Page 64 of Connor

I opened my mouth, but before I could say anything—

"Vic. Please stop."

Summer’s voice was small. Uneasy. She took a step forward, her fingers clutching the hem of the hoodie she still wore—my hoodie.

"You don’t understand," she murmured.

Vic laughed, the sound empty, furious. "Oh, I don’t? You’ve been sleeping with one of my best friends, lying to me for months, and I don’t understand?"

Summer swallowed. And just by looking at her expression, I knew. I fucking knew she hadn’t told him about the baby yet. And Vic—for all his rage, for all his fury—hadn’t put it together yet, either.

Shit.

The room was too fucking tense.

Summer stood there, clutching the hem of my hoodie like it was the only thing holding her together. And then, just like that—she broke. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over before she could stop them. A small, shaky inhale wracked her body, and she turned away, dragging a sleeve across her cheek like she could wipe away everything that was happening.

"Sit down," she said, her voice thick, raw.

Neither of us moved.

"Sit the fuck down!"

That did it.

I dropped onto the couch, my jaw still aching from Vic’s punch. He hesitated before lowering himself onto the armchair across from me, rubbing a hand over his face.

Summer sniffled, still refusing to look at either of us before she spun on her heel and stormed off toward the bathroom.

I rubbed at my mouth, feeling the sting of my busted lip. Across from me, Vic had his arms crossed, seething, his knee bouncing, like he was ready to jump up and start swinging again.

I wasn’t in the mood to humor him.

"You got another punch in you?" I muttered. "Or are you done acting like a raging asshole?"

Vic shot me a sharp look. "Oh, fuck you. I’ve got plenty more where that came from."

I huffed, shaking my head. "Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve taken a swing at me."

Vic scoffed, voice low, sharp. "Yeah, well, it’s the first time I meant it."

That shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did. Before I could say anything else, Summer returned. She held a first aid kit in her hands, her jaw set in a firm line, her expression carefully blank—except for her puffy, red-rimmed eyes.

Neither of us spoke as she sat down beside me, flipping open the box and pulling out antiseptic wipes. She was quiet, her touch gentle as she pressed the damp cloth to my lip.

I winced, but she was so stuck in her head that she didn’t even acknowledge it. Just kept going, focused, her lashes still damp.

Vic shifted in his seat, watching.

"I’m sorry," I muttered, voice low. It was partially my fault we were in this fucking mess to begin with.

Summer didn’t look at me. Didn’t say anything. Just dabbed at my lip with careful precision, ignoring me like I was just another problem she had to clean up.

She moved on to my ribs next, but I caught her wrist before she could lift my shirt. She froze, her eyes finally flicking up to meet mine, uncertainty flickering in those big, brown depths.

"I'm fine," I muttered.

She stared at me. A long, heavy moment stretched between us—before she ripped her wrist from my hold and turned to Vic instead. She crouched in front of him, opening the kit again and my stomach twisted at the sight of her cleaning up his knuckles—the same ones he used to split my fucking lip open.

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