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A tired laugh slips out of him, and something about the sound, a little rougher than usual, softened by exhaustion, makes my stomach do another stupid flip.

So, I return the favor and flip him off instead.

He laughs.

“Night, Ken.” I bite the inside of my cheek.

“Sleep tight, Baby Becks.”

I cross the hall and step into my room, closing the door behind me, and then I lean against it. My heart is beating too fast.

Five years. I’ve had five years to get over Hayes Bishop. Five long years to stop being the girl in that photograph, staring at him when she was supposed to be looking at the camera.

Tomorrow I’ll start my job, then I’ll find an apartment and build my own life in Chicago.

And Bishop will go back to being exactly what he’s always been.

My brother’s best friend.

Nothing more.

BISHOP

The door clicks shut behind her. I stare at it, but for a second, all I can see is Laney standing in the middle of my bedroom, hair a mess, eyes half asleep, wearing an old North Pines T-shirt and not much else.

I drag a hand down my face. “Christ. I knew this was a bad idea.” This was a lot easier when I was in another state.

I’m fucking exhausted. The kind of tired that comes after a game, a flight, and too many hours spent around twenty other guys who somehow get louder the more exhausted they become. We showered at the arena after the game, so all I need is about eight uninterrupted hours of sleep before working out tomorrow.

I’ll be lucky to get six now. We have practice and game tape to review.

She’ll go to work. I’ll go to the rink. At some point she’ll find an apartment, pack up whatever she’s brought here, and this place will go back to exactly what it was two days ago.

I turn back toward the bed; at least she took the cat.

“Of course she brought him.” I shake my head. Should’ve known. Darcy has been Delaney’s shadow since she was a kid. If she was moving to Chicago, the furry little asshole was coming too.

Still would’ve been nice to get a warning. I toe off my shoes, cross to the dresser, and finish unbuttoning my shirt before emptying my pockets.

Wallet.

Keys.

My fingers close around cardboard.

I pull out the matchbook from the hotel bar in St. Louis: black cover, silver lettering. I don’t remember putting it in my pocket. Habit, probably.

My grandfather used to grab one everywhere we went when I was a kid. Diners, gas stations, and even bars when I was finally old enough. Half the glove box of his truck was filled with the damn things. After he died. I started picking them up too.

I asked him once why he kept them, and he just shrugged, ‘It’s the little things you’ve got to hold on to, Hayes.’

I turn it over once between my fingers before opening the top drawer of my dresser and dropping it in with the others.

My phone is next. For half a second, I consider texting Beckett.

You could’ve mentioned your sister was bringing the demon with her.

He’s probably asleep. Besides, what the hell am I going to say after that?