Chapter 6
Summer's POV
Physics class started exactly three minutes after Kieran sat down beside me, and I already knew I was in trouble.
Ms. Thompson's voice filled the classroom as she wrote "F=ma" on the whiteboard in sharp, precise strokes. "Newton's Second Law," she announced. "Force equals mass times acceleration. Simple enough, right?"
It wasn't simple. Nothing about this was simple.
I stared at my blank notebook, hyperaware of Kieran's presence beside me—the way he sat perfectly still, the faint scent of laundry detergent and something cold like winter air, the careful distance he maintained between us. My heart was still racing from grabbing his sleeve, from the way he'd looked at me with those storm-cloud eyes, searching for mockery or pity.
Around us, pens scratched against paper. Ms. Thompson began deriving formulas, her handwriting flowing across the board in elegant curves. I tried to focus, tried to write down what she was saying, but the symbols blurred together into meaningless shapes.
In my previous life, I'd been in the humanities track. Literature, art history, music theory—subjects where passion could compensate for precision. Physics had been a foreign language I'd never bothered to learn.
Now I was drowning in it.
I glanced sideways at Kieran. He wasn't taking notes. He was just watching Ms. Thompson, his expression unreadable, like he was cataloging information he already knew.
Of course he already knew. He was a genius. That's what everyone said—the physics prodigy from South Boston, recruited with scholarship money and competition bonuses.
I looked back at my notebook, at the pathetic scribbles I'd managed. My handwriting looked like a child's compared to the elegant equations surrounding us.
My pink mechanical pencil felt heavy in my hand. I needed a calculator. I'd forgotten mine—or rather, the original Summer had forgotten hers, and I was still adjusting to being seventeen again, to having different belongings in different places.
I took a breath, gathering courage. Then I leaned slightly toward Kieran, keeping my voice low. "Um, do you have a spare calculator?"
He didn't move. Didn't turn his head. His eyes remained fixed on the whiteboard, and for a moment I thought he hadn't heard me. Then his voice came, quiet and flat: "No."
One word. Polite but distant, like he was talking to a stranger he'd never see again.
Heat flooded my cheeks. I pulled back, my fingers tightening around my pencil. Of course he didn't have a spare calculator. Why would he? He probably only had one of everything, carefully budgeted and maintained.
I'd asked without thinking, the way rich girls always did—assuming resources were infinite, assuming everyone had extras to share.
Stupid. So stupid.
I focused determinedly on the board, trying to copy down formulas I didn't understand, but I could feel embarrassment burning in my ears, creeping down my neck. Beside me, Mia was scribbling furiously, her handwriting small and neat. She'd always been good at taking notes, at organizing information into digestible chunks.
I needed those notes. Desperately.
But first I needed to get through this class without making more of a fool of myself.
Ms. Thompson continued the lesson, moving into more complex problems. I tried to follow along, but I was hopelessly lost. The numbers swam across the page, refusing to make sense.
My pencil rolled off my desk.
I watched it fall, saw it bounce once and then roll under Kieran's chair. Perfect. Just perfect.
I hesitated, then leaned down to retrieve it. But Kieran was faster. He bent down in one fluid motion, his long fingers closing around the pink mechanical pencil. When he straightened, he was closer than before—close enough that I could see the dark circles under his eyes, the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his pupils dilated slightly in the classroom's fluorescent light.
He held out the pencil. Our fingers brushed as I took it—his skin warm despite the coldness I associated with him, rough with calluses I remembered from another life.
"Thanks," I breathed.
"Focus on class," he said quietly, his gray eyes meeting mine for just a second before sliding away.
It wasn't unkind. Just... distant. Like he was drawing a line between us, making it clear this wasn't the beginning of friendship.
I clutched my pencil, my heart doing something complicated in my chest. In my previous life, I'd never noticed him. Never seen him as anything more than background noise, a scholarship student who didn't matter.
Now I couldn't stop noticing him. The way he held himself so carefully, like he was always braced for impact. The way his damaged hand curled protectively against his textbook. The way he seemed to occupy his own separate reality, untouchable and alone.
I wanted to reach across that distance. Wanted to tell him he mattered, that I saw him, that I was sorry for everything I'd done and everything I'd failed to do.
But I didn't know how. Didn't know how to bridge ten years of indifference in a single physics class.
So I turned back to my notes, to my incomprehensible scribbles, and tried to focus on surviving the next forty minutes.
Ms. Thompson was writing another problem on the board when I tore a corner off my notebook paper. I grabbed my pink gel pen and scrawled quickly: Hey! Can I borrow your physics notes? Totally lost on momentum 😭
I folded it up and nudged Mia's arm, sliding the note onto her desk when she glanced over.
She unfolded it under her desk, read it, then wrote something back. The paper made its way to me, and I angled it away from Kieran's line of sight as I opened it.
Sure! Will organize them by Monday. But hey...you OK sitting with him? Heard he's got a record 😬
My chest tightened. I glanced at Kieran from the corner of my eye—he was bent over his worksheet, completely focused.
My hands moved before my brain caught up. I wrote back: He deserves better than being treated like trash. And yeah...he's actually really handsome up close ❤️
I passed it back, watching Mia's eyes widen as she read. She glanced at Kieran again, more carefully this time, studying his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead—then wrote something else and slid the note back.
Did you guys meet before? You seem...different about him
I stared at the question, my throat tight. How could I explain? That I'd been married to him? That he'd died saving my life? That I'd spent two years in a cold, loveless marriage without ever understanding him, and now I was getting a second chance I didn't deserve?
Never. Just...giving him a chance
I wrote it carefully, my handwriting neat and deliberate. Then I folded the note and slid it back to Mia.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kieran's hand pause mid-motion. His grip on his pencil tightened, and I realized with dawning horror that he could see the note from his angle. Not all of it, maybe—but enough.
Giving him a chance.
The words hung in the air between us, weighted with implications I hadn't intended. It sounded condescending. Like I was some benevolent princess granting favor to a peasant.
I wanted to snatch the note back, to explain, but Mia had already read it and was nodding approvingly. The moment had passed.
Kieran's expression didn't change. He just kept writing, his left hand moving across the page in those same careful, controlled strokes. But I saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
He'd seen it. And he'd drawn his own conclusions.
I pressed my palms flat against my desk, fighting the urge to explain myself. But what could I say? I'm not being condescending, I promise. I'm just trying to fix a future where you die because of me.
Kieran's POV
Giving him a chance.
The words echoed in my head as I stared at my textbook, my left hand gripping my pencil hard enough to leave marks in the wood.
I shouldn't have looked. Shouldn't have let my eyes drift to that folded piece of pink paper covered in hearts and girly handwriting. But I had, and now I couldn't un-see it.
Summer Hayes was giving me a chance.
How fucking generous of her.
I kept my expression blank, my breathing even, but inside I was cataloging every detail of the past twenty-four hours, trying to make sense of this girl who'd grabbed my sleeve and insisted I sit next to her.
Last night, she'd been stumbling drunk outside a South Boston diner, giggling with her rich friends while one of them knocked over my tip tray. I'd watched her step on my money—literally step on it with her expensive shoes—without even noticing I existed.
"Faster, Cross!" Tony had barked from behind the grill. "I don't got all night."
I'd knelt there on that filthy floor, peeling wet bills apart with my good hand, while they disappeared out the door in a cloud of expensive perfume and careless laughter.
She didn't remember. Of course she didn't.
But today, she'd grabbed my sleeve. Insisted I sit next to her. Blushed when I caught her staring.
Maybe she really didn't remember. Or maybe—
I pushed the thought away, but my grip on the pencil loosened slightly.
