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I tug the blanket a little higher.

Bishop notices.

Of course he does.

“You cold?”

“No.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Then what are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Becks.”

I sigh. “It's just different in the morning.”

He studies me for a moment. “Different how?”

I look toward the windows.

“I don't know. Last night was…”

I stop.

There are probably a hundred ways to finish that sentence.

Amazing.

Terrifying.

Everything I've wanted since I was eighteen.

None of them feels particularly safe to say aloud.

Bishop slides his hand beneath my chin, turning my face back toward his. “Hey.”

I meet his eyes.

“You okay?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“I'm sure.”

His thumb brushes my jaw. “Good.”

He leans in and kisses me.

Not the kind of kiss that leaves me breathless or makes me forget what I was saying.

Something slower. Softer. Like he has nowhere he needs to be.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.

“Because I'm pretty fucking happy you're here.”