Midnight Between Us
Simone
Current Day .
. .
There’s always that one summer night when Birchwood Springs feels almost magical.
It’s during the Moon & Maple Festival.
By late afternoon, the kite races have already painted streaks of color across the sky, and kids with balloon swords and smeared face paint tear through the crowds like sugar-fueled comets.
Neon stars smudge against sticky cheeks, and their laughter clings to the thick, syrupy air like glitter someone forgot to sweep up.
It’s a night festival, of course.
And when the paper lanterns begin to illuminate the town, Birchwood Springs seems to have forgotten every bad thing that ever happened here.
Lanterns sway from porch beams and lampposts, stitched together by strings of golden light, and for a minute—just a breath—you could almost believe this place is nothing but fairytales and second chances.
Not that I’m out there soaking in the view.
Nope.
I’m stuck in the first aid tent, drowning in humidity and other people’s questionable life choices.
My scrubs are practically a wet towel at this point.
The industrial fans feel like a cruel joke, and if one more guy staggers in asking if I have anything for ‘just being too high,’ I’m faking a seizure and medevacking myself out of here.
This isn’t how I envisioned my life, but here I am—trying to figure out when I can jump out of this town—again.
There’s a small cut along my forearm I didn’t notice until just now—probably from the boy who stormed into the first-aid tent like he was on fire.
Spoiler: he wasn’t. Just took a dramatic tumble off the inflatable slide.
Left a trail of candy and tears behind him.
A band plays near the lake.
The music drifts through the fabric walls of the tent, both upbeat and vaguely nostalgic.
The fireworks haven’t started yet, but the air feels ready to split wide open.
I press a cold pack to a teenage girl’s ankle.
She winces. Her boyfriend stands nearby, watching me like I might spontaneously unravel in front of him.
I won’t.
I’ve already done that years ago, quietly, when no one was looking.
“Keep this on until the swelling goes down,” I say, softer than I mean to.
She nods, biting the inside of her cheek, trying not to cry.
He murmurs a thank you—but doesn’t quite meet my eyes.
He probably knows about me or thinks he does.
People around here always swear they know.
Maybe he heard something at the coffee shop.
That’s where everyone learned I was back—after almost a year of being here.
As long as you stay away in a remote cabin by the lake, no one will ever give two shits about who you are or even try to figure out why you’re here.
Here’s a tip for anyone who comes to Birchwood Springs: if you want to hear the latest gossip in town, drop by The Honey Drop for excellent pastries and all the information you can swallow.
By now, many believe that I used to sleep around like my mother—a total lie.
That my grandfather ran me out because I was just like her—I left of my own will.
That I came back smaller somehow, like a shrunken version of the girl I used to be, all because I’m a medical failure.
If I were a terrible doctor, I wouldn’t be here.
It’s because of my credentials that they shoved me in this forsaken town.
But I can’t say anything because it’s part of my contract.
I just smile and avoid everyone outside office hours.
They love a good cautionary tale in Birchwood Springs.
You are free to leave this town.
You can even change your name if you’re desperate enough.
But you can’t outrun a reputation that doesn’t belong to you.
Since things have settled, I peel off my gloves.
My palms are damp, but there’s nowhere to wash them, so I settle for a squirt of hand sanitizer.
I duck out of the tent and lean against the frame.
The lake glimmers with carnival lights, reflections dragging across the surface as if they’re trying to escape.
It’s beautiful, but only if you don’t look too hard.
“Hey,” Del, one of my only friends in town and the owner of The Honey Drop, says as she walks over with two paper cups.
“My savior,” I claim.
She hands me one of the cups.
I sip from it and breathe in the tea latte.
“Thought you weren’t coming tonight. Too busy to save my ass.”
She waves a hand as if saying I’m being just too fucking dramatic.
“I closed a few hours ago and just finished cleaning up,” she shrugs, brushing a curl from her face.
“The town board begged me to stay open past midnight, but I had zero fucks left for the day. Brought your tea latte. I owe you the pastries. We sold out.”
“Thank you.” I lift the cup and take another sip—hot, earthy, with just the right hint of sweetness.
