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“Barely.”

She presses the gauze lightly against my lip one last time. “There.”

Her hand doesn’t drop immediately. Neither of us moves.

Her thumb is close enough to my mouth that I could turn my head and⁠—

No. Abso-fucking-lutely not.

I reach for the ice pack. “Give me that.”

Laney blinks, then hands it over.

“Ten minutes.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And don’t put it directly on your skin.”

“Anything else, Nurse Beckett?”

“Yeah. Stop getting hit in the face.”

“I’ll mention it to Coach Donovan.”

She settles back into the couch. I put the ice against my mouth and stare at the television. For a while, neither of us says anything.

It should be awkward. It isn’t.

That’s almost worse.

Because sitting beside Delaney Beckett at one-thirty in the morning, in a half-undone suit, while she wears fuzzy socks and shorts that should be fucking illegal, feels strangely normal.

My eyes catch on the book she abandoned on the coffee table. “So.”

“Nope.” She shuts me down.

I haven’t even asked yet. I look at her to find her already glaring at me.

I grin around the ice pack. “You were waiting up past your bedtime reading about a sexy hockey player.”

“I was reading.”

“About a hockey player.”

“It’s a popular genre.”

“Brother’s best friend.”

Her eyes narrow further. “Go to bed, Bishop.”

“Can’t. Nurse says I need to ice my devastating injury for ten minutes.”

“I’m reconsidering.”

I laugh.

She reaches for her book.