Page 9 of Midnight Between Us (The Timberbridge Brothers #4)

Chapter Six

Keir

Something is off. The first thing I feel is wrong.

It’s not pain, not exactly. It’s something worse. Something deeper.

Like I’m trapped under something I can’t name—like my body isn’t mine, like I’ve been shoved into the backseat of my skin.

I try to move.

Nothing happens.

Panic doesn’t ease in—it detonates, tearing through me before I even understand what’s happening. It slices through the fog like a blade through silk, sudden and disorienting, and all at once, I realize something is terribly, viscerally wrong.

I try to speak. Try to ask where I am, to say anything that might tether me to this moment, but there’s something wedged deep in my throat.

It’s rigid and foreign—plastic, maybe—and the sensation of it sends my body lurching.

I gag reflexively, my chest convulsing with the effort to breathe, to scream, to fight my way out.

But nothing happens. No sound escapes. No breath fills my lungs.

Only silence. Cold and complete.

A silence that feels like being buried alive—awake, aware, and unable to claw my way out.

Where am I?

What is this?

What the hell is happening to me?

My eyes snap open, and light floods in—too bright, too sterile.

It stings. The ceiling above me is unfamiliar, a blank, colorless expanse.

Somewhere nearby, machines beep in a steady, mocking rhythm, the sound embedding itself beneath my skin.

Something hisses. Tubes run across and through my body, lines threading in and out like I’ve been stitched together for function, not survival.

Air moves through me, but it doesn’t belong to me. It comes from somewhere else.

I blink hard, struggling to bring the room into focus, to move even one limb.

Nothing responds. My hands stay still. My legs feel disconnected from the rest of me.

I can’t lift, twist, or turn. It’s as if I’ve been bolted to the bed, my body pinned beneath the weight of something invisible and unmoving.

For a moment, I think I’m back on the rock—the dream, the nothingness. That place where time folded in on itself and nothing made sense except pain and loss.

My pulse quickens. I clench my jaw and try again—any motion, any control—but the tube is still there, pressing against the inside of my throat, refusing to let me speak or breathe on my own.

Then something shifts beside me.

A sound. A presence. A voice.

“Finally.” A woman’s voice—low, thoughtful, threaded with something . . . not fear, exactly. Nope. It’s more like control. Maybe some sort of restraint that feels practiced, as if she’s holding back more than she’s revealing.

“You took your sweet little time,” she says, but the professionalism feels off. “I need you to calm down, okay? Don’t panic.”

Oops, too late. I already have. The panic is a current now, pulling me under. I’m probably going to drown.

My eyes move toward her slowly, the motion sluggish, like I’m wading through syrup.

At first, she’s a blur—scrubs, maybe, hair pulled back, a stethoscope looped around her neck.

Her features come into focus gradually, like an old photograph developing in real time.

There’s something familiar in the slope of her jaw, the tired set of her shoulders, and the way her gaze doesn’t waver even though I’m unraveling in front of her.

Her cheeks are pale, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion. A faint line sits permanently between her brows like it’s been etched there by years of long nights and harder mornings.

There’s something about her I can’t place, but it pulls at me. Like I’ve seen her before—not here, not like this—but somewhere quieter. Somewhere blurred—a version of her with softer edges, less armor, maybe even a smile.

Wherever I was before—wherever my mind drifted in the dark—there was someone who didn’t leave. Someone who stayed with me in the fog. I don’t know if it was her.

But I want it to be.

Now she speaks like none of that ever happened. Like she’s reading off a checklist.

“You’re safe,” she says again, her voice calm, and detached. “You’re intubated, which is why you can’t speak. You’ve been in a coma, but you’re back now.”

A coma?

I stare at her, trying to dig through the haze in my mind for something . . . something that makes sense. My eyes fix on hers, begging her to explain—Who are you? Why do I know your voice? Why can’t I remember your name, yet feel like I’ve known you all my life?

She holds my gaze for a long moment, and something flickers across her face—recognition, perhaps, or the effort it takes not to flinch. Not hesitation. Not concern. Just a quiet calculation, as if she’s deciding how much of herself to let me see.

Whatever it is, she keeps it locked behind her eyes.

And still, she says nothing.

She sees the question in my eyes—and chooses to look away.

She presses something on the ventilator—the hissing shifts. The pressure in my chest eases. I can breathe, but it still doesn’t feel like my own breath.

“You’re in a clinic,” she continues. “I suppose you were in a car accident. I’m your attending physician.”

Attending.

Physician.

Is that why she won’t look me in the eye?

What kind of accident?

Where was I? A car ran over me? Because that’s exactly how I feel. As if something smashed me and . . . fuck, everything hurts.

Though as I think about what happened to me the accident doesn’t sound true. I try to remember something. Anything.

A truck. A lake. Someone walking away . . . her.

Was she there?

Did she try to kill me?

Or am I simply confusing dreams with whatever this is?

A knock at the door breaks the air between us. She glances over her shoulder, then back at me.

“The nurse is here to assist with extubation,” she explains, stepping closer. Her voice lowers, like it’s meant for me alone. “We’ll take the tube out shortly, but first, I need you to answer a few questions.”

For a split second, something twists in her eyes—grief honed into anger—before she shuts it away.

“Can you hear me?” she asks, calm but not soft. “Blink once for yes.”