My throat warms before I say, without thinking, “When I was away, this festival might’ve been the only thing I missed.”
Del gapes in mock horror.
“Thank you, bitch. I feel all fussy and warm on the inside.”
“You left before I did,” I repeat because maybe if she had stayed .
. . I don’t know what would’ve happened though.
“So what’s there to miss, right?”
It doesn’t come out bitter.
Just . . . tired. But it’s all true.
She wasn’t here anymore.
Del was two years older—one grade up—but we were close.
I worked my ass off trying to graduate early just to leave with her class.
My grandparents put their foot down.
Even when I had enough credits, sixteen was “too young” for college.
They didn’t care that I was ready to pack and forget all about this place.
I don’t share that with Del.
There is no point in rehashing what happened then.
I glance around searching for a safer topic.
Something neutral. Something that doesn’t feel like salt in an open wound.
I just can’t go there.
I don’t want to remember.
If Gale, Nysa, or Blythe were here, it’d be easier to have a conversation, especially if Blythe brought baby Everly.
Believe it or not, most conversations are less dangerous when explosive diapers are involved.
You just offer to change it and let the conversation shift naturally.
“Why did you leave before senior year?” Of course, Del doesn’t let go.
She leans into the silence, trying to ensure I’m ready to speak up because she’s done waiting.
“Mom told me you left only a week after I did.”
My grip tightens around the paper cup, knuckles pressing against the warmth.
No one’s ever asked me that out loud.
Not Nysa nor Atlas. They saw me leaving and accepted it.
In fact, they helped me pack my grandfather’s truck when I stole it just so I could get across the country.
Why can’t Del do the same?
I could lie. Say something flippant.
Play it off as if I had a better offer, as though I were chasing dreams and freedom instead of running half-wild and panicked with barely a plan.
“The same reason everyone left,” I say with a casual shrug that feels brittle in my bones.
“Even you bailed. I was just done. What I can’t understand is why you came back.”
Yes, I’m flipping the conversation and focusing on her because I hate to remember how it all happened, how it began, and how it ended.
The middle though . .
. the middle was agonizing.
The wait, the knowledge that I would lose everything all over again.
No one wants to remember any of that.
No one.
Since I want this to stay on her side of the court I add, “You’ve been to France. New York. Why come back to this backwards-ass town with its bake-sale politics and maple-flavored judgment?”
That’s the question that matters.
Why come back when you could’ve had everything?
I know why I’m here.
Because when I said, ‘Please, get me out of here,’ someone listened.
Someone offered me a hand and helped me, but I made a deal.
Favors don’t stay favors forever—they become debts.
And not long ago they called me during one of my shifts at the hospital, saying: We’re collecting.
You have to move to Birchwood Springs.
It’ll be two years. Maybe three.
That was the agreement.
Lend my skills. Keep my head down, watch the town.
Watch it very closely because things in here are not what they seem.
And after that? I’ll get my life back—if I survive this town.
“Mom needs me.” Delilah finally responds.
Her voice cracks at the edges like something fragile, already half-broken.
“I don’t know what’s happening to her. She keeps talking about the past—about my father. But not in a sweet, nostalgic way. It’s . . . weird.”
“Like she’s losing her mind weird?” I try not to sound alarmed.
Del shrugs but also nods.
I frown. “Why haven’t you brought her to the clinic? I could run some tests.”
I try to sound chill, very friendly and not frantic because—what the fuck?
This is more than just ‘coming check on my mom.’ It’s a medical issue that has to be addressed immediately.
“We’ve seen doctors in Boston. They ran every test, and everything came back clear. Clean bill of health, but Mom’s convinced he’s still around.” Her voice drops, raw with something that might be fear or guilt—or both.
“She’s mad at me. Said I should believe her when she tells me she’s seen him. He stood in the doorway, watching her sleep or spying on us outside The Honey Drop.”
Which sounds impossible when the man died when she was a baby, she doesn’t say out loud.
A chill needle down my spine, but I try to lighten it.
“Have you tried a psychic?”
She glares.
