Chapter 149
Summer's POV
The bike slowed as we turned onto a quieter street, the lights of Southie giving way to blocks of narrow houses and bare trees. My arms were still wrapped around Kieran's waist, my cheek pressed against his back, and I could feel his breathing gradually steadying from the sharp, panicked rhythm it had been when he'd first grabbed me at the T station.
He pulled up in front of a corner shop with orange neon lights glowing through the windows—Pete's Burgers & Fries, the sign read in faded letters. Through the glass I could see a few customers scattered at small tables, a middle-aged couple sharing fries, two guys in work uniforms hunched over their phones.
Kieran dismounted first, his movements careful and deliberate as he locked the bike to a metal rack with a chain that looked like it had seen better days. I watched his right hand fumble slightly with the lock mechanism, the damaged fingers not quite cooperating, and before I could stop myself I reached out to help.
"I've got it," he said quietly, switching to his left hand to finish securing the chain. His ears were red again.
I climbed off the bike seat, my legs slightly unsteady from the ride and the adrenaline still coursing through me. The wind had picked up, cutting through my hoodie, and I wrapped my arms around myself as I looked at the restaurant. It wasn't fancy—no white tablecloths or mood lighting like the places my mother took me—but there was something warm about it, something real in the way the light spilled onto the sidewalk and the smell of fried food drifted out whenever someone opened the door.
Kieran glanced at me, his gray eyes searching my face like he was trying to gauge whether I'd bolt. "You okay with this place? It's not—I mean, it's just burgers."
"It's perfect," I said, and I meant it.
He pushed the door open, the bell above it chiming softly, and gestured for me to go in first. The warmth hit me immediately, along with the scent of grilled meat and hot oil. I sneezed.
"Cold?" Kieran asked, his hand hovering near my elbow like he wanted to steady me but wasn't sure if he should.
"Just the temperature change," I said, sniffling.
He led me toward a booth in the back corner, the kind with red plastic seats and a laminate table that had seen decades of use. He let me slide into the seat against the wall—the safer spot, I realized, the one where I wouldn't be visible from the door—and took the outer seat himself, positioning his body so he could see the entrance reflected in the window.
Even here, even now, he was still on guard.
A menu was already tucked into a metal holder at the edge of the table, and Kieran pulled it out and handed it to me without a word. I flipped it open, scanning the prices: burgers from $4.99 to $6.99, fries $2.99, combo meals $8.99. Cheap, but not for him. Not when every dollar probably went toward Lily's therapy or keeping the lights on.
I opened my mouth to say I wasn't that hungry, to try and save him the expense, but he spoke first.
"The Classic Cheeseburger's really good here," he said, his tone carefully casual. "And the hash browns are fresh-made. Crispy outside, soft inside."
I looked up at him. He was staring at the menu like he was studying for a test, his right hand tapping lightly on the table in that way he did when he was calculating something.
"That sounds expensive," I said carefully.
His jaw tightened. "I just got paid." He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a crumpled brown envelope with "Kieran - Week 3/4" scrawled across it in messy handwriting. I caught a glimpse of cash tucked inside before he shoved it back into his pocket like he was afraid I'd see too much.
"Order whatever you want," he said, his voice firm. "I'm not going to be cheap about it."
The way he said it—like he was daring me to argue, like he needed to prove he could take care of this—made my throat tight. I thought about the Kieran I'd known in my first life, the one who'd signed checks at Michelin-starred restaurants without even glancing at the total, who'd ordered the most expensive wine like it meant nothing. That Kieran had used money to build walls. This Kieran was using the little he had to try and give me something good.
I blinked hard and forced a smile. "Then I want double hash browns. And a milkshake."
He blinked, surprised, and then something in his expression softened. "Okay. I'll go order."
He stood and walked to the counter, and I watched through the reflection in the window as the cashier—a woman with glasses and graying hair—smiled at him like she knew him.
"The usual?" she asked.
Kieran shook his head and pointed at the menu, rattling off what sounded like a long list. The cashier raised her eyebrows and said something I couldn't hear, something that made Kieran's ears go red again, and then she rang him up with a knowing smile.
When he came back to the table, he set a number placard—18—between us and sat down heavily, like the weight of the day was finally catching up to him.
"Two cheeseburgers, two hash browns, a large fries, and a strawberry milkshake," he said, ticking the items off on his fingers.
"What about you?" I asked. "You didn't get a drink."
He shrugged. "Water's fine."
I knew what that meant. He was saving money. Again.
"We'll share the milkshake," I said firmly.
He didn't argue. He just nodded and looked down at his hands, his thumb rubbing absently over the envelope still tucked in his pocket.
The silence stretched between us, not quite comfortable but not unbearable either. I wanted to ask him about Drake, about what had happened at the food stand, about why he looked so exhausted. But I didn't. Not yet.
Instead, I leaned forward, resting my chin on my hands. "Did you know St. Jude's has a Spring Athletics Day in April?"
He looked up, startled. "What?"
"The Spring Athletics Day," I repeated, letting enthusiasm creep into my voice. "It's this whole big thing where everyone competes in different events. I signed up to be on the cheerleading squad."
His expression shifted, just slightly, from guarded to curious. "You're going to be a cheerleader?"
"Don't sound so surprised," I said, mock-offended. "I can be peppy."