Chapter 80
Kieran's POV
I woke at 5:30 AM to Logan's snoring and the gray pre-dawn light filtering through our cabin window. White Mountain fog pressed against the glass like something alive, thick enough to drown in. My right hand lay curled on the sleeping bag, and for a second I could still feel it—the phantom warmth of her skin against my palm, the give of her flesh under my tongue.
I stared at my scarred fingers in the dim light. The same hand that had held her wrist steady last night while I'd crossed every line I'd sworn not to cross.
Just didn't want to waste food, I'd told myself at first. She said I could. But sitting here in the cold morning, I couldn't hide behind that excuse anymore. It hadn't been about the fish oil. It had been about marking her, tasting her, claiming something I had no right to claim.
The memory of her shocked face when I'd asked permission made my stomach clench. But what came after—the way she'd nodded, the way she'd let me touch her, the soft gasp when my tongue had traced the line from her wrist to her palm—that kept playing on repeat until I wanted to put my fist through something.
She'd run. Of course she'd run. I'd scared her, crossed a boundary she hadn't known existed until I'd shattered it. The smart thing would be to apologize today, back off, let her forget it ever happened.
But a darker part of me—the part that had survived Southie by learning when to hold and when to let go—whispered something else: At least she wasn't indifferent. At least you made her feel something.
I pressed my palm against my face, felt the rough calluses and puckered scars. Would she avoid me today?
The thought made my chest tight. I'd rather she hate me than pity me, but I didn't want her to regret me. Not when every time she looked at me like I mattered, something in my chest cracked open and let light in.
I lay back down, staring at the cabin ceiling. Today we'd see each other at breakfast, at the activities, all day long. No physics lab to hide in, no excuse to avoid her.
And God help me, I wanted to see her. Wanted to know if she'd look at me differently, if her cheeks would flush the way they had by the stream, if she'd let me sit near her again or if last night had ruined everything.
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The dining hall at seven AM was chaos—students shuffling in with bedhead and puffy eyes, grabbing oatmeal and toast from the buffet line. I took my bowl to the corner table by the window, the spot with the best view of the door.
I told myself I wasn't looking for her. But when Summer walked in with Mia, my spoon stopped halfway to my mouth.
She wore a white St. Jude's hoodie, her honey-brown curls pulled into a loose ponytail that showed the curve of her neck. There were shadows under her eyes, like she hadn't slept well. Because of me? Because of what I'd done?
Our eyes met across the room. Her cheeks flushed pink immediately, and she looked away fast, leaning close to Mia to whisper something. My throat tightened. She was embarrassed. Or disgusted. Or—
I gripped the plastic spoon hard enough that my right hand twinged with pain. She was avoiding me. The realization sat in my chest like a stone.
Logan kicked my shin under the table. "Dude, you okay?"
I forced myself to take a breath, to look away from her. "Fine."
"You don't look fine. You look like you're about to murder someone."
I didn't answer. Across the room, Summer was getting food, her movements careful and deliberate, like she was trying not to draw attention to herself. But people were looking anyway—the way they always looked at her, cataloging and judging.
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Ms. Thompson stood in the center of the hall, clapping her hands for attention. "Good morning, everyone! Today's schedule: Maple Syrup Workshop from nine to noon, stream-side cookout for lunch, then hiking and homestead visits this afternoon. We'll have a photographer following along for the yearbook and recruitment materials, so please participate enthusiastically."
Groans rippled through the room. Thompson ignored them.
"I'd like to commend Summer Hayes for her perseverance during yesterday's fire-building challenge, and Kieran Cross for his help transporting supplies last night. You two set a great example of resilience and teamwork."
My ears burned. I kept my eyes on my oatmeal, but I could feel people staring. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Summer's shoulders tense, her face going even redder than before.
Mrs. Walker, the camp owner, stepped forward with a stack of clothes. "For the maple syrup activity, we have some vintage farm outfits for anyone interested in dressing the part for photos. Red flannel shirts, denim aprons, bandanas—it'll be fun!"
A few students perked up at that, probably thinking about how it would look on Instagram or whatever. I watched Summer go up to collect an outfit, her expression carefully neutral. Ms. Thompson dug through the pile and handed her a larger size with a gentle smile. "This L should work for you, sweetheart."
Summer clutched the clothes to her chest and left quickly, Mia trailing behind her. I caught a glimpse of her face—tight, anxious. Like she was bracing for something.
---
By nine-thirty, the morning fog had lifted. We gathered at the maple sugar shack, a rustic wooden structure with long tables, copper kettles bubbling over open fires, and the sweet smell of boiling sap thick in the air.
Then Summer appeared, and every thought in my head went silent.
She wore the red plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to her elbows, the denim apron tied loose around her waist—deliberately loose, I noticed, like she didn't want it cinched tight. A red-and-white polka dot bandana held back her curls, a few strands escaping to frame her flushed face.
She looked like something out of an old photograph, warm and real and impossibly pretty. My mouth went dry.
Three tables over, Tyler's voice cut through the morning chatter, loud enough to carry. "Hayes in that outfit is something else, man. I mean, you can actually see she's got curves under all those baggy clothes she usually wears."
Blake whistled low. "Brooke's got that cheerleader body, but Hayes is just... stacked. Wait till she bends over that kettle—bet it's gonna be real tight in all the right places."
Another guy laughed. "Think she knows we're talking about her?"
My right hand curled into a fist under the table, split knuckles sending sharp jolts up my arm. I barely felt it. All I felt was the cold rage spreading through my chest, the kind that made my vision narrow and my jaw lock.
Logan, standing beside me, muttered under his breath, "Jesus Christ, those assholes."
I didn't answer. Couldn't. Because if I opened my mouth, I'd say something I couldn't take back, or worse, I'd walk over there and put Tyler through the nearest wall.
Summer hadn't heard them—she was too far away, talking to Mrs. Walker with that focused expression she got when she was trying to learn something new. But I'd heard. And I couldn't unhear it.