Chapter 25
Summer's POV
I stood in front of Kieran's locker—his locker now, the one I'd given him yesterday—watching him organize physics competition materials.
My problem set was due tomorrow morning. I'd stayed up until one a.m. working through mechanics problems three through seven, checking my equations twice, redoing calculations until my eyes burned. But I still wasn't sure. Ms. Thompson had this thing about showing all your work, and if my approach was fundamentally wrong, I'd lose points I couldn't afford to lose. Plus, Ms. Thompson's office sat right next to my ex Evan's room. That guy could sniff out my presence like a bloodhound, and I was not in the mood to be cornered.
I needed to verify my answers. I needed to ask someone who actually knew what they were doing.
I needed to ask Kieran.
He's going to think you're using him, a voice whispered. Just like Evan said. Rich girl who needs a physics tutor.
But I'd done the work myself. All of it. I just needed confirmation that I wasn't completely off track.
I took a breath and walked over.
"Kieran, um...I need to ask you something."
He didn't turn around. Just kept organizing papers.
"I finished the problem set Ms. Thompson assigned," I continued, forcing myself not to fidget with my skirt hem. "The mechanics section, problems three through seven. I worked through everything myself, but I'm not confident about my approach, and it's due tomorrow morning, and I don't want to turn in something completely wrong."
Still nothing. He closed the folder, slid it onto the top shelf.
"I'm not trying to copy," I added quickly. "I just want to verify my approach. Make sure I'm not completely off base."
He finally turned around. Those gray eyes met mine, expression flat and unreadable.
"Ask Mia."
My face heated. "Mia's not sure about this section either. And I don't want to keep bothering her with every little thing. Plus, I don't want to go to Ms. Thompson's office hours and look like I'm completely lost—"
"So you came to me."
"Yes." I swallowed. "I swear I did all the work myself. I just want to make sure I'm not completely off. Please."
He studied me for a long moment, and I fought the urge to look away. His silence was suffocating, but I'd learned—slowly, painfully—that pushing him only made him retreat further.
Then I remembered something Victoria had said last week over dinner, when she was telling me about a difficult client negotiation: "Top salespeople never ask if the client will buy—they ask which one they prefer."
I adjusted my approach, making my voice more natural, assuming he'd help rather than asking permission. "So...would you rather I come find you during morning break, or should I catch you before homeroom?"
His eyebrows lifted slightly. Almost imperceptible, but I caught it.
I pressed on, trying to sound casual. "I noticed you don't really write out all the steps in your problem sets..." I gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Which is fine—I probably couldn't follow your process anyway. I just need to see the final setup and answers."
He stared at me. His hand moved to his pocket—I saw his fingers brush against something there, the outline of that pink cat lock—and his throat worked as he swallowed.
"Fine."
I blinked. "What?"
"Fine," he repeated. "Morning break. Science Wing."
My heart jumped. "Really? Thank you! I promise I won't take too much of your time—"
He was already closing his locker, shouldering his backpack. When he turned to leave, I caught the faintest hint of color on his ears, visible just below his dark hair.
I stood there watching him disappear down the hallway, my pulse doing something complicated and warm.
He'd said yes. Kieran Cross, who never accepted help from anyone, who guarded his space like it was Fort Knox, had just agreed to help me.
---
That night at ten p.m., I was lying on my bed in my pink silk pajamas, staring at the ceiling and replaying the conversation for the hundredth time.
Fine.
That's all he'd said. One word. Flat tone. No eye contact.
So why did it feel like so much more?
Because you're reading into everything, I told myself. He probably just feels obligated because you gave him the locker. You're making this into something it's not.
I sat up abruptly, my reflection catching in the full-length mirror across from my bed. My hair was still damp from the shower, curling in messy waves around my shoulders.
I couldn't just rely on Kieran's answers. What if he changed his mind tomorrow? What if—and this was unlikely, but still—what if his answers were wrong?
I needed to try again myself.
I climbed out of bed and walked to my desk, where my physics problem set sat like an accusation. The wooden surface was cluttered with textbooks, my MacBook, scattered notes. I pulled out my problem set and started over.
Highlighting formulas. Drawing diagrams in my notebook. Writing out derivations with my pen until blue ink smudged on my fingers. When I got stuck, I bit my lip—tasting the strawberry gloss I'd applied after dinner—and forced myself to think it through.
I put in my white earbuds, pulled up a lo-fi study playlist, and lost myself in the work.
Ten o'clock became eleven. Then eleven-thirty.
---
At 11:45, I heard the soft click of my bedroom door.
I didn't notice at first—I was too focused on checking a momentum calculation—but then I felt the shift in air, that awareness you get when someone's watching you.
I pulled out one earbud and turned.
Mom stood in the doorway, barefoot, holding her black Louboutins in one hand. She was still in her evening gown from whatever business dinner she'd attended, her hair swept up in an elegant twist that was starting to come loose.
She looked...surprised.
"Summer?" Her voice was soft. "What are you doing up?"
I glanced at the clock on my laptop. Nearly midnight. "Oh. Um. Physics homework. Problem set due tomorrow."
She walked into the room slowly, like she was approaching something fragile. Her gaze swept over my desk—the textbooks, the highlighted notes, the problem set covered in my handwriting.
"You're studying," she said. Not a question. A confirmation of something she clearly hadn't expected.
I flushed. "Yeah. I mean, it's due tomorrow, so—"
"No, I know." She sat on the edge of my four-poster bed, smoothing her dress. "It's just...this is the first time I've seen you stay up this late for school."
The unspoken hung between us: Usually you're asleep by ten, or scrolling Instagram, or crying over Evan.
"I want to do well," I said quietly. "In physics. I need to."
She studied me, and I saw something complicated cross her face. Pride, maybe. Or confusion. Or both.
"I'm proud of you, you know that?" She stood and walked over, placing one hand gently on top of my head—the same gesture she used to do when I was little, before everything got complicated between us.
My throat tightened. In my first life, Mom never got to be proud of me for studying. Only for piano performances and charity events, things that looked good on paper but didn't mean anything real.
"Thanks, Mom," I whispered.
She must have heard something in my voice because her expression softened. She didn't ask, though. Just leaned down and kissed my forehead.
"Don't stay up too late. You need sleep."
She was almost to the door when she paused, glancing back with that knowing smile only mothers can pull off.
"Is this because of that scholarship boy?"
My face went nuclear. "What? No! I just—I just want to do well in physics."
She laughed—actually laughed—and shook her head. "Okay, sweetheart. Whatever you say."
The door clicked shut behind her.
I sat there, face burning, heart pounding. Then I looked back at my problem set and thought about tomorrow morning. About seeing Kieran in the physics lab. About not wanting to look completely incompetent in front of him.
I worked until one a.m.