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His breathing changes first. Then his body goes still beneath me, and his grip loosens bit by bit.

When his arm disappears completely from my waist, cool air replaces his heat. I hate that I notice; even more, I hate that I miss his warmth.

Bishop clears his throat. “Morning.” His voice is rough with sleep.

“Morning.” My reply comes out as a whisper, but I'm honestly impressed I can find any words at all.

“What time is it?” he asks.

“After seven, I’m pretty sure.” I shift, trying to reach the phone buried somewhere beneath the blanket, and Bishop sucks in a sharp breath.

“Christ, Laney.”

I freeze. Both hands circle my waist, his fingers gripping me gently. “Don’t—” His voice catches. “Just… maybe don’t move for a second.”

And I don’t. I barely breathe, looking everywhere but at him. Until my gentle wake-up alarm turns into a warning siren and somewhere under the blanket, my phone starts vibrating. “That’s probably my alarm.”

“Probably.” His voice is clipped now.

I reach carefully toward the sound, but the blanket is twisted around my legs, and my phone seems determined to burrow farther into the sectional. “I can’t reach it.”

“Delaney.” His voice is strained.

My hand stills. I turn back toward Bishop to see his eyes clenched shut, and he’s exhaling through his nose. “Stop. Just please fucking stop.”

I start to pull away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to⁠—”

“That’s not what I—” He cuts himself off. “Fuck.”

Before I can figure out what that means, Bishop lifts me. Actually lifts me.

“What are you⁠—”

“There,” he says.

My feet hit the rug beside the sectional, and I stare down at him. His hair is a mess. His shirt is wrinkled. But it’s the look of regret on his face that guts me.

“Right.” I turn away and snatch my phone from beneath the blanket.

7:18.

I have less than half an hour before I need to leave.

“I’m going to be late.”

“Then you should get moving.” His harsh tone feels like a slap. Heat burns across my face, but I refuse to let him see.

I should have known. What did I expect? That he would wake up, realize it was me, and not be disappointed? Or worse… angry.

I gather my book from the coffee table and nearly drop my phone in the process. Smooth, Delaney, real smooth.

“Laney.” He’s sitting forward now, forearms braced on his thighs, his head in his hands.

“I’m good.”

“I didn’t mean⁠—”

“I know.”