Page 26 of My Ex-Military Biker

She should leave. It would be the smart move.

I kill the engine, swing off the bike, and walk to my front door.

I open it and step inside.

She's sitting on the couch wearing my t-shirt with her hair pulled back. She looks up at the sound of the door.

Her eyes take in the sight of me shirtless and covered in blood.

She stands immediately and walks straight toward me without hesitation.

I expect questions, expect her to stop before she gets too close.

She doesn't stop until she's barely a foot away, close enough that I can smell my soap on her skin.

Her eyes track over me, the blood on my hands, the wound across my ribs that's still healing, then back to my face.

"You're hurt?" she asks, her voice steady and checking for facts, not panicking.

"No."

"Is someone else?"

"He'll live. Broken hand, broken ribs. He'll be out of commission for a while but he'll recover."

She nods, processing this information. Then her eyes return to my hands and the blood covering them.

"Go shower," she says simply. "I'll make food."

No questions about what happened to the men who hurt Perry. No asking if I was involved in their fate. Just accepting the reality of what my life is and moving forward with it.

I walk past her, down the hallway, into the bathroom.

I strip off my jeans and turn the shower as hot as it will go, then step under the spray.

I watch Perry's blood spiral down the drain, brown water gradually turning pink, then finally running clear.

Perry's alive. His hand will heal eventually. He'll be back with the club when he's recovered.

I brace my forearm against the tile and let the water run over my head, my back, washing away the blood and the adrenaline and the specific weight of finding one of my brothers broken and bleeding on the ground.

Sometimes you get there in time to make a difference. Sometimes you don't.

Today I did.

The water finally runs completely clear. I turn it off, dry myself roughly with a towel, and pull on clean jeans and a fresh t-shirt.

When I get out of the bathroom, the smell of cooking food reaches me immediately. She's in the kitchen, working at the stove.

I walk to the doorway and lean against the frame, just watching her move through my space.

She's still wearing my shirt, still barefoot, cooking in my kitchen like she's been doing this for years instead of hours.

She brings two plates to the table and sets one in front of the chair I always use, then sits across from me with the other.

We eat together and the silence between us is comfortable rather than awkward. Just two people sharing a meal.

After a few bites she speaks.