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Less like the captain of a professional hockey team and more like the boy I remember falling asleep on our couch after late-night practices with Declan.

Except that boy never slept with his arm around me. And he definitely never kissed me the way Bishop did last night.

My face grows warm.

I look down.

I'm wearing his T-shirt.

A faded black Phoenixes shirt that hangs halfway down my thighs, the collar stretched enough to slip off one shoulder.

I vaguely remember him pulling it from a drawer sometime after midnight, when I'd complained about being cold.

He'd handed it to me without hesitation.

Like sharing his clothes with me was the most natural thing in the world.

I run my fingers over the soft cotton.

It smells like him.

Clean laundry, a little cedar, and something I can't quite identify but have always associated with Bishop.

His arm tightens around me. “Morning.”

His voice is rough with sleep.

I turn my head. He's watching me through half-open eyes.

“Morning,” I whisper.

His gaze drops to the shirt.

Then back to my face. “Looks better on you.”

I smile before I can stop myself.

“Pretty sure it's supposed to fit differently.”

“I'm not complaining.”

He shifts closer, brushing a loose strand of hair away from my cheek. For a second, neither of us speaks.

I can feel the warmth of his body through the thin cotton. His hand rests against my hip, his thumb moving absently beneath the hem of the shirt.

Suddenly, I'm very aware it's morning.

That there's sunlight. That we're both awake. Last night, everything happened beneath the cover of darkness, when it was easier to believe the world outside his bedroom didn't exist.

Now I can see every detail of his face.

And he can see mine.

Without makeup.

Without carefully styled hair.

Without the confidence I'd somehow found while wearing that black dress.