Chapter 197
Summer's POV
Mason's arm was still around me, his fingers digging into my shoulder, and I couldn't get away, couldn't move, couldn't do anything but shake and try not to vomit because his cologne was everywhere, choking me, dragging me back to every horrible moment of seventh and eighth grade.
"What the hell?" Mason's voice, closer now, his breath hot against my ear. "Is she having a panic attack or something? Hayes, you good?"
His hand moved to my face, fingers touching my cheek—that same proprietary touch he'd used when he'd cornered me by my locker in eighth grade, when he'd grabbed my wrist in the hallway and asked if I'd eaten the whole cafeteria for lunch—and something inside me snapped like a wire pulled too tight.
"Don't touch me!" The words ripped out of me, raw and ragged, and I was shoving at him, at his chest, at his arm, anything to get him away from me, but he was so much bigger and stronger and I was trapped in the booth with the wall on one side and his body on the other. "Get off, get off, get OFF—"
"Jesus, I was just trying to help—"
"Get the fuck away from her." Kieran's voice had dropped to something cold and lethal, something that made the entire restaurant go quiet, and suddenly he was there, grabbing Mason's collar with his good hand, physically hauling him out of the booth and away from me. "Now."
Mason stumbled, his sneaker skidding through the mess of food still splattered across the floor—my fries, my shake, the remains of whatever he'd knocked off the table—and caught himself on the next booth. For a second he looked genuinely shocked—like he couldn't believe someone was actually standing up to him, like he'd gotten so used to people letting him do whatever he wanted that the concept of consequences was foreign. "Dude, what's your problem? I'm just—"
"You've got three seconds to walk away," Kieran said, and his body was a wall between me and Mason, solid and immovable, and I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his damaged right hand was clenched at his side even though it had to hurt. "One."
"Are you serious right now?" Mason laughed, but it was nervous, uncertain. His friends were hovering behind him, and I could see them exchanging glances, pulling at his arm. "I'm just trying to help your girlfriend, man. She's clearly having some kind of episode—"
"Two."
The word came out flat and final, and Mason's smile faltered. He looked at Kieran—really looked at him—and seemed to register for the first time that this wasn't some scholarship kid he could push around, wasn't someone who would back down because Mason Pierce came from money and connections. This was someone who'd grown up in Southie, who'd learned to fight before he'd learned algebra, who had absolutely nothing to lose.
"Three."
Kieran moved—fast, controlled, economical—picking up his chocolate shake and dumping the entire thing over Mason's head in one smooth, deliberate motion.
The shake hit with a wet, satisfying splat, chocolate and ice cream sliding down Mason's perfectly styled hair, soaking into his expensive linen shirt, dripping onto his designer sneakers. Mason stood there, frozen, his mouth open in shock, and for one perfect moment the entire restaurant was silent.
Then someone laughed—a sharp, nervous bark—and suddenly everyone was pulling out their phones, filming, and Mason's face went from shock to rage, his fists clenching, his whole body coiling like he was about to throw a punch.
But Kieran didn't move. He just stood there, shoulders squared, that deadly calm radiating off him, and I saw something flicker across Mason's face—not just anger, but fear. Real fear. Because Kieran wasn't backing down, wasn't apologizing, wasn't giving him any of the deference that people like Mason expected as their due.
"Oops," Kieran said flatly, his voice carrying across the silent restaurant. "My hand slipped."
Mason's friends were grabbing him now, hauling him back, muttering about how it wasn't worth it, how they should just go, but Mason was still staring at Kieran with pure hatred in his eyes.
"This isn't over, Hayes," he called back, chocolate shake dripping onto the floor, leaving a trail behind him like breadcrumbs. "You and your trash girlfriend can—"
"Walk," Kieran said quietly, but there was something in his voice that made Mason actually stop talking, actually shut his mouth and let his friends pull him toward the door. "Before I change my mind about being nice."
Mason left, and the restaurant slowly returned to normal—people going back to their meals, the staff rushing over with mops and towels—but I couldn't stop shaking. Couldn't stop seeing his face, feeling his hands on me, smelling that cologne that had haunted my nightmares for years. My chest was tight, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and the edges of my vision were going dark and fuzzy like static on an old TV.
"Summer." Kieran's voice was soft now, careful, completely different from the cold fury he'd used with Mason. He crouched down next to the booth, not touching me, not crowding me, just there. "Summer, he's gone. You're safe."
But I wasn't safe. Would never be safe. Because people like Mason Pierce existed in the world, and they could find me anywhere, could touch me whenever they wanted, could make me feel thirteen and helpless and worthless all over again. Could make me remember what it felt like to walk down the hallway while people mooed at me, to find "FATASS" written on my locker in permanent marker, to hear Mason's voice behind me saying "Did you see Hayes trying to squeeze into that desk? I swear she's gonna break it one day."
"I can't—" I was hyperventilating, air refusing to fill my lungs no matter how desperately I tried, my hands pressed against my temples like I could physically hold my skull together. "I can't breathe, I can't—"
"Yes you can." Kieran's voice, steady and sure, like an anchor in a storm. "Look at me, Summer. Just look at me."
I tried. God, I tried. But all I could see was Mason's face, his grin, his hands reaching for me, and my vision was narrowing to a pinpoint, the edges going dark, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might burst through my ribs.
"Lily," Kieran said quietly, and I'd almost forgotten she was there, pressed against the wall on the other side of the booth, her eyes huge and scared. He pulled out his phone and tapped it quickly before looking back at her. "I'm getting you a car home, okay? It'll be here in a few minutes. I'll text you when it's outside."
"Is Summer okay?" Lily's voice was small and scared, her hands moving in quick, anxious signs.
"She will be," Kieran said, signing back to her with his good hand, and even through my panic I registered how gentle he was with her, how careful. "I promise. But I need you to be brave right now. Wait by the counter where the staff can see you until the car gets here, okay? Can you do that?"
Lily nodded, sliding out of the booth, but she stopped next to me and did something that made my heart crack wide open—she reached out and gently, carefully, touched my shoulder. Not grabbing, not holding, just a soft pressure that said I'm here, I see you, you're not alone.
Then she was gone, and it was just me and Kieran and the wreckage of what was supposed to be a nice afternoon, and I was still trapped in that booth, still feeling Mason's arm around my shoulders, still drowning in the weight of every cruel word he'd ever said to me.
"Summer," Kieran said quietly, and he was moving now, carefully, slowly, sliding into the booth where Mason had been—but on the outside edge, not trapping me, leaving me space to breathe, to run if I needed to. "I'm going to touch you now. Just my hand on yours. If you don't want that, tell me to stop."