Page 64 of Midnight Between Us
It doesn’t mean I won’t come back.
And when I do?
I’m going to read every single one that she addressed to me.
ChapterTwenty-Three
Simone
Keir has been avoidingme just as much as I avoid him.It shouldn’t matter, but it’s strange.Did Atlas say something to him?I’m not sure, but this morning I woke up to my usual ritual, stretching, meditation, and journaling.It’s Sunday and I’m mentally preparing for my weekly call.It’s the same call I’ve had for years and yet today feels strange.
It’s probably because I skipped it for the past two months.Every Saturday, I send a text apologizing because I have an emergency, or there’s a patient, or it’s just complicated.Complicated doesn’t cover it, does it.
When I shuffle toward the kitchen, something stops me short.
There’s a tray on the island with food: scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, and a bowl of fresh fruit.He even sliced the kiwi—who does that?Everyone knows you scoop it with a spoon.
There’s a folded note resting beside the mug.
If I cook, can we have lunch together?
–KT
I stare at it.
Of course he signed it with his initials.The way he used to when he left notes on my locker so I would meet him by the lake or ...it was the way we sometimes communicated when the other was too busy or I was pissed at something he had done.
It was some kind of brooding epistolary romance and not whatever this is—cohabitation hell?Domestic purgatory?A test of my rapidly deteriorating patience?
My pulse skips the same way it always does when Keir Timberbridge decides to play unpredictable.It’s infuriating.That traitorous flutter under my ribs?That’s not admiration.It’s not even hormones.It’s just indigestion from how deeply annoying he is.We’re not teenagers anymore, leave me the fuck alone, I want to scream.
I don’t.
Fucking Keir Timberbridge isn’t supposed to try.
He’s supposed to brood in corners and be an insufferable patient who refuses to follow orders and ruins his recovery just to prove a point.I’ve built my expectations around that version of him.Not this one—the one who cooks breakfast like we’re in some alternate universe where the past didn’t happen and emotional landmines aren’t scattered around every square inch of this house.
Nope.This version is dangerous.
Which is why I’m planning my exit strategy—again.If Finn listens to reason, I’ll be out of here by midweek.Back to the clinic.Back to some sliver of normal, even if it means seeing Keir only at night.Not ideal, but manageable.Distance is the only thing keeping me sane.That and the fantasy of smothering him in his sleep.
Not that I would.Obviously.The boss might fire me and there’s the pesky legalities of going to jail.I doubt any lawyer would take my case.Could I even plead insanity?No one in their right mind would be here after what I lived through and act this normal.No one.
What’s worse is the other possibility—the one that creeps in during quiet hours when I’m exhausted, gullible, and letting my guard down: that I’ll crack, sit across from him at this kitchen island, and have an actual conversation.One of those soul-spilling, open-eyed, no-turning-back conversations.
No, thank you.
My brain is still spiraling when a knock jolts me—loud and way too decisive for this hour.
I freeze.Then sigh.
“If it’s a Timberbridge this early on a Sunday morning,” I mutter, crossing the room with the grace of someone already regretting her life choices, “I’m going to maim him, ask one of the agents to help me bury the body.”Ooh, there’s an idea.I’ll put a pin in it for the next time Keir pisses me off.
When I swing open the door, it’s not a Timberbridge.
It’s Delilah.
And for one beautiful second, I’m relieved.
