Page 60 of Midnight Between Us (The Timberbridge Brothers #4)

Chapter Fifty-Five

Keir

It’s strange how in the past twenty-four hours my life has shrunk down to layovers and aliases. One plane after another, hopping across state lines and maybe even countries like I’m chasing a ghost. Technically, I am—just not someone else’s. Mine.

Finally, we touch down at an undisclosed location that Atlas swears is for my protection—and Lyndon’s. No one outside a tight circle knows I’m alive. According to law enforcement, I’m still missing. The New York Police Department isn’t looking for me, but the file is open.

The Syndicate is probably laughing because no one knows I was beaten to a pulp and left to die inside a trunk.

Oh, and then there’s how the man pulled from the wreckage on Route Seven who didn’t survive during the ride from the highway to Boston. That’s the official story.

Why? I have no idea. Something about leverage, plausible deniability, or whatever twisted logic makes criminal empires run. All I know is, staying invisible buys them time.

It gives CQS the space to continue investigating the company that attempted to acquire Old Birchwood Timber. It gives me the one thing I’ve been too scared to ask for until now.

This moment.

I’m about to meet Lyndon Decker, my son.

I’ve rehearsed this moment a thousand different ways—talking to the mirror like a lunatic, writing letters I never mailed, building whole scenes in my head where I say the perfect thing, and he forgives me instantly.

None of it helped.

My palms are damp. I’ve worn a hole in the carpet pacing.

The room is trying to be cozy—soft lighting, two couches that don’t match but try their best, and a side table with bottled water and tissues.

It looks like a therapist’s office, if someone were to give it a small budget and vague instructions, such as ‘comfort,’ but not too family-oriented.

Still, everything about it feels foreign. Like I’m playing guest star in someone else’s life.

Then, the door opens without fanfare.

And there he is.

Lyndon steps in like this is just another appointment.

Calm. Collected. Unreadable in that way, teenagers and spies manage to perfect.

He’s wearing a gray hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, jeans that have seen better days, and a look that says he’s already figured out five different ways this could go wrong.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hesitate. And somehow, that makes my lungs forget what to do.

“Hi,” I say because my brain short-circuits and apparently, that’s all I’ve got.

“Hey,” he replies, like we bumped into each other at a gas station.

“I’m Keir,” I add, even though he knows. Of course he knows. It’s the most redundant sentence I’ve ever spoken, and I immediately want to rewind and delete it from existence.

Lyndon’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like . . . restraint. “Yeah. I figured.”

I study him. He’s slightly taller than me, probably six-one.

Slighter in frame, but there’s strength in the way he holds himself—like he’s been through shit and didn’t let it break him.

His eyes are mine. But his jaw, his mouth—that’s Simone.

The shape of his expressions, the way he scans the room before meeting my gaze again—it’s all her.

“You look a lot like your?—”

“Simone,” he cuts in quickly, like the thought is a landmine he wants to control.

He starts to pace. Just a few steps back and forth, like he’s trying to shake something off. I don’t interrupt. The last thing I want to do is make him feel cornered. I already showed up too late. Pressuring him now would just be selfish.

“Listen,” he says after a beat, pausing to look straight at me. His voice doesn’t shake. It’s clear and measured in a way that stings. “I’m happy with my life. I’m not looking for a father. I already have one. So if that’s what this is, we can save each other a lot of time.”

The words hit like an open palm to the chest. Not unexpected. But still—fuck, they hurt.

I nod. Swallow. Try to keep my shit together.

“I’m not here to take anything from you,” I manage. “I’m just . . . here.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe, maybe.

And I get it. I really do. Because what did I think would happen? That he’d run to me? That he’d say he always wondered, and now, finally, he feels whole?

He’s already whole.

I’m the one who shattered and walked away.

I shake my head slowly, like maybe that’ll knock some clarity loose. “I’m not even sure why I’m here,” I admit, voice low, honest. “Learning about you a few months ago . . . it was cathartic. Not the world-falls-into-place kind. Just . . . something cracked open, and for once I didn’t bleed out.”

I try not to fidget, but the energy under my skin has other plans.

“Learning about you . . . and Sims,” I go on, “made me realize my entire life has been a fucking clusterfuck. And I’m done pretending like I’m not part of the problem.

So, I got help. Finally. I want to live differently now.

I want to be part of your life—if you’ll let me. In any way that makes sense for you.”

He narrows his eyes as if he’s trying to see past my face into the spaces I haven’t figured out how to rebuild yet.

“I’m new at this whole healthy-relationship-with-family thing,” I add, forcing a breath out of my lungs.

“It’s not an excuse. It’s just the truth.

