Page 49 of Midnight Between Us (The Timberbridge Brothers #4)

Chapter Forty-Four

Keir

Simone didn’t sign it as if she were bleeding out. She signed it like someone who’d survived it. And somehow, that fucking wrecks me even more.

I stay in the chair too long. Long enough for the stillness to start feeling personal.

The air’s gone stale, heavy with everything I don’t know how to face.

My neck protests from staring too long at the ceiling, like maybe it’ll crack open and spell out what the hell I’m supposed to do next.

But the fan just hums its useless rhythm.

No answers. No sign. Just quiet—thin, fraying, tugging loose everything I tried to bury.

The library door clicks open. For a second, my chest tightens in stupid hope.

That maybe it’s her. Perhaps we’re not done.

Perhaps I don’t have to keep reading letters that feel like walking barefoot through broken glass—each word soaked in the agony of letting go of Lyndon while the state churned her grief into bureaucracy.

But it’s not Simone.

It’s Atlas.

He steps in but doesn’t speak right away. He doesn’t sit, simply wanders to the bookshelf, and brushes a finger along the spines like he’s trying to find just the perfect book for this right moment, yet, knowing full well he’s not going to find it.

Then he turns and leans back against the shelves, arms crossed.

“So, I heard learned about him ,” he starts. “Lyndon.”

I nod because I can’t figure out what to say right now. I’m still processing everything.

“You okay?”

“No. I’m all fucked up.”

“Good.”

That makes me glance up. “That’s good?”

He smirks. “It means you’re not pretending. First step in not being a complete idiot—again.”

I huff out something between a breath and a broken laugh. “Bit late for that, don’t you think?” I should leave it there, but curiosity has teeth. “Who told you about him?”

“When I tried running a background check on Simone, it came up,” he says, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Like doing a deep dive into someone’s past is just another day’s task.

I should be mad. I should say something.

But I don’t have the energy to be anything but a man with too many problems and zero answers.

“It’s funny, you know,” he adds.

“What is?”

“The Deckers collect strays. I was one of them. I’ve known Lyn—have for a while.” He clears his throat. “No, I’m not calling him a stray. I was the stray. The point is that I never connected the dots. But now that I know . . .” He tilts his head. “He’s got Timberbridge written all over him.”

“You know him?”

Atlas nods. “He’s a good kid. Good family. Of all the people who could’ve adopted him, he landed somewhere great. Safe.”

I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until something inside me eases. Not relief exactly—just a brief pause in the constant ache. It’s not loud. It’s the quiet sort of pain that lives in your bones and lingers under everything, never asking for attention but never letting go, either.

“She was sixteen.” My voice scrapes out, cracked and dry, like I haven’t spoken in hours. “She gave birth alone. She held him. Counted his toes. Kissed his fingers. And I wasn’t there.”

Atlas doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rush to fill the space. Just watches me with that unnerving steadiness of his. Like he’s seen this version of heartbreak before. Like he knows it by name.

“She told Lyndon about me,” I say, softer now. “She didn’t have to. But she did.”

Atlas still doesn’t say a word, just listens.

“I left because I thought I was protecting her.” My throat burns. “But really . . . I was just fucking up everyone’s lives.”

Atlas exhales, long and even. “We all ran. In our own ways. Don’t make the mistake of thinking yours was special just because it hurt you more.”

I nod once, more to myself than to him. “I didn’t just run. I vanished. I broke her.”

“No,” he says, firm. “Life broke her. You just didn’t stay to help her pick the pieces because you were just as shattered as her.”

The words hit me in the gut like cold water over a burn. My gaze drops to the box of letters by the chair. I’ve barely made it halfway.

“She told me to finish them.”

“Then finish them.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

Atlas’s brow arches. “You’re a grown man. You’re in a fucking climate-controlled library, probably ten feet from a charcuterie board, and you’re afraid of reading paper?”

I almost laugh. It stirs something beneath my ribs—half pain, half incredulity. “What if this can be done differently?” I ask because maybe he can help me.

“Different, how?”

“What if I leave this house and Birchwood Springs so I can get help?” I touch my temple. “This isn’t what I want him to see if he ever meets me. This isn’t who I want to be while I try to get to know her and convince her to give me a chance.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies me like he’s measuring something beneath the surface.

“If you want to change everything, it shouldn’t be for her. Not even for him.” He narrows his gaze. “Do it for you, so when the time comes, you don’t have to pretend you became someone better. So you actually are someone you’re proud of.”

And that makes sense. I have to fix myself because I want to stop being that man who believes he’s some kind of monster who has to stay away from everyone to save them. It didn’t save Simone or anyone around me.

“I think you need to stop pretending that pain is the price of love. That it has to hurt to mean something,” Atlas says, and I hate that I don’t have the energy to argue. Mostly because he’s right. And I’ve run out of ways to convince myself otherwise.

“No more pretending,” I mutter, the words like splinters in my throat.

Atlas tilts his head. “You love her?”

“Yes.” I don’t even flinch. “After all these years, I still fucking do.”

He drags a hand down his face, like he’s not surprised but still annoyed at the confirmation. “Gil’s gonna lose his shit,” he says . “But if we play the family card, he’ll find you the perfect place.”

“I owe you.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t. You’ll pay it forward. Someone did the same for me once—back in college. I was a disaster, too. Maybe worse.”

My mouth lifts at that, barely. “Hard to imagine worse than this.”

“Oh, it gets worse. But the good news is, it’s never too late to fix your shit. You just have to want the fix more than you want the excuse.”

I sit with that, chewing on it like it’s got edges.

“Is she going to be okay if I leave?” I ask, trying not to sound desperate. But the truth is, I’m not ready to be the reason she loses her job.

Atlas shrugs like it’s obvious. “Yeah. Might actually do her some good. Give her a break from having to walk around your ugly mug.”

I snort, but it’s rough at the edges. “Asshole.”

“Truth-teller,” he counters. Then adds, “Go get ready. If he says yes, you might have to leave immediately. Come back when you’re not just another scar she has to carry.”

That one lands.

And I don’t know what’s worse—that he said it . . . or that he’s not wrong.