Page 32 of Midnight Between Us
I already hate this hallway.Hate what’s waiting at the other end of it.
Not because it’s long.
But because of what’s behind the door.
I open it.
He’s sitting almost upright—body still mummified in gauze and dressings, pain stitched into every inch of him.His face is pale.Lips cracked, hair a little too clean, like someone else had to make him human again.
There’s something about the way he looks at the window—like he’s hoping the glass will offer him answers.Like maybe out there is the version of himself he’s still trying to find.
I used to know that boy.The one who sat too close and listened too hard.The one who made forever sound like a promise instead of a warning.
But that was before.
Before his name became a wound, I couldn’t stitch.Before I cut every part of myself that remembered what it felt like to be his.
Don’t, I tell myself.Do not.
Do not notice the way his mouth tilts slightly when he listens.
Do not notice the way his body—still broken, still pieced together by my hands—leans forward when he thinks you’re about to say something important.
Do not look for nostalgia in someone who already told you none of it meant anything.
“I was told they’re prepping you for transport,” I say, voice clipped.Neutral.A professional doing her job.
He looks up.Blinks.His eyes land on me like I’m a memory just out of reach.
“Simone?”he asks.
My breath snags.Just for a second.Long enough to feel something twist beneath my ribs.
“Dr.Moreau,” I correct him.
“But your name is Simone,” he insists, as if it means something.Like it ever did.
“That’s not the point,” I say quickly.“I’m just here to?—”
“How do we know each other?”he interrupts.
“Listen, you’re in a very delicate state, and it’s probably best if you don’t talk,” I say—clinical, distant, detached.As if I hadn’t spent three days scraping him back from the edge.
“They’ll be here to transport you within the hour.Once you’re settled, you’ll go through cognitive assessments and PT evaluations.The team should start working with you tomorrow.”
I almost sound professional when I say it.Almost.Of course, I don’t look at him.I keep my eyes on the machines, the slow drip of saline into his vein, the mottled bruising climbing up his arm like vines I can’t untangle.Anything but his face.
He shifts under the blanket, his shoulders twitching as if he’s trying to sit up.When I glance, I see the tension pulling through his frame—jaw locked, muscles tight.He’s hurting.
Too much.
My body moves before my brain catches up—one hand gripping the bed rail, the other reaching for him.My fingers close around his wrist.
Just like that, it’s there: the connection.It’s familiar, immediate, wrong in all the ways that still feel right.
My fingers close around his wrist.Just like that, it’s there.The connection.It’s familiar, immediate, wrong in all the ways that still feels right.
His skin is warm beneath my palm.His breath stills, and so does mine.He looks down at where I’m touching him.It’s almost like he’s chasing a thread only he can see.
