Page 64 of Midnight Between Us (The Timberbridge Brothers #4)

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Simone

Some people measure their days in alarms, in to-do lists, in the soft tyranny of minutes ticking by.

Lately, I measure mine in kisses.

Keir kisses me first thing in the morning—sleep still clinging to my skin and his breath warm against my cheek.

He kisses me before I leave for the clinic as if to tether me to something, his soul, or brand my heart.

He kisses me when I return, when we cook, when we read in front of the fire pit, with only midnight stretched quietly between us.

It’s how I count the hours now—one kiss at a time.

Living with someone you’re allowed to kiss whenever you want is strange. Living with Keir is stranger still. Probably because we’re still roommates and we don’t even share benefits.

He’s quiet in a way that feels intentional but not forced, like silence is simply his second skin.

He brews coffee without a sound, stacks dishes like they might shatter from too much attention, and somehow always slips out of a room a heartbeat before I enter it.

Like he’s trying not to intrude. Like if he stays too long, I’ll remember how well I survived without him.

But he’s wrong.

The moment he stepped inside this house, the balance I’d so carefully pretended to have tilted. And I didn’t want to set it straight.

When we discussed how he tries to make himself small, he mentioned that it’s something he’s working in therapy. He never realized how much he’s trying not to disturb those he’s close to—like he’s trying to make sure they’ll love him enough because he’s what they need him to be.

This afternoon, the clinic closes early. It’s the Fall Hearth Festival in town—warm cider, hayrides, booths of carved wooden spoons and knitted scarves, and of course, there’s the first aid tent I’m shockingly not running for once.

Still, I can’t help myself. I bring work home—charts, updates, and bloodwork. I used to devour this stuff back in med school, driven by adrenaline and the thrill of getting it right. Now, I go through the motions, not out of habit but because facts stay where you leave them.

By mid-afternoon, I finally lift my gaze from the tablet.

I blink, stretch, roll my neck. The sun has dipped lower in the sky, painting golden streaks across the hardwood.

The back door is cracked, the breeze nudging it just enough to make it knock gently .

. . tap . . . tap . . . tap . . . against the frame.

Keir’s outside again.

I push up from the couch, stretch the stiffness from my spine, and wander toward the kitchen.

I grab the mug he left by the sink—still warm—and rinse it with a kind of practiced detachment.

But even that’s too intimate. I shouldn’t know the precise shade of coffee he drinks or how he never fills the cup to the top.

I shouldn’t care that he uses the chipped blue one with the faded Vermont decal like it’s his favorite.

I love that I know these things about him. How he drinks his coffee strong but not full, like he’s always bracing for the interruption. How he likes a light breakfast but a heavy lunch.

I step outside, barefoot. The wood slats of the back deck are sun-warmed, and the air smells like woodsmoke and early frost. Late October is rolling in fast, and the sky’s the bruised blue of early dusk.

And there he is.

Keir.

In a flannel shirt and dark jeans that hang just low. His hair is slightly longer, messy. The beard is still there, neatly trimmed. There’s an axe in his hand and a stack of firewood beside him, and he’s splitting logs like it’s the only thing keeping him from shattering again.

Every swing is clean. Controlled. A rhythm to it. Like maybe if he keeps moving, he won’t remember the things that haunt him. Or maybe he just wants to be prepared for the winter, and I’m just making shit up about his demons.

He doesn’t see me watching. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.

Either way, I stay quiet.

I lean against the frame of the open door, pretending this is casual—just a passing moment, not something that’ll brand itself into my memory when I’m alone later.

The late afternoon light cuts across his shoulders, highlighting the tension in his arms, the damp edge of his collar, the quiet intensity in the way he works.

I let myself look.

Let myself want.

It’s dangerous, how familiar this all feels.

How he feels. The line of his back under that faded flannel.

The rise and fall of his breath. The way his jeans sit low on his hips when he stretches, revealing a sliver of bare skin that has no business looking that good on a man swinging an axe like he’s trying to earn a spot in my personal hell.

And yeah, maybe I’ve imagined dragging my fingertips down that strip of exposed skin more than once over the past few weeks. Sue me. It’s been a while.

He moves like he doesn’t want to be noticed.

Like he’s trying to shrink his presence even when there’s no one else around.

