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bucksangel · 4 years ago

Text

A Woman Like You

Pairing: Bishop Losa x f!Reader (no description of body type or race is mentioned)

Word Count: 5.6k

Summary: Four weeks after you and Angel break up, you're in an accident. With no one left to call, Bishop comes to your rescue. While fixing your bike, he also fixes your heart.

Warnings: nothing but a whole lot of fluff, reader gets injured in a motorcycle accident but nothing is graphically described, mentions of blood, Angel kind of being an ass but so is the reader so🤷‍♀️

Commissioned by @winchestershiresauce (i'm sorry it took so long i'm stupidly busy ily)❤️

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

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a/n: i'm strongly considering doing a part 2 with smut included so if you want that then just tell me and i'll do it!

tagging: @melaniecraig80 @est1887

Posting new fics over on @michaelirby

“Maybe we should break up then!”

While those words stung, it didn’t completely come as a surprise. Your relationship with Angel was hanging by its last thread, so when your boyfriend, now ex, came barreling towards where you stood on the clubhouse porch, you knew it wasn’t going to end well. And while the argument nor your breakup was unexpected, it didn’t hurt any less, especially since Angel had the Gaul to yell at you in front of his brothers.

Truthfully, you don’t really know what prompted this argument. At this point, it seems that you and Angel would find any reason to scream at each other. But deep in your heart, it still hurts. While you may not be in love with him anymore, you don’t care for him any less. But the anger running through your veins doesn’t consider that thought as you scream back at him.

“Fine!”

Everyone freezes, heads slowly turning to see the look of shock and hurt on each of your faces. Your heart is racing, the steady thud thud thud can be felt throughout your entire body. And with this anxiety quickly rising, you clear your throat and tilt your head slightly so you can stare at the ground for a solid minute while you contemplate your next words carefully.

“I’ll… stay at my place tonight,” Your voice is softer than you would have liked it to be, but you manage to look up and meet Angel’s eyes. The fire is still there, masking the hurt you know is about to consume his body. And you can’t stand it, because he’s still your friend. Before you got together he was your friend, and you’d hate to think that this is the end of any relationship you two could have.

“I’ll pick my things up tomorrow.”

Without another word you turn and escape into the clubhouse where, thankfully, the party is still in full swing. You’re able to dodge the drunks and weave your way through dancing bodies without being seen while on your way to retrieve your keys from the new prospect - Steve? Stan? You couldn’t really remember nor do you care to at this moment.

On shaky legs you manage to push your way to the front of the bar, hand lifting to catch the prospect’s attention. To no avail, though, he’s turned to help a slightly unruly group of patrons. After a minute of waving your hand, you huff, your hand falling down to rest on the bar you’re now leaning against. With a slow turn of your head, your eyes flicker across the room, passing over more unruly men and a few women crowded near the pool table.

A soft grunt is heard behind you, so your body moves to look at whoever could be invading your space. Upon seeing Bishop, standing tall and oozing confidence, leaning against the bar as well, you jump. A squeak escapes your lips at the small scare he gave you. It’s not that his presence intimidates you (quite the opposite actually, he’s really good at making you feel safe), you’d just assumed he’d be holed up with his brothers around the back table.

Looking over his shoulder, you can see the rest of the guys are, in fact, still around the table, presumably telling age old stories of heroics and stupidity. Bishop clears his throat, perhaps to get your attention back on him. So, you return your gaze to the man in front of you. His beard is long, his eyes tired, but his smile is genuine. In turn, you smile back at him. You hadn’t expected to cross paths tonight, but seeing him puts you in a better mood than you were five minutes ago.

“I heard a commotion happened outside, everything okay?” Bishop asks a furrow in his brow telling you he genuinely wants to know that you’re okay. That’s a perk of being friends with him, while he looks tough and mean, his words and actions speak volumes in terms of how much he cares for the people in his life.

Nodding your head, you sigh, body slumping against the bar counter. “Yeah, just - Angel.... We broke up,” You mutter, tightening your hold on your beer and bringing it up to your lips. You take quite a big gulp of the alcohol before returning your attention to Bishop. “I’m not surprised it happened, but… it doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

The pounding in your heart rattles your ribcage as you fight off tears. Crying in a clubhouse full of people isn’t on your to-do list for the day, so you lean back over the bar counter to search for your keys, finding them in a bowl on the back side of the bar.

