Page 28 of Midnight Between Us (The Timberbridge Brothers #4)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Keir

Delilah Mora used to be tolerable. Maybe even likable.

But that was before she decided this house was open for visitation hours.

First it was that guy—Cassian, with all his fucking annoying questions. Are you sure you didn’t see them?

Of course I didn’t see them. If I had, maybe I would’ve beaten the shit out of them.

Somehow I have the feeling that they knew I wouldn’t come with them willingly, that I would fight them.

No, they were aware of my skills. There’s no doubt about it.

Did they figure out that I used to fight in the Bronx for money?

I did it before the street fights became semi-illegal.

It was good money. Paid my bills and my tuition.

I still fight but not as often. Not because I need the money, but because I .

. . that’s all the human contact I get sometimes.

Atlas’s voice comes back with the stupid therapist thing.

That’s the problem with too much time and not enough to do.

The silence doesn’t stay quiet for long. It fills with intrusive thoughts I’ve spent years trying to outrun—thoughts that slip through the cracks I didn’t realize were still open. The past doesn’t knock. It breaks in. Reminds me that no matter how far I ran, it always knew the shortcuts.

And now it’s whispering things I have no business believing.

That maybe, just maybe, I could fix it. Glue the broken pieces together and become someone else. Someone better. Someone who doesn’t seek pain like it’s penance. Someone who might—someday—let himself feel something without needing to bleed for it first.

But do I deserve any of that?

Maybe forgiveness. Maybe just from Simone.

Even if she never says it. Even if it’s only in the way she doesn’t look at me like I’m poison.

I don’t know what I want from her. Haven’t for a long time.

An apology? No. That’s mine to give.

A conversation? A glance? Anything that confirms I’m still visible?

Four days ago, she looked at me.

Now I’m just another presence she’s learned to ignore.

This morning, I made a plan.

Breakfast.

That’s it. That’s all I had.

There was this thought—barely formed, completely ridiculous—that maybe Simone and I would eat together. Not romantic. Not loaded. Just two people trying to be less fractured over eggs and toast. I should’ve known it wouldn’t work out when I didn’t find the toaster.

Then, she didn’t come down. So I left the tray on the island. Added a note. A line that felt stupid the second I wrote it.

If I cook, will you have lunch with me?

It wasn’t a plea.

Not exactly.

More like a truce folded in half and left next to a bowl of fruit.

I thought I’d hang around. Sit nearby while she ate. Not talk, not push—just . . . exist. In the same space. For five minutes. Well, that’s all I had because Delilah barged in and fucked with my plans.

Technically, she didn’t barge in, exactly—but she might as well have.

One minute, I was holding onto a sliver of hope. The next, Delilah’s dropping her cardigan on the bench like she’s the landlord and I’m overstaying my welcome.

So now I’m stuck here, trying not to listen, trying not to care.

Pretending I don’t see Simone moving around the kitchen like she’s running a peacekeeping mission. The mugs. The tea. The forced calm.

She’s going to keep Delilah here for hours, maybe until dinner or until I’m cleared to leave.

Probably long enough that I’ll forget how stupid it was to think lunch was a good idea.

Sims phone rings. She reaches for it in her pocket and stares at it with worry and hope, which is strange. She seems to be debating something and then she grabs her earbuds and says, “If you’ll excuse me, I have to take this.”

As she walks toward the hallway, I shift in my seat, trying to disappear into the chair.

If she sees me sitting here like a kicked dog, I’ll never recover my dignity.

So I push up and hobble toward the library, dragging my brace along the floor.

I don’t shut the door all the way. Just leave it cracked so the latch won’t give me away.

My knee’s pulsing—raw and bitter like it’s lecturing for making so many sudden movements.

“Hey, Lyndon.” Her voice lifts. Lightens in a way I haven’t heard since we were teenagers.

That sound punches through my chest.

“Yeah, work is . . . not ideal right now. I’m sorry I’ve been pushing our calls,” she says, and there’s something soft in her tone, something familiar that makes my jaw clench.

A pause.

I shouldn’t listen. Eavesdropping is a bad habit. I tell myself that once. Then again. The third time, I give up. Pride’s already shot to hell—what’s one more line crossed?

“I’ll tell you about it when I can. Right now, it’s complicated. How are you?”

Another pause.

I assume Lyndon is updating her. On what, I don’t know. Himself. His life. Their plans. Maybe the vacation they’re booking together. Maybe how much he misses her.

The ache in my chest goes from dull to sharp.

There’s that name again.

Lyndon.

Her voice, lighter than I’ve heard it in years, saying someone else’s name like it means home.

Saying his name almost the same way she used to say mine. But that’s not where we are. That’s not who I am to her anymore.

If I ever was.

I shift my focus, trying to steer away from thoughts that could drag me under.

The pain in my knee pulses, sharp and grounding.

I limp toward the far wall of the library and crouch down in front of the lowest shelf.

My hand closes around the edge of the book I’ve left untouched for years—its cover loose, pages swollen from time and guilt.

Behind it is the box.

I pull it out slowly, careful not to let it scrape too loud against the wood. I’m not sure whyI’m doing this. Maybe I hope that there’s a solution to my problems. Probably the only thing that might stop me from imagining all the ways I could rearrange this Lyndon guy’s face.

And maybe—just maybe—give me a clue as to how I can start making amends.

I lift the lid and untie the ribbon knowing that there’s no way back.