But I notice everything. The pause before he exhales.

The way his hand lingers on the woodpile a second too long like he needs the grounding.

The quiet concentration in his brow makes something inside me ache with recognition.

He wipes the sweat from his forehead and sets the axe down, slow and deliberate. Stretches his arms overhead, with spine curving just enough to make me regret every life choice that led me to this moment without a glass of ice water or a functional moral compass.

I don’t mean to sigh.

But I do.

And that’s when he speaks. Doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t need to.

“Watching me split wood?” His voice is low, a little breathless from the exertion. It curls around my ribs like a hand. “I’m beginning to think that you have some kind of lumberjack kink.”

I snort. Loud. Unattractive. Which is probably for the best because otherwise, I’d walk across the yard and do something stupid. Like, kiss him again. Or beg him to take his shirt off and ruin me entirely.

“Oh, please,” I say, arms crossed, trying not to sound like I need a cold shower. “It’s not a kink. It’s an appreciation for fine craftsmanship.”

He finally glances over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s amused and trying to hide it.

And just like that, I’m undone.

Again.

I roll my eyes, stepping off the porch. “Maybe I just wanted to make sure you didn’t collapse mid-swing.”

“Then come closer next time. That way, I land in your arms.”

The smile that tugs at my mouth is entirely involuntary.

“I’m working,” I remind him.

“And I’m contributing.” He nudges the growing woodpile with his boot. “You’re the one watching.”

I stop a few feet away, arms folded, not because I’m cold, but because I don’t know what to do with my hands when I’m this aware of him.

“I wasn’t watching,” I lie, again.

“Sure.”

“It was observational supervision.”

“Oh, that sounds official.”

“It is, remember I’m a doctor.”

He lets out a low chuckle that sinks into me, unsettling everything I’ve tried to keep in place. Then he wipes his hands on his jeans and looks at me—really looks.

“You okay, Sim?”

I blink, caught off guard by the shift. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just keeps watching me like he’s waiting for the rest.

So I say the thing I hadn’t planned on. “It’s been weird, having you here. Not bad-weird. Just . . . different.”

His expression softens, but he doesn’t look away. “For me too.”

I glance at the woodpile, then back at him. “Sometimes I forget we’re not the same people.”

“We’re not,” he agrees. “But we’re not strangers anymore.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward—just full. Full of everything we haven’t said. Everything I’ve been too afraid to feel again, but I’m slowly allowing myself to dig out of the box I had buried into.

I shift my weight. “I don’t know how to do this.”

He steps closer, slow and certain, until there’s barely a breath between us. He stops just shy of touching—close enough to feel, not enough to have. “Do what?”

“This.” I gesture vaguely between us. “You. Me. The past and . . . whatever this is now.”

His voice is low when he answers. “Then don’t try to figure it all out at once. It’s just as simple as being here, with me.”

He says it as if it’s really that easy. Like it’s not the most terrifying thing anyone’s asked of me in years.

I swallow hard. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not. But I’d rather try and fuck it up than not try at all.”

Something in my chest pulls taut. I stare at him—at the man I thought I’d lost and the one standing in front of me now. Somehow, impossibly, they’re both him.

He watches me for another breath, then turns, walks over, and props the axe against the stump carefully. His shoulders rise and fall once—slow, like he’s steadying himself. When he comes back, there’s something different in his eyes.

Resolve.

He stops in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat from his body, smell the sweat on his skin, and the faint trace of whatever soap he used this morning.

“I want to kiss you.”

“Kiss me,” I dare him.

“I might not be able to stop myself this time,” he says, voice low, rough with want and warning.

My pulse stutters. I should be cautious. I should say something rational. But all I can do is look at him and say what I’ve been holding back for weeks.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

His jaw clenches just slightly. And then he moves.

His hands are on my waist before I can blink, gripping like he needs to make sure I’m real.

He lifts me effortlessly, my legs curling around his hips on instinct.

The breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding shudders out of me as he starts toward the house—his mouth brushing my temple, my cheek, the corner of my lips like he’s memorizing the shape of me all over again.

We don’t speak. There’s nothing left to explain.

We’ve been circling this for weeks.

Maybe longer.

And this time, neither of us is pulling away.