighter, hesitant.
The curtain pulled back with a soft scrape of metal rings.
"Kieran?"
My heart kicked hard before my brain caught up. I knew that voice. Soft, careful, like she was afraid I might break if she spoke too loud.
I opened my eyes.
Summer stood at the foot of the bed, wrapped in an oversized coat that looked like she'd grabbed it off someone else. Her hair was messy, falling out of the ponytail she usually kept neat. Her eyes were red and swollen, the kind of red that meant she'd been crying for a while.
She looked at my arm first. The thick white bandages. Then her gaze moved to the tape on my face, the bruises on my neck. Her eyes got wetter.
I should've said something. Asked why she was here, told her to leave, anything. But my throat felt tight, and all I could do was stare.
She took a step closer, then another, moving like she was walking on ice. When she reached the bed, she looked at the plastic chair, then at me, like she was asking permission.
I cleared my throat. "Sit down."
She pulled the chair closer and sat, hands folded in her lap. Her fingers were shaking.
"I wanted to see if you were okay," she said quietly. Her voice cracked on the last word. "I saw what happened. At the lake."
I looked away, fixing my eyes on the curtain across from me. "Thompson heard us. We didn't get back before curfew."
"That's not what I meant." She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "I saw you hurt yourself. I saw you—" She stopped, biting her lip hard enough to leave a mark. "I saw everything."
The air in the room felt too thick. I focused on breathing, in and out, keeping my face blank.
"You didn't have to do that." Her voice was barely above a whisper, trembling with something between anger and heartbreak. "You knew what you were doing, didn't you? You hurt yourself on purpose... for me."
It wasn't a question. It was an accusation wrapped in tears, and the way she looked at me—like I'd betrayed her by choosing to bleed—made my chest constrict.
I turned my head to look at her. "Yeah."
The word came out flat, but inside I felt something crack. She already knew. She'd figured it out, seen through the performance I'd put on for Thompson and the cameras. And now she was sitting here, crying because I'd been stupid enough to think I could protect her without her realizing the cost.
Her face crumpled. She covered her mouth with one hand, trying to hold it together, but her shoulders shook anyway. "You used a rock," she whispered. "You were bleeding everywhere, and you were shaking, and you just—you just kept going. Like it didn't matter. Like you didn't matter."
The tears came faster than I expected. She cried like a kid, shoulders jerking, little gasping sounds she tried to muffle behind her hand.
I couldn't look away. My chest felt too full, like something was expanding inside my ribs, pressing against my lungs. I stared at her, at the way her face scrunched up, at the way she bit down on her lip to keep from making noise. I didn't blink. Couldn't.
Why was she crying? Was it reflex, the kind of automatic empathy people like her had for anything that looked hurt? Was she scared? Or did she actually think my pain mattered to her, that it was something she had to carry?
I didn't know. And the not knowing made my pulse pick up, made my blood run hot under my skin. It felt like something was crawling through me, something I couldn't name. I wanted to reach out and touch her face, wipe away the tears, but I also wanted to keep watching, keep seeing her fall apart because of me.
It was sick. I knew it was sick. But I couldn't stop.
The feeling was foreign and terrifying, like something had woken up inside me that I didn't recognize. Some dark, twisted part of me that fed on her tears, that wanted to see her break down again and again because it meant I mattered to her. Because it meant she cared enough to hurt for me. I'd spent my whole life being invisible, being nothing, and now here she was—crying for me, falling apart for me—and all I could think was that I wanted more of it. I wanted to sink into this feeling, let it consume me, use it however I could.
She finally got herself under control, sniffling hard and rubbing her eyes until they were even redder. "Does it still hurt?" she asked, voice thick. "Did the doctor say anything? Are there things you're not supposed to do?"
Her nose was stuffed up, making her sound younger. She looked at me with this soft, worried expression that made my stomach twist.
I lifted my bandaged arm, slow and deliberate. "Doctor said I can't make a fist for a while. The stitches might tear."
Her eyes tracked the movement, widening. "You have to be careful, then. You can't—"
"I know." I kept my voice flat, but inside I was already planning the next move. Show her the arm again tomorrow. Mention how hard it was to write. Let her see me struggle with something small, something she could fix. Make her feel needed.
I hated myself for thinking it. But I did it anyway.
She took a shaky breath, wiping her face one more time. Then her expression changed, got harder. Determined.
"Kieran, I need to tell Ms. Thompson everything. About Tyler, about the cameras, all of it. You shouldn't have to handle this alone."
My stomach dropped. "No."
"Why not?" Her voice rose. "You're hurt because of him! You—"
"Summer." I sat up straighter, ignoring the pull in my arm. "Tyler's dad is on the board. If you get involved, if you testify, they'll say you're covering for me. They'll say we planned this together. And they'll make sure everyone knows you were spending time with the scholarship kid, the one with the record, the one from Southie. They'll drag your family into it. Your mom's company. Your college apps. Everything."
She stared at me, jaw tight. "I don't care."
"You should." I leaned forward, trying to make her see. "I have evidence. The phone, the camera, the cloud files. Thompson saw what happened. That's enough. But if you stand up there and say you knew about it, Tyler's lawyers will twist it. They'll say you were involved, that you helped me set him up. And then everything falls apart."
Her eyes filled with tears again. "But—"
"And if they threaten you," I said quietly, "I'll back down. I'll say I lied. I'll take whatever they give me. Because I can't—" I stopped, swallowing hard. "I can't let them use you against me."