Page 63 of Midnight Between Us (The Timberbridge Brothers #4)

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Simone

Did I sleep?

Barely. Rest hovered just out of reach, like a promise never kept.

That kiss . . . that kiss. It shouldn’t have happened. Not yet. Not like that.

And yet, I initiated it. I couldn’t not do it. It’s been in the making since the night I found him inside that trunk, almost lifeless. I told myself I was saving him for Lyndon, for his brothers . . . but deep down, I knew it was also for the girl who loved him with all her heart.

My fingertips brush my lips, still swollen, still marked by him. Hours have passed, but the memory is stubborn. It lives in my skin, in the places where his breath met mine, in the hush before we gave in.

He kissed me like he remembered every version of us. As if he knew exactly what I’d taste like after all these years.

Like slow didn’t matter. Like slow could wait.

Afterward, we said we’d be careful. We said we’d take our time, and rebuild with intention. Will this be a slow burn . . . maybe, or maybe it’ll be about truth—and the truth is, I’ve never known how to stop myself from needing him. Not with my body. Not with my heart.

This morning, I try to keep myself busy. Try to pretend it was just a kiss. That it didn’t shift something tectonic inside me. That it wasn’t sacred in a way that made the air feel thinner than any other day.

But my thoughts unravel.

Am I making a mistake?

I ask it, not because I believe the answer is yes—but because I’m scared that it might be. That maybe trusting him again is like touching fire twice. However, walking away would be the real mistake.

Turning my back on something this intense—this rare—would leave the kind of regret that follows you for the rest of your life, curls into the silence beside you, and makes sure you never sleep easy again.

What we had wasn’t just first love. It was real and pure and . . . woven through quiet moments no one else saw, built to endure when everything else collapsed.

Love, when it’s real, feels like safety. Like breath. Like finally being allowed to be exactly who you are. It feels like belonging and home. With Keir, I never had to edit myself. I didn’t have to pretend or shrink or soften my edges. I just got to be.

And he stayed, until he couldn’t.

The steam in the kettle reminds me that I’m here, now. Outside, the October light is dim, almost unsure of itself. Steam clings to the kitchen window, blurring the world into something dreamlike. It feels suspended, like even the morning is holding its breath, waiting to see what I’ll do next.

I wish I knew.

I know the feeling.

I move through the motions—pouring water into the French press, grabbing two mugs out of habit before I stop myself. My fingers hover over the second cup. I hesitate. Then, place it down anyway.

Because he’s here.

Somewhere in this house—in the guest room, probably with a towel over his head or a thousand-yard stare in the mirror. Or maybe still asleep, curled on top of the blanket like he used to when he couldn’t bear to be held but couldn’t stand to be alone either.

Last night wasn’t planned. It wasn’t rational, careful, or even fair. And God help me, I let it happen. I just can’t get over that kiss. It’s still alive in me, buried somewhere between the little anger I have left and the ache that hasn’t stopped.

I pour the coffee. His goes in the mug that says “Get Shit Done” in big black letters. The one I bought for myself after I passed my boards. I leave it on the counter, steam rising.

Then I sit at the kitchen table and do something I haven’t done in years.

I wait.

Not for an apology. Not for a fix. Just for a sign that maybe—maybe—I didn’t make a mistake.

The sound of a door opening tells me he’s on his way. A beat later, his footsteps creak down the hall. He appears next to the island wearing a flannel and his usual storm-cloud expression, muted now by a faint smile. His hair’s damp, eyes tired, but there’s a faint smile on his lips.

“Morning,” he says, voice low.

I nod, wrapping my hands around my mug. “Coffee’s there.”

He glances at it like it’s something sacred. Like he doesn’t quite believe it’s for him.

“Thanks.” He takes a sip and winces. “Fuck, this is strong. You . . . it’s weird looking at you like an adult, drinking coffee and ready for work.”

I shrug. “Life happened while we were away from each other.”

He leans against the counter. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t speak. Just sips and watches me like I might vanish if he blinks too long. Last night flashes again, uninvited. The way his mouth broke against mine. The way we breathed each other in like we’d been drowning for years.

I take a slow breath and force my voice steady. “What are your plans for the day? I heard you can’t leave the premises.”

He nods. “Ledger is bringing me a laptop later today. We’re going to go through the financials of Old Birchwood Timber. Tomorrow . . .” he stops himself and smiles. “I won’t bore you, but I’m taking over Old Birchwood Timber. No one will know I’m in charge though.”

“Your job?”

He shrugs. “Atlas said they have a dummy taking care of the side business I had. I’ll quit later when I can be found.”

He sets the mug down gently like he’s afraid the sound might shatter something. “I meant what I said last night. I want to work on us if you allow it, but I understand if you don’t want me anymore.”

“I want . . .us to find each other again.” I hold onto the mug. “I still love that boy who protected me fiercely?—”

“That’s my love language,” he cuts in and smiles. “It was the only way I could remotely show you what you meant to me. That you were my everything.”

“It was a weird way.”

He winks at me. “I was literally raised by a wolf. Give me some credit.”

I huff a laugh because he was certainly not raised by a wolf, but . . . I understand what he means by it. “This time, you can’t get away with . . . ‘I kiss you because you get pissed off if I kiss anyone else.’” I try to mock his voice, but I fail miserably.

“You want the truth?” he asks, voice low enough to curl under my skin.

I narrow my gaze. “There’s a truth behind that?”

He nods. “It was more like I didn’t want any other boy to kiss you.”

“The man is jealous, huh?” I cross my arms, lifting my chin just enough to meet his stare. He steps in, closing the space between us until there’s barely air.

“Protective of what’s mine,” he murmurs.

I snort, even as my heart does a traitorous flip. “Pretty bold for a guy who ghosted me.”

He leans in, grin crooked and full of regret. “Yeah, well . . . turns out I’m great at running. Absolute shit at letting you go.”

I shake my head, smile tugging despite myself. “You can’t just declare ownership like it’s the 1800s.”

His mouth brushes mine—close enough to taste the dare in his breath. “Maybe not. But if kissing you is a crime, I’m ready to plead guilty.”

Then he kisses me.

And I let him because there’s only so long a girl can stand at the edge before falling freely.