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She settles against me again, and I place a gentle kiss on her forehead. A few minutes later, her breathing begins to slow.

I reach for the edge of the blanket and pull it higher over her shoulder. Her fingers tighten around mine.

“Don't go,” she murmurs.

I look down. Her eyes are closed.

“Wasn't planning on it.”

“Good.”

She moves closer. And I stay exactly where I am.

Somewhere in this apartment, Darcy is probably plotting revenge for being kicked out of my bedroom. My phone is still face down on the dresser. Declan's message is still waiting. I'll have to deal with it.

Tomorrow, I'll have to figure out how to be the man Delaney deserves without losing the people who helped make me who I am.

But tonight, she's asleep against my chest. And for the first time in a long fucking time, I don't feel like I'm missing something.

I brush my lips against her hair. Then close my eyes.

I've spent five years convincing myself I could live without this. One time is all it takes to know I never want to again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

DELANEY

The first thing I notice is that I'm warm.

Not the suffocating kind of warm that comes from sleeping beneath too many blankets, but the comfortable kind. The kind that makes you want to burrow deeper and ignore whatever responsibilities are waiting on the other side of consciousness.

The second thing I notice is the weight across my waist.

A heavy arm. A very masculine arm. Attached to a very naked man.

Oh.

Oh.

I open my eyes.

For a few seconds, I stare at the unfamiliar ceiling, trying to reconcile the events of last night with the fact that I'm currently lying in Hayes Bishop's bed.

His actual bed.

The one I've spent nearly two months pretending I wasn't curious about.

And somehow, knowing exactly what happened here makes it considerably harder to breathe.

Chicago's morning light filters through the enormous windows overlooking the city. The blinds are half-closed, casting thin stripes of sunlight across the dark bedding.

Somewhere beyond the glass, traffic moves along the streets below.

Bishop is asleep beside me.

His blond hair is a mess, flattened on one side and sticking up on the other. A faint crease from the pillow marks his cheek, and his mouth is slightly open.

He looks younger like this.