Page 67 of Midnight Between Us (The Timberbridge Brothers #4)

Chapter Sixty-One

Simone

Morning clings to my skin—warm breath, tangled limbs, and the memory of everything that happened last night.

Sunlight creeps through the curtains in soft streaks, brushing golden rays across the sheets. The room smells like cedar, clean cotton, and him—something faint and warm I’ve come to crave.

Keir stirs beside me, his hand still resting low on my stomach like it wandered there in his sleep and forgot to leave. We’re both tangled in the sheets, our bodies bare, our limbs a quiet confession. His thigh is slotted between mine, our skin warm from hours spent wrapped around each other.

I don’t move. I don’t want to risk changing the rhythm of this.

His breath slows again. Sleepy, content, maybe even safe. And mine . . . well, mine joins it.

We didn’t sleep much last night. Every time I thought we were done, he touched me again—softly, like a question he already knew the answer to. My name left his lips like a prayer. His voice low and raw and reverent. I never knew peace could feel like this, like belonging, and safety, and . . . him.

The way he cupped my hip without even realizing it. The way his breath hitched when I ran my hands down his ribs like I was reminding myself of his shape. The way we kept coming back to each other like it was muscle memory, but more.

He shifts now, dragging in a deeper breath. His arm tightens around me, his nose brushing the side of my neck.

“You awake?” he mumbles, voice husky and warm, still rough from sleep.

“Barely,” I whisper.

“Mm.” His lips graze my shoulder. “Then go back to sleep. I’m not done holding you yet.”

I smile into the pillow. “You said that four hours ago.”

He hums. “Still true.”

“It’s time for me to go to work,” I remind him.

“Don’t you own the clinic or something?” he mumbles, barely making sense.

“They’re patients. I can’t just leave them like that.” He slides his fingers along my skin. There’s no rush in his touch. No heat demanding more. Just a closeness that wraps around me quietly, whispering: You’re safe. I’m not going anywhere.

“You feel different,” I murmur, shifting just enough to face him. Our legs stay tangled.

His eyes are soft when they meet mine. Clear, in a way, they weren’t a few months ago.

“So do you,” he says. “But just a reminder, it’s been twenty years, baby.”

My fingers trace the curve of his jaw. He catches my hand and presses a kiss to my knuckles. Then one to my palm. Then to my wrist, lingering like he doesn’t want to leave any part of me untouched.

“I like waking up next to you,” he says after a pause. “Even more than I thought I would.”

“I like being next to you.”

He smiles. Not the old grin, not the one that came with cocky comments and unfinished promises. This one is . . . so honest and not filled with fear.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, as if it’s not a question anymore. Like he knows I need to hear it.

“I know,” I whisper.

He brushes his fingers down my side—slow and quiet like he’s trying to memorize the shape of this moment. There’s a pause at my waist, the same way there always is. His fingers don’t grip or pull. They linger.

“You think Lyndon would be okay with this? Us getting back together?”

The question drifts between us—it feels loaded though. As if Keir’s been carrying it around, waiting for the right second to set it down.

I blink. Then nod.

“Last Sunday, he asked me if you’d made amends yet.” My voice feels smaller than I meant it to. “Said he’d like to see us happy.”

Keir exhales into my hair. I feel it against my scalp, warm and tentative. His chest moves behind me—tight, like something inside him unraveled just enough to breathe.

“That’s good, right?” he murmurs, but there’s a hesitation behind it.

“You’re scared he’ll feel left behind?” I ask, not because I’m guessing—but because I remember. I remember sitting with that fear as if it were stitched into my skin. That somehow, if I built something new, it would mean I’d let go of him.

For a long time, I tiptoed through my own life, afraid joy would mean betrayal. That smiling again would erase him.

But that isn’t how love works. Or grief.

“I used to feel that way,” I say quietly. “Like if I let myself live, I was choosing life without him. But Lyndon . . . he’s had a happy childhood and . . . he laughs and adores his parents and siblings. He steals cookies and blames the dog. He’s moved on, even when we couldn’t.”

I shrug.

“And if I ever find something good—if happiness finds me—I have to stop pushing it away like it’s a crime. It doesn’t erase him. It doesn’t mean I forgot. It just means I’m still here. And so is he. Just . . . in a different way.”

Keir says nothing, but I can feel the way his hand keeps moving against my skin, as if he’s reassuring himself that I’m still here, too. Then finally says, “I’ll take it.”

We fall quiet again. I rest my cheek against his chest and listen to the beat of him. He strokes my back with lazy fingers, drawing nothing in particular but making me feel like I belong to something.

This doesn’t fix everything. We’re still figuring out where we land in a world that once made it impossible for us to stay. But I don’t feel like I’m waiting for it all to disappear, waiting for this to be a dream ending in a nightmare where my heart is broken and midnights are a thing of the past.

Keir presses a kiss on my forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” I whisper. “Even when I didn’t want to.”

We lie there for a while, limbs tangled, our breathing synced.

The sun climbs a little higher. Outside, the world keeps spinning.

But in here, we’re perfect.

We are us, and hopefully this time is forever.