I hold up my hands. “Just offering alternatives. Some of them claim they can talk to the dead.”
“Cute joke, like how you try to detour the conversation,” she deadpans.
“But you still haven’t told me why you left. And don’t say it was a coincidence, because something tells me it has everything to do with Keir Timberbridge.”
There’s a burst of laughter from somewhere behind us, a kid’s shriek slicing through the summer air.
At first, it sounds playful—tag or hide-and-seek—but my body tenses anyway.
There’s always a moment, right before the fun turns into tears.
Right before everything tilts.
It takes me back.
I was eight the first time he defended me.
Keir Timberbridge. I hated how much I relied on him after that—hated that I kept looking over my shoulder for him like some sort of human security blanket.
The Montgomery boys had cornered me near the swings.
I didn’t understand their words at the time—just that they were smirking, mimicking things they’d overheard at home.
Things about my mom.
About how they wanted to play the way their dad did with her.
I had no idea they were friends or that adults played but I was scared.
Then Keir showed up.
No warning, no hesitation.
He threw a rock, then his fist, and told them to back off.
Said I was under Timberbridge protection.
He was only ten and Malerick was twelve, but people feared them.
The Timberbridge name had power—ugly power inherited from their violent father.
I didn’t believe it at the time because their mother was kind.
She went to church every Sunday and brought the five boys with her.
Back then, my grandparents said that those people were good people, so I believed them.
After that, I followed him everywhere.
Because I thought being close to Keir meant nothing bad could touch me.
I was wrong.
So wrong.
Being close to Keir Timberbridge destroyed me.
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but the sound around us suddenly shifts.
It’s subtle at first, like a low rumble buried beneath the music.
Then, the ground stutters under my feet—just enough to make my heart miss a beat.
The explosion hits before my brain catches up.
It’s not just noise—it’s a blast that rips through the air, knocks into my chest like a fist, and keeps going.
The tent trembles. Metal groans.
Something collapses behind me with a crash that makes my ears ring.
And then come the screams.
Not the kind that floats through a summer festival, all cotton candy and carnival rides.
These are guttural. Raw.
People calling out names, crying out for someone to answer.
I bolt toward the tent’s entrance, my heart hammering.
My breath is already shallow, as if I’ve sprinted a mile and haven’t even moved more than a few feet.
I spin toward The Honey Drop just in time to see it—smoke billowing up from behind the building, thick and rolling as if it has somewhere to be.
Heat blasts through the street like someone opened an oven door straight into my face.
My lungs seize as the smell hits: charred wood, burnt syrup, and something chemical that stings all the way up my nose.
Delilah is frozen right next to me.
We were just talking.
One minute ago, she was trying to figure out why I left town, and now .
. . Now, she’s staring at her coffee shop like the world’s playing a cruel joke.
“My coffee shop,” she whispers, voice too thin to hold itself up.
Then louder. “My coffee shop—oh my God.”
And then she’s running.
“Del,” I sprint after her, grabbing for her arm, but she jerks away.
She’s not even looking at me.
My shoes slap against the pavement, each step jarring.
It feels as though the sidewalk’s bouncing beneath me.
Like the ground itself doesn’t know how to stay still.
I round the corner—and everything changes.
This isn’t someone’s backyard firepit gone rogue.
This is destruction—hot and greedy.
The Honey Drop’s windows glow orange, and flames leap out, curling around the wood trim trying to consume it whole.
Someone’s yelling for water.
Another person shoves a fire extinguisher into a stranger’s hands and immediately pulls them back—too dangerous, too late.
Del’s in front of the building, screaming.
I can’t hear the words with all the noise around us, but her lips are moving fast, eyes wild.
She keeps trying to run forward, toward the entrance.
People are shouting.
Trying to hold her back.
And before I can grab her?—
“Stop her,” Cassian’s voice barrels through the chaos, cutting across the noise like a blade.
He’s already moving, shoving through the crowd, sweat streaking down his temples.
“Delilah Mora—no. You can’t go in there.”
He reaches her before she gets too close, wrapping his arms around her from behind, pulling her back against his chest.