“Let me drive you home.” His voice isn’t loud or commanding, but it’s still not phrased as a question. You snap your head to the side to look at Bishop again, ready to turn that idea down. Instead of speaking, Bishop pulls his keys out of his pocket and gently takes your arm so he can lead you out of the clubhouse.

“I’m fine Bish, I’m not even that drunk.” That’s a lie, both of you know it’s not true. But you’re still hesitant to get on a bike with Bishop, it feels like a betrayal to your own Harley. Nevertheless, he manages to pull you all the way to his truck, and - oh. You’re not going on his bike?

As if reading your mind, Bishop quickly adds, “I’ve had a few beers myself, taking the truck is safer.” And that seems to be the end of that conversation.

The alcohol flowing through your system manages to dull your anger enough to not fight back when Bishop helps you into the passenger seat and buckles you in. You want to argue that you’re not a baby, that you can take care of yourself thank you very much, but the several (four, maybe?) beers and the two shots you’d had tonight were hitting you in full force.

Once the door is closed, you turn in your seat to press your forehead to the glass and pull your legs up to your chest. You’re usually a happy type of drunk, but with the yelling and the heartache, all you want to do right now is sleep. And you must have done just that, because the next thing you know Bishop is maneuvering you out of the car to cradle you in his arms.

“Lemme down… I can.. walk.” You murmur, but you’re quickly slipping back into slumber as Bishop chuckles. The last thing you remember, Bishop is laying you down - on your bed? Couch? You can’t tell, but you don’t care right now.

“Goodnight, querida.”

And then, everything goes black.

_____________

Sunlight streams in through the open curtains, a warm glow fills the room. A groan, loud and hearty, echoes throughout the otherwise silent bedroom. Your head lifts from the pillow before quickly shoving itself under said pillow. The light is too bright, the birds chirping are too loud, and you want to throw up. This feeling is actually what gets you up from the bed, stumbling your way to the bathroom just in time to empty your stomach into the toilet. Your head pounds with every wretch and cough you emit, only after two minutes does the vomiting end. Eyes closed and mouth parted, you flush the toilet and brace yourself so you can stand on wobbly legs.

The cool water splashing against your face actually helps, the cold waking your mind and body by a fraction. Your gaze drifts from the sink to the mirror, causing you to visibly cringe at the state you’re in. Your hair is relatively kempt, but the bags under your eyes and the flushness of your skin would let anyone know that you’re not doing too great today. A ding from your phone sounds loud throughout the room, and the pounding of your head starts to increase again.

The cabinet to your left holds your medicines, so you shuffle through different cold meds and pain pills until you land on the tylenol. It’s all a blur, shoving two tylenol in your mouth, gulping it down with tap water, and then stumbling back to bed intending to sleep the day away. But another ding from your phone sounds again, and you finally find the strength to look at it.

Several texts from Ez and Coco flood your screen, but one text is from Bishop, and your heart starts to drop into your stomach. Images from last night flood your mind as you remember the argument, the breakup, and then Bishop driving you home since you were way too drunk to drive. You dread what you’re about to read and pray that you hadn’t said anything embarrassing to the man. So, summoning up the courage, you open your phone.

From: Bishop

Good morning, I hope your hangover is treating you well. I know you hate other people riding your bike, so I’ll have it towed to your place later. Let me know when you wake up so I know you’re okay.

To: Bishop

Hey, I’m okay. My head feels like it’s going to explode and I might throw up again, so I’m having a good time. Thanks for doing this, and for last night. I’m sorry if I said or did anything embarrassing.

You throw your phone on the pillow next to your head and sigh, and within minutes you’re back in the clutches of a restless slumber.

_____________

Four weeks pass by and you’ve managed to not go back to the clubhouse. Sure, you’ve hung out with Coco and Gilly and Ez a few times, you’ve even met with Bishop at a diner to catch up, but never at the clubhouse. Mainly, it’s because you know it’s Angel’s territory, his home away from home, and you don’t want to show up and ruin that for him after breaking up so soon (It’s also partially due to not wanting to see a new woman hang off of Angel’s arm if he’s already moved on).

You’ve managed to stay away from the clubhouse for four weeks, up until today. Clouds covered the sun, providing much needed shade and therefore letting the temperature drop by a few degrees. Today was a perfect day for riding around the streets of Santo Padre, up until it wasn’t.

You’re at a red light when it happens, a car racing down the road at a definitely illegal speed swerves as the driver tries to turn left. Luckily, there was only one other car on the road, the opposite side you were on, so they didn’t get hurt, but you did.

