Chapter 98
Summer's POV
I'd been in the practice room for two and a half hours when I first noticed something was wrong. Mia had already gone home—some issue with her family. My fingers ached, the blisters on my palms stinging every time I pressed down on the keys. Outside the tall windows, the November sky hung low and gray over Boston, rain falling in steady sheets that had started mid-afternoon and showed no signs of letting up. The Arts Building felt emptier than usual for a Friday evening—most students had already left for the weekend, eager to escape campus before the weather turned worse.
I closed my eyes and let the final notes of Rachmaninoff's Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini fade into silence. The eighteenth variation had always been my favorite, the melody both achingly beautiful and technically demanding. Perfect for the Boston Youth Symphony audition. Perfect for proving I was more than just Victoria Hayes's daughter with a trust fund and decent connections. Perfect for proving I was someone worth—
I cut off that thought before it could finish.
The silence settled around me like a physical weight.
That's when I heard it: footsteps in the hallway outside, so quiet I almost missed them beneath the sound of my own breathing. Not the heavy, measured tread of security making their evening rounds. These were lighter, more hesitant. Someone trying not to be noticed.
My hands froze above the keyboard. I held my breath, listening.
The footsteps stopped right outside my door.
I waited for a knock that never came. Instead, after a long pause, the footsteps retreated quickly, almost running toward the stairwell. The door to the stairs creaked open and shut.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I pushed back from the piano and rushed to the doorway. The hallway stretched empty in both directions, the late afternoon light casting long shadows across the polished floor. The only movement came from the curtains near the stairwell window, stirred by a draft.
But lingering in the air was the faintest trace of something familiar—soap and mint, clean and sharp beneath the metallic scent of rain.
I knew. Somehow, I knew.
Kieran had been standing outside my practice room.
The realization made my chest tight. How long had he been there? Had he come to talk to me, then changed his mind? Or had he just been listening, the way he sometimes watched things from a distance, like he didn't believe he had the right to be part of them?
I stood in the empty hallway for a long moment, torn between wanting to chase after him and knowing that would probably make things worse. He'd left for a reason. Maybe he wasn't ready. Maybe I'd pushed too hard these past few weeks, trying to fix everything when he'd made it clear he wanted to handle things alone.
But God, I was so tired of him handling things alone.
I went back into the practice room and gathered my sheet music with shaking hands, shoving everything into my bag without bothering to organize it properly. My coat was still draped over the chair where I'd left it hours ago. I pulled it on, fingers fumbling with the buttons, and headed for the stairs.
The Arts Building lobby was dimly lit, the overhead lights on timers that hadn't kicked in yet. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see the rain falling harder now, drumming against the pavement in waves. The November cold had a bite to it that cut right through my coat.
And there, standing with his back to me near the windows, was Kieran.
He was soaked. His hoodie clung to his shoulders, water dripping from his hair onto the floor. He must have just come from the Administration Building, probably the physics classroom where he still went to study even though he'd been banned from competing.
My throat went dry. I took a step forward, then another.
"Kieran?"
His shoulders tensed. When he turned around, his face was carefully blank, gray eyes giving nothing away. But I could see the exhaustion in the tight line of his jaw, the shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there a month ago.
"You're still here?" His voice was flat, almost cold.
"I was practicing." I moved closer, my wet shoes squeaking on the polished floor. "Were you just upstairs? On the third floor?"
Something flickered across his expression before he could lock it down. "I was passing through."
"Passing through to where?" I kept my voice gentle, non-confrontational. "The third floor is just practice rooms and the dance studio."
"Does it matter?" He shifted his weight, and I noticed how stiff his movements were, like every muscle in his body was coiled tight. "I heard you playing. I didn't want to interrupt."
The admission felt like a victory and a wound at the same time. He'd come to hear me play. He'd stood outside in the rain, listening through the door, rather than just knock and come inside.
"How long were you out there?" I asked.
"Not long." His gaze slid away from mine. "It's raining. I should go."
"Kieran." I took another step forward, close enough now that I could see the water droplets caught in his eyelashes, the way his knuckles were white where he gripped his backpack strap. "Why didn't you knock?"
His jaw clenched. For a moment I thought he wouldn't answer, that he'd just turn and walk away like he'd been doing for weeks now, keeping me at arm's length with polite distance and careful words.
"Because," he said finally, his voice low and rough, "I shouldn't be here."
The words hit me harder than they should have. Not "I didn't want to bother you." Not "I was busy." But "I shouldn't be here." Like my practice room, my world, was somewhere he didn't belong.
"That's not true," I said, my voice coming out smaller than I intended. "You can always—"
"Can I?" He turned to face me fully now, and there was something raw in his expression that made my breath catch. "Summer, I'm not—this isn't—" He broke off, shaking his head. "You shouldn't waste your time worrying about me."
"It's not a waste." The words came out fierce, almost angry. "And I'm not worried. I just wanted to know if you were okay."
"I'm fine."
"Your hand." I reached toward him instinctively, then stopped myself. "You were standing in the rain. How long? Your hand doesn't register temperature properly, you could have—"
"I said I'm fine." But even as he said it, I saw him flex his fingers inside his pocket, a small wince crossing his face.
I closed the distance between us and grabbed his wrist through the fabric of his hoodie, feeling the cold even through the wet cotton.
"You're freezing."
"Summer—"
I pulled his hand out of his pocket before he could stop me. His fingers were stiff and pale. When I touched them, they were ice-cold.
My chest tightened. Not long ago, in that hospital room, I'd held this same hand for hours. I'd felt the warmth slowly return to his fingers as he slept, felt his grip tighten around mine like I was the only thing anchoring him.
Now it was like none of that had happened. Like all the warmth I'd tried to give him had drained away the moment he left that room.
"Jesus, Kieran." My vision blurred. "Why didn't you just come inside? I told you, you can always come find me. I meant it."
He pulled his hand back, shoving it into his pocket again. His expression had gone cold, defensive.
"Why would I? So I can listen to you practice piano while I stand in the hallway like some kind of stalker? Summer, I don't have time for this. I'm not here to be your charity project."
The words were meant to hurt, to push me away. I could see it in the way he wouldn't meet my eyes, the rigid set of his shoulders.
"Is that what you think this is?" I asked quietly. "Charity?"