Del fights him, breath uneven, hands trembling as she tries to push forward—but she doesn’t make it far.
Cassian holds her tighter, voice low and breaking.
“Del, please—let them do their job.”
Malerick arrives next, cutting through the crowd in full uniform, his hat askew and streaks of ash on his collar.
He slows when he sees her—sees the way she’s shaking in Cassian’s arms.
He reaches out, resting a hand on the back of her neck.
Just a touch. Not to stop her—just to remind her he’s there.
“You gotta let the fire crew work,” he says softly.
“We can’t lose you too.”
“My coffee shop,” Del says, and it sounds like grief ripped straight from her ribs.
She’s devastated, but there’s no theatrical sobbing—just that flat, hollow tone people use when their brains short-circuit and their body hasn’t caught up yet.
Cass still has his arms around her, one hand rubbing slow circles into her back like it’s the only thing he knows how to do right now.
Mal leans in close, murmuring something.
Del finally nods. Or maybe it’s just her body giving up, folding into Cass like her bones forgot how to hold her up.
Cassian draws her in, his big frame curling around her as if he can shield her from the reality behind them.
Mal kisses her temple before turning toward the first responders, his jaw tight, eyes scanning the wreckage.
And I just stand there.
Fucking useless.
Cassian sinks to the sidewalk, taking Del with him, still holding her like maybe if he’s strong enough, she won’t completely unravel.
I turn away, press the palm of my hand to my mouth.
My throat burns, not just from the smoke but from everything—this helplessness, this ache that won’t go away.
I don’t want to cry.
I don’t want to feel any of this.
But something inside me snaps.
I decide to help instead of watching, giving a hand to the paramedics.
By the time the flames are out, The Honey Drop is nothing but a scorched skeleton, steaming and blackened, barely recognizable.
Her sign is half-melted, the lettering warped like it was trying to hold on but couldn’t.
People stand around with their phones out, filming the aftermath as if it were a true-crime episode, not someone’s entire life turned to ash.
I want to scream at them, knock the phones out of their hands.
But I don’t. I’m too tired, too covered in smoke and heartbreak to pick a fight with strangers.
I’ve got burn cream smeared up my arms from helping a volunteer whose fingers blistered open trying to haul buckets of water before the firefighters arrived.
My clothes reek of singed cotton and sugar.
My throat tastes like grief.
“You okay, Doc?” someone asks behind me.
I don’t turn to look.
Just nod. A motion that feels disconnected, like a puppet on its last thread.
Then I hear Malerick’s voice crackle through the walkie clipped to someone’s shoulder.
“We’ve got something off Route Seven. Wreck. Might need medical—send Simone.”
My head lifts slowly.
I blink once. “Now?”
Footsteps scuff behind me.
Mal appears a second later, weaving through the haze, sweat, and noise.
His uniform’s streaked with soot, his brow furrowed, and there’s a tension in his jaw I don’t usually see—like something about this call already feels wrong.
He nods. “Yeah. Car looks like it got twisted into the trees—like it was dropped from the sky. It’s bad. Just one person inside. They’re trying to get him out, but they’ll need someone to stabilize him.”
“The driver?” I ask.
Mal shakes his head.
“There’s no driver. But they found someone locked in the trunk.”
I go still.
My stomach flips.
“In the trunk?” I repeat, my voice catching.
“Yeah.” Mal’s mouth tightens.
“Alive, but barely. They’re figuring out how to get him out because it’s an old car with twisted metal. Go in the ambulance.”
I glance back at where Del used to be huddled into Cassian’s chest, face buried, hands shaking like she doesn’t know how to stop.
However, the spot is empty now.
“Where is she?” I ask.
“I can’t just leave her.”
It feels wrong to leave.
Like I’m abandoning her.
“Don’t worry, Cass took her home. We got her,” Mal says, reading the hesitation all over my face.
“Go.”
I nod once and walk toward the ambulance, even though every step feels as if I’m walking through concrete.
My heart’s still back there, curled beside Del on the sidewalk, wishing this was all some horrible dream that we could wake up from.
But it’s not. And something tells me it’s only going to get worse.