The car manages to swerve in such a way that the rear of the car smashes into your bike, sending you flying backwards and your bike skidding to the right. Due to the force of which you’re knocked back by, you land on your side, your shoulder taking most of the impact. It might be the adrenaline, but you don’t register the pain, nor do you register the blood all across your arm from where you’d skidded across the pavement.

In a haze, you hear sirens sound in the distance, people come to your aid in flocks, several bystanders are helping you to stand while other bystanders block the car that hit you from speeding away. It’s all a blur, everything moves too fast yet too slow at the same time. But soon enough the paramedics are escorting you to the back of an ambulance and police officers are surrounding the car.

Over the next five or so minutes, you’re asked a series of questions regarding your injuries and medical history, but one question stumps you.

Is there anyone you want to notify?

Is there? Your family lives hours away, you and Angel are no longer together, and you’re pretty sure most of the club is working at the scrapyard. Still, you know you won’t be able to get back home once they transport you to the hospital, so you decide to call the one person that you know could help you right now.

Bishop.

_____________

Within the next hour, you’re sitting on a hospital bed with your arm bandaged and in a sling. You’re doing alright for being hit by a car, most of that has to do with the helmet you were wearing. Minor scrapes and bruises litter your body, a nasty cut across your cheek had to be stitched up, but you’ve had worse.

Heavy footsteps make their way down the hall, a gruff voice asking (demanding) to be led to your room, and then suddenly the door is swung open to reveal a very concerned Bishop. His breathing is labored, chest rising and falling rapidly as he takes in your condition.

After determining that you’re not in serious peril, Bishop takes a few quick steps so he can stand in front of you. His eye twitches and his fist clenches, the scowl on his face let’s you know that he might actually kill the man that put you here.

Reaching your good hand out to him, you lay your hand on his bicep and squeeze softly. A soft smile forms on your face as you shake your head. “I’m okay, Bish. A little banged up, but nothing too bad.”

Bishop huffs, shakes his own head, and takes your hand off of his arm so he can hold it in his own. “No. It ain’t okay, you’re hurt.”

And something in the way he speaks makes your heart stutter ever so slightly, your face grows warm. But, you don’t want to dwell on that, you’re more concerned with calming Bishop down than you are with analyzing why now, of all times, you’re becoming nervous around your friend.

“I’m okay, Obispo. Yes, I’m injured, but that doesn’t mean that I'm incapacitated.” Your voice comes out harsher than you intended. However at this point, you’re tired of people (men, mainly) treating you like some porcelain doll that must be protected at all times. “I’m a big girl, okay. I can handle myself, you know.”

At this, Bishop sighs and drops your hand, but not before giving it a soft squeeze. “I know you are, that doesn’t mean I like seeing people I care about getting hurt.” His voice is also gruff, but you know it’s because he truly cares.

As you’re contemplating on whether or not to argue further with Bishop, a knock at your room’s door stops you both, you both turning your heads to look at the doctor making his way towards you with a clipboard and papers.

“We’ve prescribed you some pain medications and a steroid to help with the swelling in your shoulder. Now all you have to do is sign these documents and we can release you.”

The doctor is short and to the point, clearly tired from what must be a long and stressful shift at the ER, so you take the clipboard and (as best as you can) balance the clipboard on your knees so you can sign what needs to be signed. At one point Bishop tries to take the clipboard to help steady it, but you throw him a glare that makes him back off.

It takes a bit, but you’re soon discharged and walking (limping, more like it) out of the hospital and to Bishop’s awaiting truck.

“I had Chucky tow your bike to the shop. I’ll take a look at it tomorrow and see if we can save her.” Bishop talks with authority, like what he says is final, and that’s what really irks you.

“You didn’t need to do that, I could have had it brought to my house so I can fix my bike.” Frustration is flowing through your veins. You loathe asking others for help, so this otherwise small act of kindness feels too much for you.

That comment makes Bishop stop walking and turn around so he can face you. “Querida, I know how much you hate others touching your bike. Under any other circumstance I wouldn’t have taken it to the shop, but I cannot trust you to not hurt yourself further by working on this bike.” Bishop sighs heavily and stares into your eyes with determination. “Now get in the truck so I can take you home.”

Okay that is what really pisses you off, logically, deep down you know that he’s only doing this because he cares about you, he would never want to see you hurt. But the insinuation that you’d put yourself in any more jeopardy by overextending yourself (no matter how true it is) irritates you.

