Chapter 5
Summer's POV
I watched Kieran walk back to the podium, my heart hammering against my ribs. Ms. Thompson tapped her desk with one manicured nail. "Oops, I forgot to let you introduce yourself. Would you mind coming back?"
Kieran stopped mid-step. His hand curled into a fist before he slowly turned around, the movement controlled and mechanical. He walked back with careful precision, his face completely blank, and I recognized that look now, ten years too late. It was the expression of someone who'd learned not to expect kindness.
"He looks so... cold," Mia whispered beside me.
I couldn't answer. I was staring at the line of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead. This was Kieran before MIT, before the billions, before he'd weaponized coldness into something terrifying. This was just a seventeen-year-old boy dragged to the front of a classroom full of rich kids who already hated him.
He reached the podium and stood there, his gray eyes scanning the room like he was cataloging threats. When he spoke, his voice was low and stripped of inflection. "Kieran Cross. From South Boston."
Six words. No smile, no charm, no acknowledgment of the whispers. Around me, I heard soft intakes of breath. "He's so tall," someone murmured. "Those eyes though..." But there was uncertainty too, nervous energy from encountering something beautiful and vaguely dangerous.
Mia's hand found mine under the desk. "He's really handsome, but kind of scary."
Scary. The word lodged behind my ribs because she was right, and because I knew better now. The danger wasn't violence—it was the way he'd learned to survive without needing anyone, the way he'd turned loneliness into armor.
"Thank you, Kieran," Ms. Thompson said. "You can take your seat now."
Before Kieran could move, Tyler Ashford's voice cut across the room. "South Boston? Figures."
The classroom went still. I turned to look at Tyler—sandy-haired, smirking, leaning back with easy confidence—and felt rage bloom in my chest.
"Look at those Converse," Tyler continued. "They're literally falling apart. Does he fish them out of a dumpster every morning? And that backpack... the zipper's about to give up. Guess scholarship kids can't afford JanSport."
I watched Kieran's face, searching for some reaction, but there was nothing. He just stood there, expression smooth as glass, like Tyler's words were happening to someone else. It was the worst thing I could have seen because it meant he'd heard this before.
Tyler leaned forward, lowering his voice to a stage whisper. "I heard he's got a record. Problem student. St. Jude's must be really desperate for diversity points this year."
The whispers spread like poison. "Wait, a record? Like... arrested?" "He does look kind of intense." Mia tensed beside me, but I was watching Kieran, watching his jaw tighten imperceptibly before smoothing out again, watching his damaged right hand curl into a fist and then deliberately relax.
He wasn't going to defend himself. He was just going to take it.
The unfairness crashed over me. This boy—this brilliant, damaged boy who would one day save my life and die with my name on his lips—was standing before people who saw him as nothing more than a diversity checkbox. And I had been one of them.
Ms. Thompson cleared her throat sharply. "That's enough. Everyone settle down." She turned to Kieran. "You can take your seat now. There are only two empty seats—one next to Miss Hayes by the window, and one in the back row next to the trash bins."
The room went quiet, expectant. Everyone was waiting to see what I'd do—whether the princess of St. Jude's would let the scholarship kid sit next to her.
I thought about the man at Walden Pond, the way he'd smiled even as he drowned, and I stood up so fast my chair scraped against the floor.
Every eye swiveled to me. Kieran stopped mid-step, his expression flickering with confusion. My voice came out shaky but clear. "Ms. Thompson, that seat in the back... it's filthy. There's a trash can right next to it, and the mop bucket always leaks. It's not a proper seat for anyone."
The silence felt weighted. I was aware of Tyler staring with disbelief, of Kieran's gray eyes fixed on my face with burning intensity.
"Well," Ms. Thompson said slowly, "if you're offering, Miss Hayes... You can sit next to Summer for now, Kieran."
Kieran's jaw tightened. For a long moment, he didn't move, just stood there looking at me like I was a puzzle he couldn't solve. Then, without a word, he turned and started walking toward the back of the room.
Panic flared in my chest. I squeezed out from behind my desk and reached out to grab his sleeve before I could think. My fingers closed around the fabric of his blazer, and he stopped immediately, going very still.
"Please," I said, my voice too urgent. "That seat... it's really bad. You can't sit there."
Kieran turned to look at me. Up close I could see the faint shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his right hand curled inward protectively. His storm-cloud eyes searched my face for mockery or pity.
"I'll be fine," he said quietly, trying to pull away.
I tightened my grip, my heart hammering. The autumn sunlight caught in his dark hair, turned his eyes almost silver. We were standing too close now, close enough that I could smell laundry detergent and something cold like winter air. "No, you won't. Please, just... sit with me."
His eyes dropped to where I was holding his sleeve, then back to my face. "Why do you care?"
How could I explain? I cared because I'd watched him die, because I'd spent two years married to him without seeing him, because I knew what it felt like to realize you'd loved someone only after they were gone. So I lied. "Because... because I don't want anyone to sit next to the trash. That's all."
It was transparent, unconvincing. But something in my face must have convinced him I wasn't mocking him. After a long moment, something shifted in his expression—not softening, but a kind of wary curiosity. He looked at me for another beat, his gray eyes searching mine, and then, so quietly I almost missed it, he said, "Okay."
The word hung in the air between us, fragile and uncertain. He glanced past me toward the empty desk by the window, then back at my face, and I saw the exact moment he made his decision. It wasn't trust, not yet—but it was something.
I let go of his sleeve, suddenly aware that my palm was sweaty and my fingers had left wrinkles in the fabric. He didn't look at me again, just walked toward the desk beside mine and sat down with careful precision, setting his worn backpack on the floor.
I slid into my own seat, my heart still racing, hyperaware of every whisper around us, the way Tyler was staring like I'd committed treason against our entire social class.
Mia leaned over, eyes wide. "Summer, what was that?"
I looked at Kieran, at the rigid line of his shoulders and the way he was deliberately not looking at me. "I don't know," I told Mia honestly. "I just... I couldn't let him sit back there."