He turns his head slightly, just enough that I can see the edge of his jaw in the dim light. “Are you?”
I nod, even though I’m not sure he can see it. “Yeah.”
His hand finds mine under the covers, fingers lacing through. Not a grab, not a claim, just—there. He doesn’t move closer, but I can feel the warmth of his palm, the pulse at his wrist.
My muscles unclench by degrees. The silence between us grows denser, not awkward but charged, like the thickness of air before a summer storm.
Bishop’s breathing is sharp, regular, like he’s already half asleep.
Except I know better.
I shift, rolling onto my side to face Rafe. He’s already watching me. The blue in his eyes is dark, almost black in the sparse light from the parking lot sign outside.
For a second it’s just our breathing, in and out, in and out, until the rhythm becomes hypnotic. I want to say something funny or clever, but nothing comes. I want to touch his face, but I don’t move.
Instead, I close my eyes and listen to the ocean on the noise machine, pretending it’s real, that we’re somewhere else, somewhere not here.
A hand brushes the hair off my cheek, feather-light. I open my eyes, and he’s closer than before.
“I didn’t hate pretending to be your fiancée today.” The whispered confession falls from my lips without thought. “It was more fun than I usually get to have on recon.”
His teeth flash in the dark, the smile quick and sharp and gone again as he tugs the edge of the sheet higher over our joined hands. “I liked your story about honeymooning in Maui.”
I stifle a laugh against my fist. “It was better than you telling the people next to us at the whiskey tasting about the time you tried to teach me to skateboard and how hopeless I am.”
“Truly terrible,” he whispers, and there’s something soft in his voice that makes my chest ache in a good way.
From the recliner, Bishop's voice cuts through the darkness. “Go to sleep.”
My teeth sink into my lower lip as pressure builds in my chest. I feel like I’m being chastised by a parent.
The mattress shifts beneath me as Rafe exhales—a long, deliberate sound that ends with his shoulders dropping half an inch. Then his eyelid drops in a wink that makes the corner of my mouth twitch.
“Okay,daddy,” I whisper, rolling my eyes as annoyance prickles along my scalp.
Rafe's chest rises, hitches, then falls again. A single tremor that passes through the mattress springs.
Bishop shifts his weight in the recliner. “Jesus Christ, Hale.”
I tilt my face toward the ceiling, letting my grin bloom wide before nestling closer to Rafe's shoulder. My hair brushes against the cotton of his shirt. Heat radiates from his skin—six inches of warmth that hovers just beyond my reach. He doesn't move closer. Doesn't reach for me. Just exists in the space beside me, steady as gravity.
Minutes stretch like taffy. The clock on the nightstand reads 2:17, then 2:23, then 2:38 without seeming to move at all.
Bishop's breath catches every third inhale, a tiny hitch that betrays his wakefulness. The white noise machine cycles through its ocean setting—wave, pause, wave, pause—but might as well be silent for all the good it's doing. Beside me, Rafe's chest rises and falls in a rhythm too perfect to be natural.
I slide my leg an inch to the left. His thigh retreats precisely the same distance. I curl my fingers into the sheet between us; his hand uncurls from the same spot. I exhale slowly through my nose, and he holds his breath until I'm done.
My pinky finger twitches toward the warmth of his hand, then stops. The mattress creaks beneath us, and my heart pounds so hard I wonder if he can feel it vibrating through the springs.
It’s an unconscious choreography, and I’m acutely aware of it. And how much I want to break it. Not because I’m reckless. Or because I need more.
Because there’s something magnetic in his stillness, in the way he takes up space beside me like he belongs there without needing to prove it. A quiet confidence that hums beneath my skin, tugging at me in slow, patient pulses.
Across the room, Bishop shifts again. The recliner gives a tortured groan.
I smile into the fractured darkness.
Bishop's jaw ticks again, a muscle jumping beneath stubbled skin. His eyes aren't on me but on the ceiling, tracking something invisible there. His fingers drum once, twice against the armrest before curling into a fist.
