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Bishop’s brows pull together. “What?”

“Your lip.”

“What about it?”

“It’s split.”

“Hadn’t noticed.”

“Liar.” I put my hands on either side of his face before I think better of it.

Bishop freezes.

So do I. But I don’t move away.

His jaw fits beneath my palm, coarse stubble grazing my skin. Prickly, rough… feels nice. Heat radiates from him, seeping into my fingertips, sending an unexpected ache through my chest.

I tilt his head back toward the light. “Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Lying again.”

My thumb brushes carefully beneath the cut.

Bishop inhales. Barely. But I feel it. His hands, resting on his thighs now, curl slowly into fists.

My pulse jumps.

I should move. I don’t.

His eyes are on my face. Mine drop to his mouth.

The cut is small. Nothing serious. I’ve seen Declan come home looking significantly worse.

That doesn’t explain why I’m still touching him or why Bishop hasn’t told me to stop.

My thumb moves once more, barely skimming the edge of his bottom lip.

His jaw tightens beneath my other hand.

“Becks.” My name sounds different in his voice. Lower. Rougher. He’s called me Becks before, but never like this. There’s no teasing edge, no playful Baby Becks meant to make me roll my eyes. Just Becks, spoken slowly, intimately, like he’s discovering how it feels on his tongue.

I look into his eyes. Blue, so freaking blue. And suddenly I’m not thinking about his injury at all.

Neither is he.

But Bishop clears his throat and looks away first—the spell breaks.

Mostly.

“You have a first-aid kit?” I ask.

His eyes come back to mine. “Bathroom.”

“Which one?”

“Mine.”