“I’m an adult, Bishop. I don’t need your charity,” Your voice raises, and Bishop looks around for any bystanders that might be listening in.

When he’s determined that no one else is within earshot of you both, he takes ahold of your good arm. “Please, we can talk about this tomorrow, I’ll even pick you up and take you to the scrapyard tomorrow so we can both look at it.” Now, his tone may ooze confidence and finality but you can tell he’s getting desperate, almost pleading for you to just get in the truck.

One very long minute passes before your eyes are rolling and you’re moving past Bishop to grab onto the truck’s door handle. You can see him shake his head, hear the sigh that leaves his lips, and while you’re frustrated with him (immensely so), you’re partially frustrated with yourself. Receiving kindness has always been hard for you, therefore you’re prone to lashing out at those who are kind to you. And you hate it, you hate feeling like you’re pushing people away, but you don’t know any other way to live.

Maybe it’s your lingering anger, maybe it’s the pain medicine kicking in, but you don’t speak the rest of the way to your house. At one point, Bishop looks over at you and tries making small talk, but he’s quickly shut down by your non responsiveness. It’s a tense silence you two sit through, you are too upset to speak and Bishop is too tired to argue anymore.

When you do finally get to your house, you’re the first person out of the truck, limping up your porch steps so you can unlock your door. It takes a few minutes, but soon the front door is unlocked and your bag is tossed onto the floor. As you turn to shut your door, you see Bishop leaning against his truck, clearly exasperated.

Again, the beating of your heart increases and, again, you push that feeling down. Deciding that you’ve been enough of a pain in the ass tonight, you lift your good arm and wave at Bishop. A small smile makes its way onto your face, hopefully softening the blow of yelling at him earlier.

This must have calmed Bishop, because he too smiles and waves before getting back in his truck. And as you’re watching him pull out of your driveway, you can’t help but be a tad bit happy you get to see him tomorrow.

_____________

“The motor is-“

“The motor is fine!”

“It’s not supposed to-“

“I know how my bike works, alright!”

Whoever thought letting Angel tell you what was wrong with your bike deserves a kick in the head. Each time Angel opens his mouth, you’re shutting him down, not letting him get a word in. It’s tough, because as much as you don’t hate Angel, you do hate other people telling you how to fix your bike without letting you look for yourself.

“Just listen-“

“Cut that shit out!” A loud, booming voice echoes in your direction. Turning, you see Bishop making his way over to you and Angel, his eyes locked on Angel’s the whole way.

Angel’s mouth opens again, ready to stand his ground, but Bishop’s eyebrow raises and he clears his throat and that shuts Angel up. He backs down, grumbling about how you’re too difficult and frustrating to work with.

A large, calloused hand lands on your bicep and squeezes softly, effectively moving your focus from yelling at Angel. Warm eyes meet yours as you shift your head, there’s something unreadable about the look in Bishop’s eyes. It’s something you’ve seen a million times, but you’re just now noticing how soft it is. How his eyes shine just a little brighter. It’s… strange, and his stoic face doesn’t help things either, making it hard to decipher the situation.

These warm eyes, the same eyes that you’ve looked into hundreds of times, send a chill down your spine. It makes you feel guilty, immensely so, because Bishop is your friend. Your friend who helped you through the last few months of your relationship with Angel. Your friend who gave you advice and company when things were tense in your relationship. Your friend whose eyes are, very suddenly, pulling you in deep.

“C’mon querida, let’s look for ourselves.”

This snaps you out of your thoughts, your eyes snapping up to meet his. A little lost in your head, you nod slowly and turn abruptly, making your way into the garage to, hopefully, leave those confusing thoughts behind.

_____________

Sweat runs down your neck, sunglasses shield your eyes from the sun hanging high in the sky. It must be 100 degrees at least, and yet your tank top and shorts still heat your skin further. The only reprieve you get from the heat is when you occasionally tread inside for water, however your AC doesn’t seem to be wanting to work today either. A fan in your garage is on high speed, circulating as much cool air as possible, it’s still not very effective.

Not only are you frustrated with the heat, you’re growing more and more frustrated with not being able to do basic things without help. So, being you, you don’t ask for help, you work around getting the things you need. You’re able to move your arm more, at-home physical therapy has been working wonders, but you’re still not able to do what you want to do, what you need to do. Which happens to be fixing your bike.