I’m learning about boundaries, showing up without making it about me, and how not to emotionally unload on people like I’m dropping a bomb and handing them the instructions after it explodes. ”

“Fair,” he says, cool but not unkind. He watches me closely. I feel dissected and exposed, but not in a cruel way. It’s careful. Intentional. “You look like someone who’s been through something,” he adds. “Finn told me you were in a center.”

“I was.” I nod. “Still working through it. Rehab wasn’t just for my leg—it was for my mental health.”

He gives a short nod. Like that’s enough for now.

“I don’t really know why I said yes to this,” he admits, finally. “Curiosity, I guess—or maybe closure. But let me be clear—I’m not here to hand you redemption. That’s not my job.”

I flinch a little, but I respect it. More than that—I admire it.

“I’ve said this to Sim a few times,” he continues, his voice steady. “I love my life. And I’m grateful she gave it to me.”

Something in my chest shifts. A slow release, like pressure bleeding from a valve I didn’t know, was stuck. I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been holding that fear—that maybe he’d grown up feeling abandoned, unloved, like a mistake someone made and ran from.

“I’m not surprised she chose the perfect family for you,” I say with a small smile. “That’s Simone. She knows good hearts when she sees them.”

“I’ve had a good life,” he says, more firmly now. “Good parents. A good home. I’m not broken.”

“I never thought you were.”

He narrows his eyes slightly, suspicion flaring. “Then what’s your angle? Is this about her? About convincing Simone you’re suddenly not full of shit, so she’ll give you another chance?”

There’s heat under the question—protective, defensive heat. He’s guarding her. And even if it singes a little, it also makes me want to hug the version of him who still believes Simone deserves the world. Because she does.

“She deserves better than some asshole who took off the second things got hard,” he finishes, voice sharp enough to cut.

“She does,” I agree, without hesitation. “But I’m not here to ask for anything. I’m on a journey to heal, and yeah, it sounds like something you’d hear in a cheesy recovery brochure, but it’s the truth. I didn’t want to meet you as the man I used to be.”

He crosses his arms but doesn’t push back. “And who are you now?”

I pause. Think. Then say, “Someone trying not to be afraid of love. Of being known. Someone who doesn’t flinch at his own reflection. I’m not expecting anything from you. If this is the only time we ever see each other, I’ll be grateful just to have had this.”

He watches me. Really watches me.

“Tell me why you left her.” It’s not a question, but a demand. “If you want a chance at anything—me, her, whatever—you need to start there.”

My stomach tightens. The oxygen thins. I knew this was coming. But it still feels like stepping onto a stage naked, under a spotlight I didn’t ask for.

He wants the truth.

Not the polished version. Not the convenient one.

He wants blood.

So, I start at the beginning—my beginning. The version of my life that I no longer glamorize or excuse. I talk about my father. About how fear came standard in our house. How I learned to fight before I learned to breathe. How survival became instinct, and softness was weakness.

I tell him about the nights I protected my younger brothers, the day I first stood between Simone and the Montgomery kids, and how that moment redefined everything I understood about love and responsibility.

I explain how, over time, I became someone who confused control with care and silence with strength. And the end, because we can’t forget the night that changed everything and the reason I had to run. I ran because the next time, it would have been fatal for one of us.

So yes, I left not because I didn’t love her, but because I didn’t know how to love without destroying everything I touched.

This time, the words don’t come from anger. They’re not cracked with guilt or poisoned with excuses. They come from somewhere steadier—somewhere hard-earned.

When I finally stop, I don’t feel broken. I feel . . . intact.

Lyndon doesn’t say anything right away. He’s staring at me, expression unreadable. I brace for a blow.

Instead, he exhales. “You stopped the generational trauma,” he says quietly.

I blink. “What?”

“Generational trauma,” he repeats. “You stopped it before it became more.”

The words hit like nothing else has—not the letters, not therapy, not even Simone’s forgiveness. Just this. A nineteen-year-old boy seeing the boy I used to be.

“Actually . . .” He shrugs, while his eyes are still locked on mine. “Thank you. For what you did—for your brothers. For Sim. Even for me, when you didn’t know I existed. Leaving instead of staying and becoming the same monster who raised you? That took guts.”

I swallow, hard. His words—his grace—hit me in a way that therapy never did. This boy, this almost-man, doesn’t owe me anything. But he just gave me something I haven’t felt in years.

Permission to believe I didn’t completely fuck everything up.

“Thank you,” I whisper, and this time, I mean it like a vow.

It doesn’t fix everything, but it makes it easier to stand here without falling apart.

This is a good start, now to figure out how to live . . . while I have to hide from the world again.