Page 235 of Playing With Fire

“Are you sure?” I ask, gesturing to the nightstand one last time.

She nods.

I search her face, looking for even the slightest hint of uncertainty. Something that tells me she's saying this because she thinks it's what I want instead of what she wants.

“Becks, we don't have to⁠—”

“I know.”

She brings her hand to my cheek. “I'm sure, Bishop. I trust you.”

Fuck.

Those three words do something to me I wasn't prepared for.

I trust you.

Knowing how easily I could hurt her, how much it would destroy me if I did, makes those words feel like both a gift and a responsibility.

Something in my chest cracks wide open. I lower my forehead to hers, closing my eyes for a moment.

“Jesus, Becks.”

Her fingers slide into my hair.

“What?”

I shake my head.

There's no fucking way I can explain what she just did to me. Not without saying things I'm not ready to say. So, I kiss her forehead, then pull back enough to look into her eyes. “You have no idea what that means to me.”

Her expression softens. “Maybe I do.”

And when she reaches for me again, I know one thing for certain.

Whatever happens after tonight, I will never let her believe trusting me was a mistake. There's a moment when I realize I'm not going to be able to separate tonight from everything that comes after it.

Not because of what we're doing. Because of the way she's looking at me. Like she trusts me with something I haven't quite figured out how to deserve.

And every time she reaches for me, I feel another piece of the distance I've kept between us disappear. I spent years telling myself I was protecting her by keeping that distance.

Maybe I was. Maybe back then, it really was the right thing to do. But she's not eighteen anymore. And I'm not the twenty-three-year-old idiot who thought pretending not to notice her would make the problem go away.

She's a grown woman. A woman who came to Chicago to build a life for herself. Who argues with me about books, steals my hoodies, and somehow makes my apartment feel like home without even trying.

That realization carries more weight than I expected.

I turn back to her. “Are you sure you want this?”

She meets my eyes. “Yes.”

When I hear no trace of hesitation in her voice, I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. “Okay.”

“And you?”

I look at her. “What about me?”

“Are you sure?”