There’s not much time during the week to work on it, which is why Bishop has come to your house for the past three Sundays to help with it. Which is to say, you help him. With your arm still bandaged up you’re unable to maneuver to the exact position working on your bike requires you to be in. But, speaking of the devil, when you exit the house with yet more bottles of water, you’re granted the sight of Bishop in his white tank-top and jeans, squatting down and staring intensely at the loosely hanging chains on the broken bike.

Suddenly, like you’ve been hit by a bullet, you’re hit with a variety of emotions. Some of them you cannot name, some of them you can. The one emotion that sticks out from all of them is… infatuation? That can’t be right, you think. You’re just friends, plus, you broke up with Angel only six weeks ago, stop it.

None of these thoughts help, though. Standing in a trance-like state, each hand gripping a bottle, your breathing picks up. Why are you feeling these things now? What changed? Could it have been that he was there for you when virtually no one else was? Maybe it’s the way he makes you feel safe, like no one could hurt you. Maybe it’s because you know he wants to keep you safe, yet he chooses to let you do your thing, content in the knowledge that you’d let him know if anything happened. This realization, the fact that you’ve never had that kind of understanding with any previous relationship, almost knocks you off balance.

Six weeks, you have to remind yourself. You’ve been single for six weeks, don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s not until Bishop stands to full height do you realize that you’ve been staring at him for god-knows how long. The corner of his mouth quirks up, like he knows what you’re thinking. And instead of dwelling on how refreshing that feels to have someone understand you like Bishop has been able to for the entirety of your seven year friendship, you pick your head up and smile back at him.

“I hope you’re not breaking her anymore than she already is,” You joke, a slight waver in your voice. Rough, scorching hot cement pushes you to walk forward into the shaded garage, right next to Bishop.

“Yeah, y’know, I’ve decided to leave her like that. I’m sure she’s ready to go,” Bishop’s smile widens, humor flushing out any weird tension that hung in the air only moments ago. The hand not holding the water rests on your lower back, pushing you forward.

“Well I’ll leave you up to taking the first test run, then,” You joke back, both of you staring at each other for a moment before cracking, laughter echoing through the small garage. The hand on your back stays in place, and you find yourself being pulled further into Bishop’s side. The laughter subsides, a comfortable silence falling over the two of you.

“But seriously,” You sigh, preparing yourself for the worst outcome possible. “How is she?”

Sensing your unease, Bishop grabs one of the bottles of water from your hands. “She’ll be fine,” He assures you, taking a brief moment to swallow down some much needed water. “I’ll get her working in no time.”

A quick kick to the shin makes him clear his throat and backtrack on that last comment. “We’ll get her working in no time.”

“Good, now hand me a wrench so I can put the chains where they’re actually supposed to go.” The hand you’ve outstretched towards Bishop gets smacked away, with a quick reprimand.

“How about you hand me a wrench and I’ll let you delegate on where things go.”

Seemingly okay with this compromise, you nod. Sticking your tongue out and pulling a face while you search for said wrench.

_____________

Two grueling Sundays later, and Bishop and you have finally fully repaired your bike. It was a long process, having to order parts and break apart the whole motorcycle to put said parts into place took way longer than you’d have liked.

However, many frustrating arguments and a few mistakes later, your girl is as good as new. And luckily, you had your cast taken off last week, so you were actually of physical use today. It felt good, being able to move around and stretch fully without hindrance.

The best part about that experience was getting closer to Bishop. Getting to know random new facts about him, getting to see which of your jokes and stories get the most laughs out of him, getting to see a new side of him.

From an outside perspective, you’d think he had no problem sharing these things about himself, opening up so easily. From an inside perspective, from yours, you know he’d never be so open and jovial with just anyone. The fact that Bishop, your closest friend, deemed you worthy of seeing the real him has your heart soaring. The dad-like jokes actually help too.

One particular joke from Bishop has your eyes clenching shut, your head tilting back, and your hand shooting out to hang onto his forearm while you laugh, boisterous and loud. A snort, arguably an unattractive snort, comes out next, and you rush to cover your mouth. A large, warm hand comes to your wrist not long after, pulling it down so you’re not hidden away.

Your eyes flutter open, looking right to see Bishop, staring back at you with such intensity that it catches you off guard. How his eyes flicker down to your lips for one very long moment before returning to your own eyes. It makes you gulp, butterflies filling your stomach and your heart threatening to beat out of your chest.

