Page 242 of Playing With Fire

For a moment, he doesn't move. Then he groans and rolls out of bed.

I try not to stare and fail spectacularly. He pulls on a pair of gray sweatpants from the floor, then crosses the room.

When he opens the door, Darcy marches inside with all the indignation of a tiny landlord discovering an unauthorized tenant. He doesn't even acknowledge Bishop. Instead, he jumps onto the bed, walks directly across my legs, and plants himself in the space Bishop just vacated.

“Well, hello to you, too,” I tell him.

Darcy blinks.

Bishop stands at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips. “You've gotta be fucking kidding me.”

I scratch beneath Darcy's chin. “He missed me.”

“He missed having someone to inconvenience.”

Darcy begins to purr. Loudly.

Bishop shakes his head and climbs back into bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight. Darcy lifts his head, considers moving, and apparently decides against it. So Bishop settles beside us. One arm behind his head. The other stretched across the pillow near mine. For a few minutes, nobody says anything. Darcy purrs between us.

And Bishop reaches across the cat to take my hand. His fingers slide between mine. It's such a small thing.

But something about it makes my throat tighten. Because this isn't the part I've spent years imagining. Not the kissing. Not the way he looked at me last night.

This.

Waking up beside him.

His ridiculous cat-hating commentary. The sunlight spilling across his sheets. His hand finding mine even with a twenty-pound obstacle between us.

I could get used to this.

The realization is so immediate that I almost pull my hand away. Almost. Instead, I hold on a little tighter.

Eventually, Bishop announces that he's starving. Which apparently means I have to get out of bed. I'm not particularly enthusiastic about that development.

Especially when he disappears into his bathroom, and I catch sight of myself in the mirror above his dresser.

My hair looks like I've been electrocuted. There's a faint pink mark on my neck from his stubble.

And I'm wearing a shirt that belongs to the man I've been in love with for most of my adult life.

I stare at my reflection.

Last night happened.

It really happened.

I press my fingers against my lips. A smile spreads across my face before I can stop it. Then I hear Bishop moving around in the bathroom. And the smile fades slightly. Because there's still one question I haven't asked.

What happens now?

I don't know how to bring it up. Or whether I should. Maybe we're supposed to talk about it. Maybe we're supposed to act normal. Maybe Bishop has already figured out what this means, and I'm the only one standing here trying to decipher every little thing. Maybe it’s everything… or maybe it’s nothing.

My brain starts doing that overthinking thing it does.

The bathroom door opens, and Bishop stops when he sees me. “What?”

“Nothing.”