Page 120 of Midnight Between Us
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.”
