Page 119 of Midnight Between Us
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.
ChapterFifty-Nine
Simone
Some people measuretheir 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.
