Page 27 of My Ex-Military Biker

"How bad was it?"

It's a direct question, asking for specifics.

"Bad. Multiple fractures that I could see on his hand. He'll need surgery. There's a chance he might not get full function back."

"But he'll keep the hand itself."

"Yeah, he'll keep it."

She nods and takes another bite, considering this.

"What about the men who did it?"

"Gone," I say simply.

She looks directly at me and holds my gaze without flinching.

"Good," she says.

That single word tells me everything I need to know. She understands exactly what "gone" means in this context.

Just accepting it as the reality of this world.

We finish eating and she carries both plates to the sink, washing them while I watch the way my shirt rides up slightly on her thighs when she reaches for things.

She turns around and leans back against the counter, looking at me steadily.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

The question catches me slightly off guard.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah… Why are you asking?"

"Because you walked in here covered in blood and now you're sitting at your kitchen table like it's just a normal Wednesday."

"It is a normal Wednesday," I point out.

She studies my face for a long moment.

"That's what you do," she says, and it's not a question. "You put it away. Function through it instead of processing it."

It's an observation, not an accusation, so I don't bother responding because she's not wrong.

She pushes off from the counter and walks over to me, stopping right next to my chair.

I look up at her, close enough now that I could easily reach out and pull her down onto my lap, slide my hands under that shirt and find out if she's wearing anything underneath it.

She reaches out and puts her hand gently on my jaw. The warmth and softness of the contact makes something tighten in my chest.

"I'm glad you're okay," she says simply.

"Me too."

She doesn't move her hand away and neither do I.