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His gaze moves over my face. “You've got that look.”

“What look?”

“Like you're trying to solve a problem that’s not a problem, but you’re determined to make it one.”

I fold my arms. “That's oddly specific.”

“Been living with you long enough to recognize it.”

He crosses the room and stops in front of me. “Talk to me.”

I look up at him. For a moment, I consider asking if he regrets last night. If he's thought about Declan.

If he wants this to happen again.

I do.

Like every dang day.

How am I supposed to go back to sleeping in my own room tonight?

Instead, I ask the safest question I can think of.

“Are things going to be weird now?”

Bishop's mouth twitches. “Probably.”

I groan. “That's not helpful.”

“Becks, we've been weird for weeks.”

“Fair point.”

He rests his hands against my waist. “But if you're asking whether I regret last night…”

He waits until I meet his eyes.

“I don't.”

My breath catches. “Okay.”

“Not one fucking second.” Something in his expression makes it impossible to doubt him.

At least right now.

“Good,” I whisper.

He brushes his mouth against my forehead.

“Come on. Let's get some food in you.”

Twenty minutes later, I'm sitting at the kitchen island in Bishop's T-shirt, drinking coffee from my favorite mug while he stands at the stove.

I should probably change. Or brush my hair. Or do something that makes me look less like a woman who spent the night in her roommate's bed.

But Bishop hasn't said a word about it.

In fact, when I mentioned going upstairs for clothes, he told me to stay put because breakfast was almost ready.