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“Brought you something.”

She turns. Her eyes drop to the mug in my hand. “Coffee?”

“Figured you could use it.”

She hesitates. Then reaches for it. “Thanks.”

I sit beside her—the swing shifts beneath my weight.

For a minute, neither of us says anything.

She takes a sip.

I watch the steam curl into the cold morning air.

“Hazelnut?” she asks.

“Obviously.”

The corner of her mouth lifts.

Small victory.

I take a breath. “Laney, about last night⁠—”

“Bishop.”

“Please. Just let me say this.”

She looks at me.

I set my coffee on the little table beside the swing.

“I was wrong.”

Two words. No excuse attached. I owe her at least that much.

Her fingers tighten around the mug.

“I shouldn't have told Declan nothing was going on. I shouldn't have made you feel like what we have is something I'm embarrassed about.”

She looks down. “That's how it felt.”

“I know.”

“No, I don't think you do.” She glances at me. “Because you get to be Bishop. Declan's best friend. The guy everyone loves having around. And I get to be the girl who's supposed to pretend none of this means anything.”

I let that sit because she's right. “I've been asking you to carry the part of this that's hardest for you,” I admit. “And then acting like I'm the one with everything to lose.”

She blinks.

I rub my hands together against the cold.

“Mrs. B and I talked.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, God.”

I smile a little. “Relax. She didn't threaten me with a frying pan.”