This feeling intensifies as Bishop’s hand removes itself from your wrist to slowly encompass your cheek. Skin flushing, mouth dry, you peer down to his lips. Within seconds they start moving as he starts speaking.

“I don’t know when, or how. It was sudden. I woke up one day knowing that I wanted you, I needed you. You were with Angel at the time, so I’d never said anything. But… I can’t help but notice the way you look at me. You didn’t even look at Angel like that.”

A short pause, an intake of breath before speaking again.

“I’d like to think you feel this too.”

Time seems to move in slow motion. Two months ago you broke up with a man you cared for. Now you’re sitting in your garage with a man who cares for you. All of the indecipherable looks from him now added up, he likes you.

“I do.” You say, voice no louder than a whisper. “I feel it.” The hand cupping your cheek slides to the back of your neck, resting comfortably.

Silence fills the room, neither of you speaking for fear of ruining the moment. Until finally, Bishop’s hand squeezes your neck softly to guide you further towards him. For a long moment you stay with your lips centimeters away, eyes fluttering shut as you take a breath in.

“Obispo-“ You’re cut off abruptly by lips pressing into yours. You’re torn between being surprised and being correct in your assumptions about the way Bishop kisses. He kisses like he loves: passionate, gentle, soft.

Lips slide over each other, tongues poking out to tease the other while the hand on your neck squeezes harder. At this, a soft moan escapes your lips, allowing Bishop to slide his tongue into your mouth and explore this new territory.

A hand snakes its way up Bishop’s arm, squeezes his bicep, then cups his cheek. With tilted heads and entangled bodies, this moment is one you’ll never forget. You’d do anything to stay like this forever, but, as if by chance, a phone rings, the two of you breaking away to look at who the hell is calling.

It ends up being Taza, wondering where in the hell Bishop is when he was supposed to be at Hank’s over an hour ago. An apologetic smile forms on Bishop’s face as he nods, telling Taza he’ll be there soon. Turning to you, ready to apologize, he’s stopped by your lips covering his.

A soft, chaste kiss followed by, “It’s okay, go.”

Bishop leaves then, leaving behind a woman smiling so bright with a heart full of love.

_____________

A late Friday night, another clubhouse party in full swing. Bishop is leaning against a pool table casually watching Angel get his ass beat by Letti at a different table. It’s fun, everyone having fun while drinks flow freely. Until suddenly, Angel is grumbling, eyes trained on the front doors to see you.

The confidence you ooze, the power you hold, it’s evident to everyone in the room that you are not to be messed with. Angel clearly doesn’t get that message as he stomps in your direction. He gets no more than ten feet from you when he opens his mouth to start yelling.

No words come out though, he’s stopped by you brushing past him into Bishop’s arms. You don’t care to get into an argument tonight, despite being known for not backing down from a fight. All you care about tonight is spending time with your friends, and with Bishop.

Despite your relationship being undefined, you’re still clearly infatuated with each other, taking your time and going with the flow. You’ve managed to wrap your arms around Bishop’s waist as Angel appears in front of you both, confused as ever.

“When the hell did this happen?” It’s phrased as a question, but you can hear the hurt he’s buried deep. And while it does pain you to hurt Angel, you’re not going to let him ruin your night.

“It’s new, actually. Somewhere along the line we realized we were good for each other. Actually good for each other.”

Huffing, Angel crosses his arms over his chest and stands taller. Despite staring deep into your eyes, his next sentence isn't directed at you. “Good luck with your new girl, then. Hope you can handle her.” He’s about to turn and leave when Bishop finally speaks up.

“I know how to handle women like her, a lot better than you do.”

You can see the anger in Angel’s eyes, the gears turning in his head as he contemplates arguing with Bishop. Aggravated, Angel turns and walks towards a group of ladies entertaining themselves with other mayan men.

This calms your heart down, your anger subsides, replaced by fondness as you look up at Bishop.

“He called me ‘your girl’,” you say, smiling wide.

“And?” The questioning look on Bishop’s face causes you to giggle, as he clearly doesn’t register what you’re hinting at.

“You didn’t say that I’m not,” Your arms tighten around his waist, face inching closer to his.

A smile forms on Bishop’s face as well, chuckling softly to himself. “That’s ‘cause you are my girl. You alright with that?”

Holding your head high, one hand snakes from Bishop’s back over and up to smooth over his stomach. Letting your hand wander further upwards, you lean in close to his face so you can whisper in his ear

“Of course I am. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

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