Page 43 of My Ex-Military Biker
"No."
I close the laptop and stand. "Bathroom."
He doesn't argue. Just turns and walks down the hallway. I follow.
Same bathroom where I treated his knife wound three years ago. Same mirror. Same folded towel with corners that look measured. The first aid kit is still in the cabinet under the sink, still organized like someone's preparing for combat.
What's different is my makeup bag sitting next to his shaving kit. My hair ties in the dish by the faucet. The fact that I don't have to ask where anything is anymore because this is ours.
He sits on the toilet lid. I pull out hydrogen peroxide and gauze.
"Hold out your hand."
He does. I turn it to see the damage in better light. Clean splits, no debris. Just impact damage.
"Sully's face worse?" I ask.
"Definitely."
"Good."
I pour hydrogen peroxide over the knuckles without warning. He doesn't flinch. Just watches me work like he's been doing for three years.
The ring on my left hand catches the light when I reach for gauze. He notices. I see his mouth curve slightly.
"Still wearing it," he says.
"You only asked me four months ago."
"Asked you in this bathroom."
"I remember. I was putting the kit away."
"You said yes before I finished."
"You were taking too long."
He almost smiles. Actual smile, not just the curve. Rare enough that I notice.
I start cleaning the wounds. His hand is rough against mine, scarred in places I know by heart now. The burn on his palm from Ray's shop. The knife scar across his thumb from two years ago. The crooked pinky that didn't set right when he was sixteen.
"You're thinking something," he says.
"I'm always thinking something."
"About?"
"About how the first time I did this, I didn't know your last name. Didn't know what the club was. Didn't know you were going to ask me to stay."
"You stayed anyway."
"I did."
"Regret it?"
I look up. He's watching me with that steady attention that used to make me nervous and now just makes me want to climb into his lap.
"Do I look like I regret it?"
