Chapter 152
Kieran's POV
"Damn it."
The words came out low and rough, echoing off the tile. I pressed my forehead against the wall and tried to breathe through it. Tried to shove the anger down, the jealousy, the sick possessive feeling that crawled up my spine every time I thought about someone else looking at her.
She wasn't mine. Not really. Not in any way that mattered.
But I wanted her to be.
I wanted it so bad it scared me.
I turned off the water and stood there dripping, staring at the cracked grout between the tiles. My body was still wound tight, heart pounding, skin too hot despite the cold air creeping in through the vent.
This was a bad idea. All of it. Letting her get close. Letting her think I was someone she could wait for. Letting myself believe, even for a second, that I could have something good without it falling apart.
I grabbed a towel and dried off, rough and quick, like I could scrub the thoughts away. Then I pulled on sweatpants and an old T-shirt and went back to my room.
The hoodie was still on the chair. Still smelled like her.
I picked it up and held it for a second, then shoved it into the back of my closet where I wouldn't see it. Out of sight, out of mind.
Except it didn't work.
I lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The streetlight outside threw shadows across the room, long and crooked. Somewhere down the block, a car alarm went off. A dog barked. The building settled with a groan.
I should've been exhausted. I was exhausted. But my brain wouldn't shut up.
I rolled onto my side and reached for the nightstand, pulling open the drawer. Inside was the bag Summer had given me a few weeks ago—snacks, pens, scar cream. Stuff I didn't ask for but she gave me anyway because she thought I needed it.
At the very bottom, under everything else, my fingers found something small and metal.
A whistle.
Her whistle. The one she used to wear around her neck for gym class. The one that got stepped on and stopped working. The one she'd shoved into my desk cubby one day and never asked for back.
I pulled it out and held it up to the light. The metal was dented. The little pea inside rattled when I shook it, but no sound came out.
I brought it to my lips and blew, just once.
Nothing.
The air moved through the chamber, but there was no noise. Just the faint sensation of pressure against my mouth.
And then, because I was an idiot, I bit down on it. Gently. Let my teeth rest against the cool metal.
It tasted like nothing. But I could smell it—faint, barely there. The same strawberry scent that had been on my hoodie.
She'd had this in her mouth. Her lips had been right here.
My heart kicked hard against my ribs.
This was so stupid. So messed up. I was lying in bed in the dark, holding a broken whistle like it was something precious, imagining her breath on it. Imagining her.
I should've put it back. Should've shoved it in the drawer and gone to sleep and pretended this whole night never happened.
But I didn't.
I kept it pressed to my lips, eyes closed, and let myself think about her. About the way she'd looked at me tonight. The way she'd said I'll wait for you like it was a promise she actually meant to keep.
About the way she'd feel if I ever got the guts to kiss her for real. Not just her forehead. Not just a careful, controlled press of lips that meant nothing. But the kind of kiss that said everything I couldn't put into words.
The kind that would ruin me.
I opened my eyes and stared at the whistle in my hand. My pulse was too fast. My body was too warm. And I hated myself for it—for wanting her this much, for thinking about her like this when she trusted me not to.
But I couldn't stop.
I turned onto my back, the whistle still pressed between my fingers, and stopped fighting it. There was no point pretending anymore. Not tonight.
I let her name fill up the dark behind my eyelids — Summer — let the memory of her voice unravel every wall I'd spent the day building. The way she said my name. The way her breath caught when she laughed too hard. The slope of her neck in the afternoon light.
My hand moved on its own. Slow. Deliberate.
My breathing turned ragged, the sheets twisting under me. I could almost feel her — the ghost of her fingertips tracing my jaw, her mouth close enough to taste. Every nerve lit up like a wire stripped bare.
"Summer…"
Her name left my lips low and rough, barely a sound, more vibration than voice — the kind of thing that would've made her press closer if she'd been here. If she'd been real and warm and mine.
When it was over, I lay there with my chest heaving and the whistle still clenched in my fist, slick with sweat and shame.
The guilt came fast. Sharp and cold and suffocating.
But underneath it, buried deep where I didn't want to look, was something else.
The knowledge that I was going to go to that Field Day.
Not for the LEGO set. Not for the school credit.
For her.
Because I wanted to see her in that outfit she'd drawn. Wanted to be the one she was looking for in the crowd. Wanted to stand there and know—just for a second—that she was mine.
Even if Drake was still out there. Even if I didn't know how to keep her safe and keep myself together at the same time.
Even if it was the most selfish thing I'd ever done.
I closed my eyes and let the whistle rest against my chest, right over my heart.