I blink.

“Do you know your name?”

Of course, I do. Could she ask me something harder? Something that makes sense, or better yet, give me an explanation of why I’m here? Not some easy task like what my name is. What’s the point of this?

Except . . . it isn’t easy. It isn’t anything. Suddenly, I’m not so sure who I am or what . . . do I have a name?

My pulse jumps. The dream, the truck, the drowning—they’re still under my skin. I can taste rust in my mouth. I can hear her voice in the fog, screaming for me to wake up. She said a name. I remember her calling me . . . why doesn’t she tell me? She knows, probably, she wants me to forget.

Stop. Focus on the question . . . don’t think about anything else, I tell myself. I try to find the answer in my own head. It should be simple—my name—but it slips away before I can catch it.

She watches me closely. Doesn’t push. Just nods, like she already knows what I can’t say.

“Do you remember what happened?”

Woman, I don’t even remember who I am, and you want me to walk you through some story I can’t even imagine?

I blink slowly, dragging my eyes to hers. That’s when I see it. She’s scared, too.

“I need you to focus,” she says, her voice firmer now, as if she’s afraid I’ll slip away again. “Blink once for yes, twice for no. Do you understand?”

I blink once.

“Good. Let’s try again. Do you remember your name?”

I search. Nothing comes. Not even a syllable. Just static. I give up and simply blink twice.

She mutters, “Shit,” under her breath. Not cold. Not detached. Just . . . almost even defeated.

“Do you know where you are?”

I look around. White walls. Machines. Didn’t she mention I’m in a clinic? So I blink once.

“Good, you remember Birchwood Springs.”

That name hits differently. More like wrong. Something inside me knots, pulling tight without warning. I blink twice, more slowly this time.

“Okay,” she says carefully, like she’s tiptoeing around something fragile. “Maybe this is temporary amnesia. We’ll start with the basics. I’m Dr. Moreau. You’re in Birchwood Springs. Do you understand?”

No. I don’t.

But now that she repeats the name of the town, something inside me tugs. It’s like hearing an old song I used to listen to often but never really liked. It scratches at my ribs, searching for a place to settle.

I try to move again. Anything. Arms, legs—nothing.

She sees it.

Her brow lifts slightly as she steps closer. For a moment, I think she’s going to touch me, to ground me somehow, but her hands remain frozen at her sides.

I focus every ounce of energy I have on moving toward her, on catching even the edge of her hand. My fingers twitch uselessly against the sheets. I’m trapped inside my own body, screaming without a voice, reaching without a way to reach.

“You’re not paralyzed,” she says quickly like she knows what I’m thinking. “The neurologist will test soon, but your spine wasn’t compromised. You’ve got a ventilator in, and you’re still coming off sedation. Your body hasn’t yet caught up. But it will.”

She pauses.

Then softer, almost too soft: “There’s a lot going on with you. You flatlined. I brought you back—twice. Your brain swelled. I had to operate, but you’re okay. You’ll be okay.”

My brain?

That explains the pressure. The fog. The missing pieces.

I don’t know what to do with all that information. Honestly, I want to close my eyes again. Slip back into nothing. Go back to the stairs. The hallway. The rock. Where nothing made sense, but at least I didn’t have to pretend it did.

But I can’t look away from her.

Because somehow, I know her.

Not her name. Not her role in my life, but the curve of her mouth, as if she’s holding back tears. The silence that envelops her words.

The ache in her voice when she speaks to me—like it still costs her something.

I want to ask—were you there? In the truck? On the rock? Were you the one who pulled me out?

But I can’t.

So I just stare at her.

And I hope she sees it—the questions clawing at me, the fear bleeding through everything I can’t say.

I hope she understands how fucking terrified I am, because I don’t even know who I am anymore.

Even if the details are foreign, the feeling isn’t.

Fear is something I know too well—and loathe even more.

I hate being vulnerable, hate being exposed, and hate the taste of weakness more than anything.

It curdles in my gut, raw and ugly, a reminder that no matter how broken I am right now, part of me still knows what it means to fight.

Can I even trust her with that?

Can I tell her how close I am to shattering?

What if I do—and she uses it against me?

People always do. They find the crack and wedge themselves in. But she’s not looking at me like that. Not yet.

I look her again and even though I don’t know exactly who she is, somehow—I trust her.

She takes a breath like she’s bracing for impact.

Then, the nurse enters, moving to my side. Gloves snap on, they work quickly.

Dr. Moreau leans in. Her voice is low, for me and only me.

“You’re doing great. We’re going to take the tube out now. It’ll be fast, but it might hurt. You might cough or gag—that’s normal. Just breathe.”

Like that’s easy.

The nurse starts detaching connections. Simone keeps her gaze on mine.

“You’re safe,” she says again, and this time . . . it almost sounds like she means it.

“On three, we pull. Ready? One—two?—”

The tube slides out in a single, smooth motion. Where the fuck is three. My body convulses. Pain lashes through my throat. I cough, gag, and choke on air. My lungs burn. My vision goes white at the edges.

She moves quickly, lifting my head and supporting it with one hand, the other adjusting something behind me. Her touch I so familiar.

“Breathe through your nose. You’ve got this. I’ve got you.”

Her voice cracks on the last word. I suck in a breath. It hurts.

But I breathe. This time, I think maybe I’m still alive.