Bishop grunts and disappears inside, the door clicking shut a little harder than necessary.
I cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed in my pajamas, careful with my weight. The mattress dips, springs complaining softly beneath me.
“I bet he regrets volunteering to be our third,” I droll with a small sigh, rolling my neck from one side to the other.
Rafe chokes from behind me, and I glance over my shoulder with a raised brow.
He grins. “He fucking wishes.”
My brows sink toward one another before I finally get it. I reach over and snag my pillow, tossing it at him with a grunt. “Please. You know I didn’t mean it like that.”
He catches the pillow against his chest with a laugh. “And if you did?”
“For Bishop?” I shake my head with a low, incredulous laugh.
“Another Calloway then.”
My amusement fades into something else. I bite the inside of my cheek and stare at him for a beat. “And if I did?” I arch a brow in challenge.
He runs his tongue over the edge of his teeth, a low sound from the back of his throat slithering out. He lifts one shoulder and lets it drop slowly.
Both brows rise in surprise. “Just like that?”
He hums, a low vibration I feel more than hear, as he slides down until his head meets the pillow. His arms fold behind his neck, stretching the cotton of his shirt taut across his chest. The seams strain slightly at his shoulders.
“I know how to fight, baby.” The words hang between us, weighted with something I can't quite grasp.
The bathroom door clicks open. Bishop emerges in a cloud of steam, hair damp at the temples, gray sweatpants riding low enough to reveal the cut of muscle disappearing beneath the waistband. My mouth goes dry as he crosses the room, the black fabric of his shirt still settling against his frame.
I drag my gaze away, jaw clenched tight enough to ache.
Bishop drops into the recliner with a grunt, his elbows braced against his knees as he stares at the floor. For a moment, the only sounds are the waves from the noise machine and the scrape of his palm against his jaw. He looks so profoundly uncomfortable with the whole situation—like he might rather sleep in the car, or out in the sand with the scorpions, than share a room with me.
Rafe’s eyes flick to me, then to Bishop, then back again. I can feel it even when I’m not looking at him. It's like a current buzzing under the skin.
“Something to say, brother?” Bishop grunts.
Rafe grins, like he actually has a lot of things to say. “Enjoy the recliner,brother.”
I can’t help it—I laugh, the sound brittle as it bounces off the walls. Bishop’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. He just extends the footrest with his heel and leans back, arms crossed over his chest.
I let the silence settle. Let Rafe’s easy breathing and the drone of manufactured waves fill the empty space between us. My phone vibrates against the nightstand—Lola’s name lighting up the screen with a single text.
You alive?
I thumb out a quick reply and drop it face-down, feeling the eyes of both men on me even when I refuse to look up.
The sheets whisper against my calves as I slide between them. My elbow bends at a careful angle, lowering my weight inch by inch until the mattress accepts me. Two feet of space separate us—my territory, his territory—yet the heat from his body radiates across the divide, warming the air between us like a phantom touch.
My hip shifts a quarter-inch toward the center.
The bed frame betrays me with a groan that seems to echo off the walls.
My muscles lock mid-motion.
Across the mattress, Rafe's breathing stops for two, three, four heartbeats, his silhouette suddenly rigid against the darkness.
I shift my weight, the mattress dipping beneath me as I edge closer. “Is this okay?”
