“Bishop, I really think I’m fine,” I say as I squeeze the tube of hydrocortisone cream into my hand and start to slather it. “Like I can’t even look at you and remotely think you’re anywhere close to being fine.” “I’ve dreamed about this night for years,” I admit. “I thought we’d do a fun little handie, and then we’d cuddle a little and we’d fight over who wanted to be the big
