Chapter 108
Kieran's POV
The self-study period bell rang, and I watched Summer gather her things and leave, her movements slow and unsteady. She'd been asleep for most of Thompson's class, her head pillowed on her arms, and even from three rows back I could see the exhaustion written into every line of her body.
I'd wanted to wake her. Had actually started to get up twice, but Logan had grabbed my arm both times, giving me a look that said don't be stupid. So I'd stayed in my seat and watched her sleep instead, watched Mia poke her awake every ten minutes, watched the way she'd jerk upright and try to pretend she'd been paying attention all along.
She was killing herself. Anyone could see it.
And it was my fault.
"You coming?" Logan asked, already halfway to the door.
"Yeah. Give me a second."
He left, and I sat there in the empty classroom, staring at Summer's empty seat. There was a small doodle in the margin of her notebook—I could just see it from here—a tiny heart with a treble clef inside it. She'd probably drawn it without thinking, the way she always doodled when she was anxious.
I knew that about her now. Knew she chewed her bottom lip when she was concentrating, that she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous, that she hummed under her breath when she thought no one was listening. I'd spent three weeks cataloging these details from a distance, watching her the way you'd watch something you could never have.
Except for the weak, late-night texts I couldn't stop myself from sending, I'd been a ghost to her. Photos of physics problems I thought she'd find interesting. Screenshots of articles about piano competitions. The kind of breadcrumbs a coward leaves when he's too afraid to actually show up. She never replied, and I didn't blame her. What was there to say to someone who kissed you in the rain and then disappeared?
It was pathetic.
My phone buzzed. A text from Mia: Can I ask you a favor?
I frowned at the screen. Mia and I didn't text. We barely talked, beyond the occasional hello in the hallways. Whatever this was, it couldn't be good.
What? I typed back.
Her response came immediately: Could you keep an eye on Summer during tonight's self-study session? Make sure she doesn't sleep through the whole thing. I know you two are... close. She'll listen to you more than anyone else.
I stared at the message, my jaw tight. Close. That's what Mia thought we were. If only she knew the truth—that those late-night texts were the only contact I'd allowed myself because I was too much of a coward to face what I'd done. That I'd kissed her in the rain and then run away like a scared kid. That I'd left those flowers at Symphony Hall because I couldn't bring myself to hand them to her in person.
That I was, in every way that mattered, exactly the coward she'd called me.
But Mia was right about one thing: Summer would push herself until she broke if someone didn't stop her. And I couldn't stand the thought of her hurting herself, even if it meant breaking my own rules about staying away.
Okay, I typed.
Mia's reply was almost instant: Thanks. She's been pushing herself too hard lately.
I pocketed my phone and headed to the competition classroom for what was supposed to be an emergency training session. Coach Anderson had called it yesterday, something about the upcoming F=ma exam. But when I got there, the room was empty except for a note on the board: Session canceled. Use the time to study.
Perfect. Now I had no excuse not to go to self-study.
I grabbed my physics textbook and headed back downstairs.
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The classroom for evening self-study was already half-full when I arrived at seven. Summer was in her usual spot near the window, her head already down on her arms, her shoulders rising and falling with the steady rhythm of sleep. Mia must have left to help Ms. Thompson—I could see them through the hallway window, sorting through a stack of papers.
I took a seat at the back of the room where I could see Summer without being obvious about it. Other students filtered in, chatting quietly, pulling out homework and laptops. The room smelled like old books and floor wax, familiar and somehow comforting.
At seven sharp, Ms. Thompson poked her head in. "Alright, people. You know the rules. No talking, no phones, work on whatever you need to. I'll be in my office if anyone needs me." Her eyes swept the room, pausing briefly on Summer's sleeping form, then on me. Something flickered in her expression—understanding, maybe, or approval—before she disappeared down the hall.
The room settled into the quiet hum of productivity. Pages turning, pencils scratching, the occasional cough or sigh. And through it all, Summer slept.
I tried to focus on my own work, but my eyes kept drifting back to her. She'd taken off her coat, revealing the white button-down shirt underneath, slightly rumpled from a day of wear. Her hair had come loose from whatever she'd done with it this morning, falling across her cheek in waves. Even from here, I could see the faint shadows under her eyes, the way her face looked thinner than it had a month ago. She probably spent the break practicing instead of eating dinner, went straight to the music building the moment class ended, pushing herself until the last possible minute before dragging herself here.
She was exhausted. And she was beautiful. And I had no idea what to do about either of those things.
Twenty minutes in, she started to stir. Her head shifted on her arms, her eyebrows drawing together like she was having a bad dream. I watched her face scrunch up, heard her make a small sound of distress.
Before I could think better of it, I was out of my seat and moving toward her.
I crouched down next to her desk, careful not to touch her, and said quietly, "Summer."
She didn't wake up. Just made another unhappy sound and shifted again.
"Summer," I tried again, a little louder. This time I reached out and touched her shoulder—barely, just the lightest pressure through her shirt.
Her eyes flew open. For a second, she just stared at me, disoriented and confused. Then recognition dawned, and her whole face transformed.
"Kieran?" Her voice was rough with sleep, barely above a whisper.
"You should sit up," I said, pulling my hand back. "You'll hurt your neck."
She blinked at me, still half-asleep, and then she smiled. It was a small smile, soft and unguarded, the kind of smile she'd never given me when she was fully awake. The kind that made my chest feel like it was being squeezed in a vice.
"Okay," she said, and started to push herself upright.
But she moved too fast, still disoriented from sleep, and her head tilted wrong. I saw it happening in slow motion—saw her start to tip sideways, saw the corner of the desk rushing up to meet her forehead.
I caught her with my right hand.
The impact wasn't hard, but it was enough to send a dull throb through my damaged nerves, the kind of pain I'd learned to ignore years ago. I felt her warm skin against my palm, felt the weight of her head as she sagged into my hand instead of hitting the desk.
"Careful," I managed, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.
Summer made a small noise—surprise or confusion, I couldn't tell—and then, still half-asleep, she wrapped both her hands around my wrist and held on.
I froze.