“And you broke into my place?”
“Technically,” he says, wiggling the key. “I walked in. With a peace offering.”
He holds up a bottle of my favorite scotch.
“I’ll allow it.”
We migrate back to the couch like it’s muscle memory. The city throws silver across the windows. Bishop pours. Two lowball glasses appear. The whiskey hits warm on the first pass and tells kinder versions of our stories on the second.
Bishop leans back in his chair, ankle resting on his knee, his eyes drifting across the table.
He reaches for a stack of mail, flipping one envelope over.
“Huh.”
I don’t look up. “What?”
He smirks faintly, reading it.
“Nathan Alexander-Reign.” He glances at me. “Only your mom calls you that.”
Something tightens low in my chest.
“She still does,” I say flatly.
Bishop sets the envelope back down. Silence settles between us. He studies me for a beat longer than usual.
“You’re laughing,” he says finally, quieter now. “I forgot what that sounded like.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but there’s no bite in it.
It feels… strange. Not the laugh. The fact that it’s even possible.
“It’s been too long,” he says, softer now. Then that familiar spark returns—mischief gathering in his eyes like a storm. “So, we should go out tonight.”
“Outside?” The word tastes wrong in my mouth.
Bishop’s grin falters just a hair. “I need my brother,” he says. “Like I said…I miss you, man.”
He means it. That’s what makes my chest tighten. The idea of stepping into a room full of noise and strangers feels like trying to wear a life that no longer fits.
I grab my phone off the counter, thumb hovering over the last email in my inbox. I stare at the email from Taylor Pierce. A quiet pulse kicks behind my ribs. Not relief. Not peace.
Something sharper.
Something dangerous.
Hope.
Bishop watches my face change. He doesn’t make a joke this time.
“What is it?” he asks.
I swallow once, hard. “I might have something,” I say.
Bishop leans forward. “Like… something-something?”
“Footage,” I say.
