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Bishop.

The people who have been part of nearly every important moment of my life.

And for the first time, I let myself imagine what it might be like if Bishop and I didn't have to pretend.

If he could sit beside me instead of across the table.

If I could reach for his hand without worrying about who might notice.

If this could be our Christmas.

Not just this year.

Every year.

“Laney?”

I blink.

Mom is holding out the potatoes. “You want some, sweetheart?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” I take the bowl.

Across the table, Bishop catches my eye—his mouth curves.

I look away before I start smiling again.

Dinner is loud and familiar.

Declan tells a story about a rookie on the Archers who accidentally walked into the wrong locker room after a game.

Dad argues with Bishop about whether the Phoenixes have a legitimate shot at making a deep playoff run.

Mom keeps reminding everyone to eat before the food gets cold.

At one point, Bishop reaches for the last dinner roll.

So does Declan.

They stare at each other.

“Captain's privilege,” Declan says.

“Wrong team.”

“Older brother privilege.”

“Not my brother.”

“Practically.”

Bishop pauses and grins. “Fair point.” He breaks the roll in half and tosses Declan a piece.

I watch them laugh.

And something uncomfortable settles in my stomach.

Because I know exactly what Bishop stands to lose if this goes badly.